#WHAT IS YOUR QUESTION SIR????? WHAT IS YOUR QUESTION LENORE????? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dbhilluminate · 5 years

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DBHI: Redemption- "The Open Door", pt. 1

ARE YOU A FAN OF DETROIT? DO YOU LIKE GAY SHIPS AND COMPLICATED, LOVEABLE BOYS?? Then please keep up with our fic, you’ll love it, I promise!

Co-authored by grayorca15

Characters: Trevor Langley, Dennis Lenore, Nick Lenore, Dahlia Fleur, Rhea Fleur, Dylan Fleur, Ethan Fleur, Isaiah Fleur (mentions of Richard Fleur, Ophelia Fleur, Hank Anderson, Vivienne Lenore-Anderson, Zach, Sarah Word Count: 7,982

No matter how far you think you've fallen, there's always time to find your way back to yourself- and if you leave yourself open to change, sometimes what you need is right through the next door.

• Archive link • Chapter Index • • Related Works • Characters •

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July 4th, 2041 - 5:34 PM

For all intents and purposes, it was his first time in a suit in a while.

Having taken virtually nothing of his old life with him when Archangel brought him to Detroit, he’d had nothing but the clothes on his back, which he’d thrown away as soon as he got the chance. Understanding of why, Detective Lenore had offered up one of his older suits (among other, less frequently worn items in his wardrobe) in sympathy. Not since Boston had he been in a dress jacket, loafers, and chinos- only this time, there was no watch or tie, no phone crammed into his pocket, only the one item he typically spent his nights in the company of anyway.

It was a good thing he and Dennis were virtually the same size, even if the former had a stockier build.

“Kid, it ain’t Homecoming, now come on. You look fine.”

Though his tone was one of affectionate gruffness, which he treated eighty percent of those he knew with on a daily basis, now that they had actually arrived at the time to put the hand-me-downs to use, it seemed Lenore’s generosity had been left at the curb. Considering how they had met, Trevor was happy to be counted as one of those in said majority- what side he had seen and heard about when Dennis got truly angry, he wasn’t in any hurry to experience that for himself.

Not that having to wait a few minutes longer than anticipated would warrant a baton to the teeth.

He flicked the light off and locked up his apartment, then followed him down the hallway, fidgeting all the way with the edges of his sleeves, trying to get the just-too-large sleeve cuffs to sit comfortably in the cuffs of the blazer.

“It’s only a dinner, not your funeral,” Dennis scoffed, eyeing him top to bottom. “I mean- points for wanting to look nice, first time meetin’ the family and all, but you’ll be wishing you had picked somethin’ more casual before the night’s over.”

“But it is just that, the first time,” Trev pointed out as they found the central stairwell and descended. “Aren’t you supposed to- look good?”

“Looks aren’t everything,” he sighed, passing the cubicle of dormitory mailboxes at the foot of the stairs, then came to a stop.

Uncertainly, his intended guest did the same next to him, belatedly folding his hands behind his back. Their eyes met. With his aqua blue irises, red hair and bold, expressive eyebrows, it didn’t take much for Lenore to pull off maximum exasperation with minimal effort.

“I know you spend your days shut up in here between classes. But do you think, for one night, you can try to relax? I wouldn’t bring you along if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

Trev smiled, albeit uneasily. It was a vote of confidence, however indirect, the only kind he seemed to be catching from anyone these days. Though training to become an Archangel Officer, his was an unusual circumstance, which rubbed some people the wrong way- the special privilege of shadowing active duty officers only extended to him as a formality, being a formerly active (and certified) member of BCPD’s Police force. He didn't fit the usual definition of a cadet at the academy by any measure, in fact there was no reason he really needed to. But for an institution founded only two years prior and still working to establish its own standard of ‘normalcy’, putting him through their version of the academy made logical sense, even if it labeled him an oddity.

By that standard, Detective Dennis Lenore was just as odd, as were the rest of Zion’s residents. This was a community of oddballs, at their most fundamental.

“Well? You gonna stand there smilin’ like you’ve got gas, or is that a yes?”

Called out for daydreaming his way toward an answer, Trev blinked and cleared his throat. “Yes. S-sir.” He could handle a dinner without falling to pieces. It would hardly be the worst thing he had ever been through.

* * *

Traffic only delayed them so long. Even with the festivities due to begin at sundown, most of the city’s business districts were closed to observe the holiday. With that initial rush passed, the streets had cleared; the many parks and backyards of Detroit were another story. Those people out shopping had done so earlier in the day, whereas now they were enjoying the afternoon with family and friends.

But tonight they wouldn’t be staying in the city. Trevor didn’t plan on it being an overnight event, but he couldn’t account for the plans of those he hadn’t yet met. Loaded with money as the Fleurs were, their private countryside estate probably wasn’t short a guest bedroom or two; and seeing as he was dating one of said prestigious family’s daughters, Dennis likely didn’t have any qualms about staying if the evening took such a turn. Either way, Trev was perfectly capable of arranging a taxi ride back to his dorm, which wasn’t a bad idea.

The moment he sat down and buckled in, he bookmarked the service for later, but out of the corner of his eye, Dennis caught him at it.

“We haven’t even gotten goin’.”

He didn’t need to elaborate. Cheeks flushing, Trev glanced away.

The cab pulled away from the curb and merged with the flow, the automated dash giving a chime and automatically bringing up a selection of soft classical background music. Dennis banished it from existence with one swipe at the volume bar and a slight curl of his lip.

“Sorry, I know you’re jittery, it’s just-...” he paused to clench his teeth and furrow his brow a twitch. “Why you already expecting to have to need that?”

Hands folded in his lap, knees brought together, Trev made an attempt at clearing his throat. “No- no reason, sir. I was only trying to plan ahead.”

“I already said I’d make sure you got home. Was there something else? You gotta be back sooner, or…?”

It wasn’t his tone- despite the initial gruffness, Dennis had one of those sharp yet tactful voices. Where he initially sounded irritated and gravelly he almost always followed it up with some kind of concern to take the hostile edge off. Tiresome as it was to keep up with telling which was which, at least he was consistent, definable, and not a bad guy overall. Five months after Boston, Trev was still trying to figure out how much of those qualities he had yet to embody.

“No, sir, I was only…” Sheepishly, he swiped the open app aside and turned his attention out the window. “I should have done it before we left.”

Affecting an eye roll but no other visible annoyance, Dennis sat back in his seat, hooking an ankle over his knee in the process. Being of shorter stature, he had legroom to spare. “You’ll be fine. I’m not bringin’ you along to this shindig to be the main course.”

Shindig. The term bore looking up. Defined as a lively celebration as defined back in the 1920s, it was very retro to use in conversation. Trev immediately sank back in his seat.

“Please tell me there isn’t dancing involved.”

“No promises.” Neither too dismissive or reassuring, Dennis raised an eyebrow, pausing to seemingly reconsider his companion’s attire once more. “You’re dressed for it if there is… but haven’t you been to a barbecue before?”

A flurry of related memories besieged Trev at the reminder. Tactfully ignoring them, he looked down at his hands. “No.”

“...Are you gonna stick with single-worded answers all night?”

“Maybe… sir.”

He had cause to. Dennis knew better than almost anyone in Zion what a mixed-up bottle of impulses Trevor Langley consisted of, none of which were his own doing. With some indeterminable exceptions, it made even the most routine small talk a chore for him; hence, why he needed so badly to get out more. Classes at the academy only kept him occupied for so long.

Chock full of as many instabilities as any survivor of Purgatory typically bore, it wasn’t any wonder why he kept quiet to fiddle with his quarter rather than mingle with his cohort. As yet, Trev suspected Dennis was more his friend than anyone, with Vivienne Lenore a close second; but even those titles felt forced, just enough to say he wasn’t completely alone in the world, because some semblance of bonds were better than none at all.

Glancing up, Trev frowned at seeing how the dubious squint hadn’t vanished. It was still trained on him like a weapon, poised to fire. (Not the nicest example to equate it to, but for him guns were never far from his mind - for a variety of reasons.)

Trying to sideline such discouraging thoughts, he cleared his throat. “I guess… Nick is already there?”

Dennis made an affirmative hum, finally easing off on the skeptical expression a touch. “He wanted to run this fetch quest instead. I convinced him otherwise.”

Brows furrowing, Trev sat up from where he had pressed into the seat. There was no further he could get away in that direction, anyway. “Why? He wouldn’t have been a bother... if that’s what you‘re implying.”

The taller Lenore sibling’s reputation preceded him. How bothersome said brother was or wasn’t evidently didn’t factor in here, as Dennis scoffed nevertheless. “Meaning, he wouldn’t have asked you too many questions, or made you uncomfortable like I am now.”

A very perceptive response, coming from him. Trev glanced away again.

Letting it simmer a moment, Dennis explained: “Kid, it’s only because I care that I take any digs at you- not that he doesn’t care too, but anyone can see you need pryin’ to even cough up a ‘Hello’, and it isn’t Nick’s style to do that if he can see how uncomfortable you still are.”

In an ideal world, that is just the kind of person Trevor would prefer to be spending time with, if he were forced to pick between chaperones. Despite his looming stature, Nick wasn’t half as imposing as Dennis could be. Such niceties didn’t extend to both in equal measure.

“I think I’m doing okay, compared to where I was, don’t you?”

“Oh? You’re constantly wallin’ people off. Okay is a word that didn’t occur to me.”

“It hasn’t affected me that… adversely.”

“Not yet. You want to try and tell me your career won’t suffer for it in the long run?”

“All due respect, sir, I’ve already had my psych eval this week. Isn’t asking such questions now kinda defeating the point of going out to enjoy ourselves?”

Rolling his eyes, going by the minute pause in his words, Dennis sat up and reached over to tap the frames of Langley’s glasses. “You’re still wearing these when you don’t need them. If you were actually out to forget your troubles and enjoy the night, you woulda left them at the dorm.”

Recoiling, Trev shot him a standoffish glower. The cab was too small a space for his liking all of a sudden. How Dennis could essentially take one look at him and figure all these confused signals out was even less appealing. But then, Detective Lenore was known for that; if he hadn’t been a cop, psychologist wasn’t too far off, given his upbringing.

“You don’t know that. I enjoy myself without any hints blatantly on display, sir.”

“That’s a crock of shit, and you know it,” Dennis challenged. “Shut up in a room for hours on end focused only on studyin’ isn’t healthy, Langley. You gotta get out and live a bit. Dealing with Nick taught me all about that. Grateful or not, I suppose there’ll be time enough afterward for you to thank me later.”

Shuttling itself through the traffic as smoothly as a figure skater, the taxi took them past the last few commercial blocks and into a rundown suburb sitting on the Detroit-Warren limits, a quaint neighborhood of working-class families living well off the combined metropolis to either side. The Fleurs were apparently cut from the same cloth, even if they made upwards of twenty million each year, and they weren’t averse to entertaining visitors. Said destination was still forty minutes away, going by the timer on the taxi’s dashboard: the estate on the northern shore of Lake St. Claire may as well have been another city unto itself, with how far off it seemed.

There would be his first round of lessons in learning how to let go and just be lax for a spell. He was overcomplicating this in his own head, but if Dennis really understood anything about him, he knew just how tough a habit that would be to break. One dinner wasn’t going to miraculously change him, or so he surmised, but who knew? Maybe a stint outside of Zion would do him good. Surrounded by another crowd of near-strangers with entirely normal expectations of him could be just what the doctor ordered.

Or it could be exactly what he didn’t need to be reminded of. This constant wallowing in between hadn’t been pleasant on the whole. Without something to sway him one way or another, how else was he going to figure out what he ultimately preferred? Dennis Lenore had had more than a few years to figure himself out, so it was easy for him to say what Trevor did or didn’t need. He had experience and perspective to call on, perks of being an older model and all.

Lucky him.

* * *

Sitting atop a hill on a thousand acres of southeastern Michigan woodland, with its southernmost edge reaching right down to the beach, the mansion itself wasn’t visible from the road. After being buzzed through the front gate it was still a two minute journey up the cobblestone driveway. Framed by thick-trunked oak trees, rectangular hedges and multicolored flowerbeds, the ornate, ivory structure was eventually revealed, facing an adjacent parking garage no less grand and steepled.

The bay doors of the garage stood open, lights on, spotlighting the four vintage automobiles neatly lined up within. The Detroit taxi idling looked so boxy and very not-sleek compared to the likes of all American muscle- a black 1969 Ford Mustang, a pearlescent yellow 2001 C5 Z06 Chevy Corvette, a purple and black 1970 Plymouth Fury, and a cherry red 1968 Dodge Charger had been pulled out and put on display for guests to admire.

They seemed right at home next to the lavish mansion, which vaguely resembled a state capitol building or a downsized museum without its signature dome. East and west wings stretched open to either side at a one-hundred and thirty-degree angle, banister flags draped from every windowsill. Footpaths wound off to snake around the estate, trailing off into various gardens and parts of the woods, leading to other much smaller structures and cabanas spread across the property.

The main entrance was a hike at least twenty steps high to a landing midway up, then to a summit guarded by two pedestals framed by half a dozen stone vases full of flowers. It was in peak summertime bloom, greenery everywhere and no gray urban confines in sight, besides the cars on display. The air was thick with the smell of them mixed with fresh cut grass after a cleansing rain, but one whiff confirmed there was more on the wind tonight than natural aromas. There was also the smoky, husky smell of meat simmering on a grill.

As soon as the cab door slid open, Trev hesitated to step out. The last time he had cause to smell burning anything was back in Boston.

-the horrifying sight of every other building along the avenue aflame, screams emanating from within, no fire department on its way to save the day, but all he could do was run-

“Kid, move.”

One little prodding nudge at his shoulder drew a flinch out of him, and he hurriedly stepped out of the cab in the intended direction while avoiding meeting Dennis’ eyes.

“What’s the matter? You look like…” Circling to look at him, Lenore trailed off. He knew the rabbit-eyed expression and what it signified. Reading the muted silence as what it was, he patted Trev’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s okay. I’ll make the introductions, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled half-heartedly. Even if Dennis was used to it to the point he didn’t care either way, adding the honorific always served to keep authority figures mollified. He was more of a guide than a friend, so it wasn’t unreasonable - the first time they met, he’d promptly knocked Trevor’s lights out; for his own good, of course. Kind of like now- dragging him along to this get-together, never minding the reluctance or snippiness; it was for his own good.

He was never violent or forceful without reason; dealing with his so-called brother, who was described by most to be as skittish as a deer caught in headlights, had helped him hone it. And now here was Trevor, testing him in all sorts of ways similar yet unfamiliar. As mentor and understudy, they fit together fantastically.

Trekking up the steps, he fell in behind and beside the off-duty detective, taking a second to appreciate his more casual wear of jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie. It made the burgundy suit and loafers feel even more unnecessary, even if it made him look classier and more put-together on the outside, despite the mess inside.

The person to answer the door before Dennis had even lifted his finger from the buzzer didn’t read much into it either way. He was simply happy to see them, as evidenced by the unabashed group hug he greeted both of them with, knocking Trevor’s glasses askew.

“H-hi, Dr. Lenore,” he stammered, managing to duck out from under his arm first

“Oh, come on, Trev. Not you, too.” Unwinding one long arm to recapture the new visitor, he frowned as Langley stepped aside and out of range. Nicholas Lenore wasn’t half as formal as his name would suggest, though part of that was his looks, which were all gangly and sloped in ways Dennis’ weren’t. The other half of the reasoning was the insistence that followed. “You can call me Nick, same as everyone else, remember?”

Though he was one of Zion’s best-qualified physicians, when he wasn’t tending to a patient his behavior was more akin to that of an excitable ten-year-old boy: all optimistic and well meaning, with no attitude to spoil it. Incongruous didn’t begin to describe him as a whole.

“I did. I-I just…” Not quite sure if he should finish that thought, Trevor blinked and shifted his gaze aside. “You startled us, is all.”

“Speak for yourself, Langley,” Dennis muttered, face half-squashed, still pinned against the other’s jacket. “I’m used to this sorta thing.”

“I didn’t mean to, sorry.” Nick apologized the moment he remembered, let go of his brother and steered them inside to close the door. “It’s good to see you both. Everyone else is busy talking or cooking, so I thought I’d make myself useful and play doorman for a bit.”

“Nice of you,” Dennis commented airily as he rolled his shoulder and stretched it. “God- you really need a warning label for those damn hugs, though. All these years, you think I’d have realized it sooner and slapped one on the back of your head.”

Assuming he didn’t need a ladder to reach it.

“No I don’t, I’m careful every time!”

“Sure, careful not to completely and permanently dent someone.”

Leaving them to their banter for a moment, Trev stole a look around the foyer. A big, spectacular ballroom painted in soft browns and shades of ivory, red, and gold, housed a golden grand chandelier and a mosaic marble floor which stretched the length of the space several hundred feet across the room to the foot of a centralized staircase leading up to the second-floor wings. To the left, halfway into the room, sat a sharp black grand piano beside a few free-standing planters filled with flowers and creeping ferns on either side, and a chaise lounge to the left of it. A few oil portraits hung on the front and sidewalls, and at the top of the stairs, assumed commissioned works so lifelike he could tell who the people featured were without introductions being needed. Wherever the flesh-and-blood Fleurs presently were, they weren’t within sight.

Or so he thought.

Movement caught his eye. The door was so far away, Trevor almost missed it, as Nick and Dennis seemed to have- but two doors down from the top of the staircase to the right, a figure reached out through the illuminated cracked door and quietly pulled it shut; instead of a face, all he glimpsed was a tattooed wrist. It appeared someone else here was as disinterested in the event as he was. Not given free reign to wander just yet, he set curiosity aside and drifted after his escorts.

“-favor, and don’t go out of your way to confuse him, got it?” Dennis scolded, around the same time Trevor opted to start listening again. It went without saying who the ‘him’ in the statement was.

“Confuse, how?” Confirming the assumption, Nick tossed him a very overt glance. He always looked so unintentionally aloof, with those mismatched green-brown eyes, pitchy voice, and slightly-knotted chestnut hair. “I don’t do it on purpose… and Trevor’s smart enough to figure it out if in the event I do.”

“Sure, I know lots of words with three syllables, minimum,” Trev played along, shrugging with a self-deprecating smile. Even if their argument wasn’t exactly serious, it would only help to clarify what his boundaries and possible triggers were. “But it’s not that kind of confused he’s talking about, Doctor.”

“Oh, right.” Nick only responded with an absent blink. Physicians were inherently prone to speaking with a certain over-eloquence, using big words without meaning to, making those around them feel either dumbed down or alienated or both. Being forever mindful he wasn’t stepping on toes or offending anyone (and constantly worrying for the welfare of those around him), Nick stopped them from proceeding on through to the dining room to offer a last bit of encouragement.

“Well, that said- if you feel too bothered by any of this, let us know. No one expects you to stay if you don’t want to.”

Trev nodded. He shouldn’t need this much coaching to make a few simple meetings, but it was always better to take time for a little extra prep work, lest something short circuit.

——

“He doesn’t look like an android, though...”

“Yeah, well, he wouldn’t, right? The whole point is, you can’t know just from looking at someone.”

“But he’s studying at Archangel? Humans don’t enroll there, but if they ever did, I’d-”

“Boys, please. You’ve barely said hello back and now you’re on to this. Give him some breathing room.”

Trev stood back from the dining table-turned-buffet and glanced over the edge of his drink in silent gratitude as Dennis ran interference, shepherding the gawkers out of his presence. The youngest members of the Fleur clan, nine-year-old Ethan and seven-year-old Isaiah, weren’t so shy as to resist bombarding him with questions the moment their elders looked in the other direction. It wasn’t that they meant any harm- Trev couldn’t fault them for wanting to get close and see for themselves, being the excitable, impressionable boys they were, but Ethan’s parting remark still stung more than he wanted to admit.

“He looks just like Connor, too. I told you!”

“Ethan!” Dahlia squatted down and popped the boy softly on the behind as she shooed them away, reminding them that they ‘knew better’ than to say such things. While most androids had been created to look the same, the Fleurs had all been raised (since her adoption into the family) to recognize each as an individual, and not treat them as duplicates. This was easier done in the cases of Nick, Dennis, and Dahlia, who looked nothing like their default models.

That in mind, Trev reminded himself it wasn’t the worst reveal he had ever suffered. Few things could measure up to Nicodemus shattering the human veneer Cyberlife had so painstakingly applied. Being compared to the most infamous of the RK800s was a pinprick compared to that sledgehammer.

With the exception of the two boys, the rest of the clan was proving genial enough. For being multimillionaire moguls of the music industry (responsible for finding at least ten of the current top forty artists of the past five years), they dressed almost demurely for the occasion. Richard Fleur was at least six feet of middle-aged stoic, unreserved Britishness, more personable and less stern than expected but certainly from high societal stock. His wife, Ophelia, was altogether different his polar opposite both in appearance and respective origin of South Africa. Poised and reserved in her enthusiasm for conversation, she exuded a more regal presence than her husband. His posh drawl paired nicely with her distinctive Johannesburg dialect.

Trev took a minute sip of his drink, noting neither of them had worn suits or evening gowns, but kept the observation to himself as he sat down.

“I really overdressed, didn’t I?”

“Just a little…” A flinching nod of agreement crinkled Dahlia’s nose, yet she bore a small smile in sympathy as she flipped the hem of her maxi dress out from between the heel of her foot and the heel of her shoes.

“But it’s what you wanted, I figured better to let you have it,” Dennis explained as she moved to lean down and greet him with a kiss, then pulled out the seat to her left; his lingering smirk wasn’t sympathetic or mocking, just the result of how preoccupied he always tended to get in her presence (the joke being, making sure he wasn’t stepped on). “It’s closer to what you’re used to wearing anyway, right? Back in- the old days?”

Now there was an inappropriately appropriate way of putting it.

“Sure, similar…” Trev hated how such an otherwise innocent question called up so many mixed feelings. Out of nervous habit, he went for another sip so small he may as well have only wet his lips. Dennis knew better than to ask, but to avoid every little uncomfortable conversation would defeat the purpose of being there. Langley blinked back the nervousness as best he could and shrugged, hoping it came across as dismissive. “If anything, I feel more under-dressed in class. I don’t know if I’d call cadet duds a uniform, but…”

It seemed he wasn’t the only one who had a hard time disconnecting from his work. To his right, Nick had taken a moment to do some follow-up work on a tablet held in one splayed hand, but picked the conversation back up where the others failed to. “Zach hated cadet gear, too. It was too plain. We used to have to wear suits every day, company mandate.”

“Yeah, but after the revolution…? Good luck getting him to let go of it,” Dennis added, with some wry fondness. “Like a kid carryin’ around their favorite blanket- that jacket was ready to fall apart at the seams by the time Sarah peeled it off.”

After a couple years of continuous use? Trev declined to ask and swirled the contents of his glass in a gentle counterclockwise circle, knowing it was probably just exaggeration for the sake of story.

“I don’t miss it that much. And most of the- time I was in basic patrol garb, anyway. Not like-…” Even as he veered off from saying his name, his glass-holding hand shook. As he set it down, he reached for the nearest napkin to wipe the sweat off his palm- water from the glass, nothing he actually sweated out.

Dennis’ casual smirk melted off as he watched him fidget. He knew without being told who Trev was thinking of. “You’ll get used to it. You’ve been enrolled for what, a couple months?”

“Basically.” Trev sat back in his chair so as to not be pinned between Dahlia and Nick’s curiosity. “I mean- there’s not much I don’t already know, but Detroit’s not quite on the same level Boston is with… statistics. Criminal types here don’t seem to be given to the same pursuits.”

“Has Zion treated you well, at least..?” Dahlia’s question was genuine, but naïve in the way anyone who didn’t know him would be. She had only ever met him after Boston, or Purgatory as it had been temporarily known, was brought under control. Zion was paradise compared to what he had seen there, even with its own slew of district-specific issues. Unique to him was the fact it was the best possible place he could be- everyday discrepancies notwithstanding.

“So far, yes. No one… has given me too much trouble.” None that they didn’t mean to give, anyway. Thinking twice of how that probably sounded, he tried for a mollifying smile. “The folks at the academy are agreeable enough. They’ve probably laid off the hazing because they’re not sure how I’ll take it.”

Because instabilities had to be good for something.

Dennis hummed a not-so-convinced affirmative. “Sure. That’s Langley-speak for ‘not yet, they haven’t’. Even I went through a bit of fine tuning there, Trevor. No special treatment when it comes to who gets to be the butt of a prank.”

He sounded so genial about it, Trev was inclined to doubt the claim’s validity; if it was true, Lenore was doing an admirable job of underselling his outrage. “No? What’d they end up doing to you, then?”

“Filled my locker with maple leaves.” At the two, not quite three, disbelieving glances this answer earned him, Dennis shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it was supposed to make me feel at home. Montreal was that, for about a decade.”

“Sounds more like blatant stereotyping… you aren’t Canadian.”

Met with a deadpan sidelong look, Dennis scoffed. “Pft. You think it mattered to them at the time, Langley? If it did that’d defeat the whole point of a prank.”

Trev acknowledged it with a nod and another sip of his drink, realizing how painfully literal his thought processes could sometimes be. The blue substance didn’t have much flavor aside from a refreshing coolness as it went down. If he ignored what it was, it didn’t look like he was drinking antifreeze.

Music, laughter, and voices drifted in from the open patio doors. Adjacent to the dining room was the gathering space where most of the estate’s visitors had congregated, Viv and Hank among them. There was where the smells of grilling and sizzling were most prominent. At a guess the gathering was approximately three-quarters humans to one-fourth androids; and at the moment, it seemed all those confirmed as such were seated at this table. Lopping himself in under that category, Trev pursed his lips and set the glass down once again. The little daily reminders of his old life were everywhere he looked, and he didn’t need them as much as he did. A couple months in protective custody under observation hadn’t assuaged them- if anything he missed the certainty, false as it was. Now he had nothing but uncertainty, and the constant wear of it was chafing something fierce.

Aaaand five bucks says Nick is staring so hard, he’s trying to burn holes in the side of my head.

As he glanced aside he caught just the barest hint of motion from the taller android, whose focus immediately shifted back to the tablet. Trev knew an aborted look when he saw one, enhanced reaction times or not.

“What about that, Dahlia?” he asked, trying again for impartial dialogue in the face of all his skittishness. “Is your family the wild type, or is that just the two boys?”

“Three,” she corrected with a small hint of a smile and a quiet exhale through her nose. “You’ll have to watch out for Dylan, too, if he ever comes out of his studio...”

The sighing and eye-rolling was contagious- not so much uttered in distaste as much as in disappointment. Nick shrunk down in his seat a hair at the mention of the boy’s name, but perked up as Rhea (having just come in from the patio) placed an understanding hand on his shoulder.

“I doubt we’ll see him today, it’s been a long time since he’s shown his face at any social gatherings.”

“Then what do you call him picking on us?” Nick whined as she sat down beside him and gave his hand a squeeze.

“Jealousy,” she replied with a quiet smile. “He had my full attention before you came along.”

Trev looked from one pair to the other and considered his newfound stance between them. He deduced out the whys in short order, decidedly ignoring the outdated examples in his own head claiming to know what it was to have siblings. He glanced back toward the crowded patio as he considered this new information. So he wasn’t the only one present who had an aversion to crowds. But didn’t groups make the most rewarding prank targets? To incite the most amount of mayhem in the least amount of time?

“Well, jealous or no, he can keep to himself if it so suits him. I’m not out to steal any of his remaining siblings away.”

Dennis scoffed, but it was half a laugh. “Don’t assume that means you’re safe. Any reason to hit you with inanimate objects is a good one,” he explained, presumably recalling the few times he’d been assaulted with nerf darts and paintballs the very moment he’d walked through the door.

“Isaiah told me about this time they folded enough paper airplanes to launch off an aircraft carrier and take over Taiwan. Once the snow went away, Ethan wanted to do his homework outside, but after giving Izzie enough grief they decided he wouldn’t be able to finish it in peace- whatever window he sat under, at least three found their way into his lap.”

How dastardly.

Trev took another not-sip with only the tiniest of eye rolls. Nonchalance should have been his reaction of choice from the start. “He sounds very… conniving.”

“Impish is a better word for it.”

“A conniving imp, then. One quality serves to define the other.”

It certainly explained the closing door, and if that was the bare minimum of rebelliousness they could expect to see tonight, that was more than tolerable.

“So… if he’s a no-show, when are you gonna put the nerves aside and go mingle?” Dennis propped an elbow up on the table as he nodded toward the patio and leaned a cheek against his curled fist. “You can’t nurse one drink all evening.”

Watch me.

Meeting his arched eyebrow with one of his own, Trev went for the next question on the proverbial checklist. “When did you all meet? I mean, I know that’s a lot of origin stories, but where did it start?”

“When Dahlia broadsided me with a door,” he recalled without reservation, to her complete and utter mortification. “I deserved it, being the stoolie dumbass standing where I was.”

The redhead immediately flushed bright red and buried her face in Dennis’ shoulder with an embarrassed laugh. “It was an accident! I didn’t expect you to be standing there…”

And so went their storytelling, fondly recounting how one chance run-in at the Motown Lounge led to this happy, steady state of affairs for them. Past a certain point Trev only listened half heartedly, their enthusiasm just a little too much for him to stomach.

New noise caught his hypersensitive ear again from atop the stairs- as the door creaked open, a shadowy figure moved from the studio two doors down the hall and shut it behind him. The only one who seemed to notice aside from Trevor was Dennis, blue eyes darting in the direction of the click some four hundred feet, one floor and a few rooms across the mansion, before looking back at Dahlia.

As both of them fell quiet and no one opted to keep up that line of thought, Nick sighed and put the tablet down, circling back to the elephant still in the room. Perhaps he had noticed after all.

“He doesn’t need to keep acting all jealous. We’re easy enough to get along with, and his paintings are nice.”

“Oh? You been spyin’ on him?” Dennis teased, even as Trev frowned and raised his eyeline to the impassive ceiling. “You’ve spent a lot of hours with your back turned at that piano. Risky business.”

Nick shook his head, failing to see the humor in such a comment, too caught up worrying over what could be done to ingratiate themselves. He didn’t cope very well with thoughts of being at odds with anybody: family, friend, and certainly not foe. No wonder he had stayed as far away from Boston as physically possible.

Trev traced a fingertip over the rim of the glass in contemplative gesture. Apparently the missing link fancies themselves a painter. The minute beads of sweat, smeared and not, stood out like little crystalline glints of ice. Chilled thirium wasn’t meant to grow warm any more than fidgety Dr. Lenore had business in a city under siege.

“Not so risky- it sounds like they’re both of the artistic persuasion… just different instruments.” Hooking a fingernail on the rim, he pressed and noted how it didn’t bend back, then rolled his eyes. The urge to self-pity out loud hit hard and he went for a small dose of it.

“But I don’t know him, hardly better than I know any of you. Must be nice to hold such… easy company.”

Rhea had had her eye on Trev from the moment she walked into the room. All of the nuances in his body language -the subtle fidgeting, the way he averted his eyes, hiding behind the frames, and kept his jaw tight with lips thinly drawn, the crease in his forehead from pressed brows- and the way he avoided talking about himself by asking questions just to divert the topic, were enough to express to most that he was visibly uncomfortable. But being the observant and experienced counselor she was, she could probably tell this was more than just surface tension.

“It comes in time with conscious effort,” she offered with a sympathetic smile, stealing a glance aside to Nick and lifting a hand to thread into his hair and scratch at the back of his head. “I had to really fight for this one’s attention… didn’t want anything much to do with me when we first met.”

“Hey! That’s not true!” he protested with a huff, Rhea’s head rolling back with a smile and focusing her gaze on the ceiling momentarily. When she didn’t immediately refute him, he uncertainly amended, “I was just… nervous.”

“So nervous you turned me down every opportunity you were given, even when things were still platonic,” she teased with a pop of her brows and a smirk. “But… the point is this.” Rhea focused her honey brown eyes on Trev across the table. “Familiarity is cultivated- we didn’t click the moment we met. It might look easy now, but we had a rough start getting here. So give yourself time, and leave the door open- you’ll find that easy company soon enough.”

She meant well, saying such things. Trev would have liked to listen and believe it in equal measure, but even the concept of basic familiarity didn’t really apply. It wasn’t a straight line between points. It was a snaking twisting route that doubled back on itself and wound around in ways these four had no conceivable idea of (or so he thought). None of them could know, was the worst part.

“Sure.” Trev glanced sidelong toward the patio, leaving his response as one clipped word. The music drifting in was an assortment of classic rock that he could kill a few seconds trying to put a name with the lyrics with.

Dennis gave a hmph of agreement, counterpointing her advice nicely. “You wouldn’t be the first one who took his time about it, kid. But you know you’ve got friends here, no matter what the academy throws at you, right?”

As close as they could be, anyway.

Pegging the musician as the late Bruce Springsteen, Trev bit the inside of one cheek. A bit of insight wasn’t horrible to hear, but if this was the part where he thought laying it on thick was a good idea, Lenore could drop it. This wasn’t meant to be an interrogation posing as small talk.

“The academy hasn’t been so bad compared to… this.” He gestured vaguely at their surroundings, then reached for the glass again as the hurt, defensive expressions painted their faces one by one. Once it was empty, he could politely excuse himself for a refill.

“This just isn’t my kind of familiar. Here is-… there aren’t-…” The thought fizzled into nothing as he drummed his fingers on the tabletop, and he muttered his last thought under his breath, useless as it was considering these were androids listening to him. “Bugger it. You have your normal and I have mine.”

Dennis knocked a foot against the leg of his chair. “Hey. Don’t get all sour on us now. We’re only trying to help, not bust your balls.”

Trev drained what was left of the blue substance and breathed out through his nose to cover the loud swallow. “I appreciate the disclaimer. Really. But I seem to have run out of refreshments, so if it’s all the same, I'll help myself to another.”

Even that much called up an unpleasant phantom of a memory.

-drinks with the squad after the successful closure of a half dozen interlinked cases, narcotics off the streets, justice for the dead almost a gimme-

He scooted his chair back out of the focal point between the two couples, and instantly felt less claustrophobic for it. Trev started to move away from the table but reached back and grabbed the glass he’d almost forgotten, decidedly avoiding any of their eyes and ignoring whatever protests they tried to voice.

Not even five steps out of the dining room on his way to the kitchen, a foam dart with a rubber tip pelted him in the side of the head. The flinch it drew brought him to a temporary stop. From behind a potted plant near the grand piano to his left, Ethan giggled and sprinted across the room and up the stairs, darting down the west wing, presumably toward his bedroom, before Trev could retaliate. The bright orange-yellow nerf pistol in his hand instantly marked him as the culprit. Compared to the last bullet that had hit him, this was no great insult to suffer; it was tolerable next to the nitpicking, well-meaning offers of help he was being pincered between just a minute earlier.

Trev stopped to pick up the toy dart and dropped it into the empty glass to set both items aside on an end table, then looked up at the steps and all the wings they could lead to. It was a tempting place to get lost- he could wander the halls for a spell, see what there was to behold, maybe glimpse some of that art Nick mentioned. If Ethan Fleur wanted to take repeated potshots at him only to scurry off, at least his awkward presence would provide amusement for somebody’s sake. Better that than to be put on the spot and start confronting the first mixed-up impulses about himself amidst the company of an impromptu therapy group. That was the kind of soap opera tripe irate inner monologues were better suited to.

‘Help’. They can help me. What do they know? It’s all just conjecture and secondhand accounts. None of them were there, they couldn’t know what it was like before, they don’t know what it’s like now. They shouldn’t bother themselves with trying to understand. I’m not broke, I’m just - resetting.

Even thinking it made his insides churn. Knowing now that it wasn’t anything like indigestion or an empty gut causing such sensations, it only served to make him walk faster, just to get moving and try to forget again.

His once-clear HUD filled with a few cursory warnings, reacting in time with the pique in stress, but he blinked and shook his head once to abolish them. Trev mounted the stairs in several precise steps, steadfastly marching up to the next landing with intent. So what if this area wasn’t for guests to wander off to? It ‘s not like he was planning on swiping anything. He was a cop in a past life, and that wasn’t just hyperbole or metaphorical comparisons at work. He wasn’t some side-show company project, he didn’t need to be set straight simply for having been shown different; he just had to deal, but he would do so at his own pace. He didn’t need any follow-along lessons to help the transition, he only needed space- closed, simple, quiet space, without anyone in it.

“Oh, yes, gorgeous little android-centric district you have going on here. Me? You say I need answers to my jacked-up life? ‘No worries! Welcome to Zion. We’ve got more than enough lived-in personalities offering sage, tried-and-true advice to help you out. Just gotta give us a chance’.” Like a tacky sales pitch at a used car lot. Wasn’t what I was already doing called living? In some form, if not how they knew it? Know it? I wasn’t bunking in any fancy mansion nibbling on crepes while the rest of the world tried to sort out its own problems because machines had to go and get all uppity over not being allowed their full potential. Yeah, well, what good does potential do you when you don’t even know it’s a… thing?

Walking on autopilot, without necessarily looking where he was going, Trev only slowed down at the top of the staircase to turn the corner to the east wing. The cracked marble columns and wood-paneled walls overlooked a tasteful beige runner on the same mosaic tiled floor, accented only by a few more ferns on pedestals standing sentry outside of closed bedroom doors. Windows lined the furthest wall, opening up to the greenhouse at the mansion’s back.

But he paid all of it no mind for longer than a fraction of a second, too taken aback by the painted likeness of Dahlia Fleur looking down on him from his left, just outside the curiously open door. The dimensions of the canvas scrawled across his eyes on automatic- rendered in traditional oil pigments, whomever had captured her likeness didn’t simply copy it. The brush strokes, invisible to human eyes, struck him as even and smooth, with no unsightly pause marks or remnants of gopey residue. Her freckled skin was only slightly bronzed for effect, complementing the cool background and the emerald green gown she wore. Gazing sidelong over her bare shoulder, expression sedate yet slightly coy, fingers lifted to rest on her chin as if poised in thought, her lengthy crimson locks of hair had been loosed from whatever binds that once might have held them back.

It was quite the exquisite portrait for what most human owners might have only seen, at one time, as a serving classic domestic android.

Staring at her perhaps a bit too long, Trev didn’t see the rubber band before it bounced off his temple, nor the shadow just out of the corner of his vision that had sent it flailing his way.

Speak the devil’s name, and he shall appear.

“Hey, wiseguy- quit eyeballin’ my sister.”

#dbhilluminate #dbh: fanfiction #detroit: become human #detroit become human fanfiction #dbh fanfiction #dylan #trevor #dyvor #dbhiredemption

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jaynaneeya · 5 years

Text

History Repeats Itself

Okay, so I originally intended this to be my entry for the Shipwrecked Five contest, but I got kind of carried away and it was ending up way longer than I originally intended, so I didn’t get it finished until now. Honestly, I don’t even know if it’s good anymore, and it’s about 7500 words, but if you want to read my unnecessarily long conspiracy theory tying together the Shipwrecked Comedy Cinematic Universe, here it is. Spoiler alert for Poe Party, Kissing in the Rain, American Whoopee, and The Case of the Gilded Lily

Revenge was so close he could taste it. The lifetime of dreaming, scheming, plotting; it had all come down to this moment. Struggling with all his might, he could feel his enemy’s strength yielding, the blade of the ax inching toward his throat. In just a few seconds, Edgar Allan Poe would be dead, and Eddie would be on his way to Canada, where he planned to spend his remaining days contentedly stringing along both Brontë sisters. This was his final thought before something hard struck the side of his head, abruptly ending his life.

What happened next was a mistake. Lenore found another psychic ghost summoner to bring back Edgar’s friends, but she inadvertently summoned everyone who had died in the house that night. From the moment he was conscious of it, Eddie hated being a ghost. He had thought his thirst for revenge had been all-consuming in life, but at least then he’d had other things he needed to focus on, like eating and sleeping and working. In death, he had none of those distractions. This wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been able to exact his revenge on his killer, but Edgar was now surrounded by ghosts, most of whom were in that state because of Eddie, and if preventing him from hurting Edgar made him unhappy, they were determined to dedicate their afterlives to doing just that. At least, that was how Mary Shelley put it, and the others readily agreed, when they forced him out of the house.

He stole one final glance at Annabel’s face before his departure. She didn’t look angry like the others. She looked – he searched for the word as he glided away from Poe’s property – hurt. Betrayed. True, she had always loved Edgar, had only chosen Eddie because he seemed more respectable. Eddie in turn had only chosen her because she was close to the poet, and thus would be extraordinarily useful in his diabolical plot. But for the first time it occurred to him that they could have been relatively happy together. She might be secretly pining after Poe, and he would be secretly thirsting for revenge against disgusting hacks who called themselves writers, but they could have suppressed these urges and chosen to live in comfort, pretending to be normal, contented people.

“What am I thinking?” the ghost asked himself aloud. “I managed to kill seven authors! I wouldn’t trade that for anything!” And then it hit him: he would never have managed to maintain the charade, but Annabel would have. Even though he had strangled her with his own hands, she had been the stronger person.

Thoughts like these haunted him for weeks as he wandered aimlessly around Baltimore. When he could stand it no longer, he found a psychic and begged to be un-summoned.

“I-I beg your pardon?” the psychic stammered.

“Send me back! I was summoned by accident, and I want to die. Let me move on!” Eddie pleaded. He tried to shake the psychic by the shoulders, but he hadn’t quite gotten the hang of becoming corporeal and instead fell straight through the psychic, who sighed.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, sir. Only you can determine when you move on. Once all your remaining unfinished business is complete, you should simply be able to…slip away.”

Eddie furiously struggled to his feet. “But I can’t finish my unfinished business! They won’t let me kill Poe! Isn’t there any other way?”

“If you can’t finish your unfinished business, the only other way is to forget about it completely…I’m sorry, they won’t let you WHAT?!”

“Never mind,” he mumbled. “How do I forget about it?”

The psychic looked quite wary, but replied, “I believe some manage it by moving on to another century.”

“So you’re telling me I have to wait at least 100 years before-”

“Oh goodness no! I mean, just travel to another century.”

“What do you mean? How do I just…ghosts can time travel?”

“Sure, why not?” the psychic shrugged. “Some do it constantly. It’s one of the few advantages to being dead, I’m told.”

“But how does one travel through time?” he asked. The question had barely left his lips when his surroundings disappeared. He could see nothing but molten lava. The earth had just been formed. “That was easy,” he marveled.

What was harder was controlling when he traveled to. He could jump eons by simply thinking about time travel, but initially he always ended up in random times. He encountered several terrifying creatures from either the distant past or distant future – he was never quite sure which was which – and occasionally humans wearing strange clothes, often speaking languages he didn’t recognize. None of this particularly interested him. Eddie had never cared for anything that he couldn’t control. It wasn’t helping him move on either; all he could think of was that he had unintentionally done H.G. Wells a great favor by killing him.

Eventually, he found himself in a time during which the world seemed to consist entirely of giant slugs. “Oh, good, I’ve hit a new low,” he commented to one of them, which continued slowly gliding without acknowledging the ghost that had just appeared next to it.

“My dear Lenore, did you hear someone speaking?” asked one of the last voices Eddie had ever wanted to hear again. He threw himself flat on his stomach, hoping the slugs would block him from view.

“Who cares? Let’s get out of here, it’s disgusting!”

“Do you think the slugs can talk?” the first voice pressed.

“Listen, H.G., this time traveling is great and all, but I hate it here. Haven’t we made 100 trips yet?”

“Nearly. This is our…” Eddie heard the sound of notebook pages being turned. “…97th. Only three more randomized travels and we’ll be able to control it! All we’ll have to do is think of a year and poof! There we’ll be!”

“Good, let’s move on to our 98th. I’m getting slime on my dress.”

Silence returned. Eddie stood up. He was covered in slime, but this felt like the first productive trip he’d taken. Unlike H.G., he didn’t know exactly what number he was on, but at least he knew that eventually he’d have some control over when he went.

After that, he thought of a year every time he traveled. At first, it was clearly wrong; he thought of 1700 and ended up surrounded by machines that hadn’t even been invented in his time, then 1900 and came face-to-face with a dinosaur. But then, at last, he thought of 1850, and ended up in surroundings that looked familiar. He found a newspaper stand. The date on the paper was August 22, 1850. He couldn’t resist; as passersby stared, he gave himself a slow clap.

After a few trial periods in various eras, Eddie decided to settle in the year 2010. Safely in a different millennium from his own time, surrounded by humans who essentially looked and talked like those he was used to, seemed like the perfect environment in which to forget his unfinished business. He was unpleasantly surprised to learn that none of the authors he’d killed had been entirely forgotten, but while most people had heard of them, it seemed that relatively few had actually read their work, so he could easily avoid hearing about them. Best of all, it was a time of many distractions. He took to haunting various electronics stores; when they closed, he would turn on a device and play games all night, trying not to think about how his revenge had failed.

He had passed through a few years in the normal way before he admitted to himself that it wasn’t working. The games weren’t distracting him. As he played, he always found a way to pretend he was killing Poe. He tried to tell himself that as Poe was long dead by now it no longer mattered, but he couldn’t convince himself this was true. Eddie could forgive Edgar for killing him – it was self-defense, after all – but he couldn’t forgive him for winning. Eddie was supposed to emerge from that night triumphant, and Poe had snatched that victory from him. No matter how many games he dominated, Eddie was never going to recover from that humiliating defeat at the hands of a liar and a thief (just like every writer) who was too pathetic to ever leave his own house.

One day, late in 2013, he was wandering outside aimlessly, thinking that perhaps he should try a different century, when he heard something that completely changed his afterlife.

“Edgar, you can’t. You can’t be here.”

“Just listen, Annabel.”

Eddie turned. There they were: the couple he hated with every bit of ectoplasm that composed his ghost. But was it them? It certainly looked like them, and yet, somehow, they seemed…different. Edgar obviously could have changed in appearance after Eddie knew him, but Annabel…she should have looked exactly the same as the night he’d strangled her, but she had definitely changed, somehow. As Eddie gaped at them, they kissed, and he suddenly realized that they were standing in the rain, even though it wasn’t raining, and that’s when he noticed the film crew.

“That was beautiful! Cut.”

The rain stopped, and Edgar and Annabel broke apart awkwardly. It wasn’t them. They were actors, making a movie. Eddie was impressed by the casting; they greatly resembled the original people their characters were based on. Then it began to dawn on him that perhaps he could have his revenge after all. The trifling facts that these people had nothing to do with him and that the real Edgar Allan Poe would never suffer even if they did barely troubled Eddie. He’d killed a bunch of unrelated authors because of something William Shakespeare had done to his ancestor centuries earlier. This was no different.

Before he was asked to leave for ruining a shot, Eddie managed to overhear enough scraps of information to start him off on his new quest. The actors were named James Rochester and Lily Thomas, and it was their last day of filming on this movie. They had clearly worked together before, but they did not seem to be on very good terms personally. Nevertheless, they were going to start filming their next project in Los Angeles in a couple of months, during which time Eddie vowed to spend learning everything he could about filmmaking.

When the next James and Lily film started shooting, Eddie was part of the crew. He’d invented a resume that he didn’t think fooled anyone, but it was a low-budget film and he was working for free (ghosts had no use for money, after all), so they were happy to have him. But his plan to get close to the stars didn’t go very well; they were too busy snapping at each other to pay much attention to anyone else on set. At first, Eddie found it immensely satisfying to watch the people he saw as Edgar and Annabel constantly fighting. Then he actually started to like them. Edgar and Annabel had been such pushovers; James and Lily were both strong and sassy, which Eddie admired. But as filming progressed, he noticed that they seemed to be softening toward each other. Their insults had lost their zest; they seemed to be fighting out of habit rather than dislike.

On their next film, it was even worse. They were nice to each other, and once when they were kissing, they didn’t immediately break away when the director yelled, “Cut!” A few weeks after filming wrapped, Eddie heard that Lily and James had started dating, but they didn’t have any future projects lined up. After that, he didn’t have any direct contact with either of them for several months.

The bus station was almost deserted. She sat alone, staring into space, not even pretending to play on her phone. He had never seen anyone look more dejected. He forced the triumphant grin off his face and approached her.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you Lily Thomas?”

She glared at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve heard of me.”

“I worked on two of your films. I’m Eddie De Vere. I don’t really expect you to remember me.”

“Oh, now I do. Sort of.” They both knew she was lying, but he sat down next to her anyway.

“So, where are you going?” he asked.

“Away from here.”

“Still acting?”

“No.”

“Still seeing James?”

She started, then narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

He did his best to look uninterested. “Just making conversation. Last time I saw you, you were still acting, and it seemed like you and James were together.”

“James and I had a misunderstanding, and the entertainment industry and I had a falling out. That’s why I’m leaving. Now I don’t want to be rude, but will you please leave me alone?”

Having orchestrated both the misunderstanding and the falling out, Eddie was well aware of this. He had followed her to the bus station merely to gloat. But he didn’t find it nearly as satisfying as he’d anticipated. He wanted her to go off on an angry tirade, abusing her jealous ex-boyfriend who had thrown her out based on unfounded rumors, and berating the film industry for unfairly blackballing her. But instead of boiling with anger at the injustice of it all, she merely seemed resigned. She was prepared to move on with her life, perhaps ultimately to find happiness. After all his hard work. Eddie wouldn’t stand for it. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

“No. Honestly. I’ll be fine. Life just sucks sometimes.”

“I think it’s a tremendous waste of talent for you to quit acting.”

“It would be a tremendous waste of time to try to keep acting after everything that’s happened.”

A light bulb turned on in Eddie’s brain. “What if you tried to keep acting before everything that’s happened?”

Lily considered his face carefully. When she realized he was serious, she started to inch away from him. “That’s okay, I-”

“You don’t understand! I can time travel! I’ll take you back to the Golden Age of Hollywood, and you’ll be a sensation!”

She stood up. “I just remembered, I’m at the wrong bus station.” She grabbed her suitcase and started to run away from him.

“Wait!” he cried, jumping up. Taking a running leap, he dove through her, landing on the ground in front of her. She couldn’t stop in time and ran straight through him before she stopped dead, then slowly turned to face him. “I’m a ghost,” he said unnecessarily.

“I noticed.”

“I can time travel,” he added, standing up.

“And you can take me with you?”

“Yes.” He didn’t know if this was true, but it was worth a try. It wasn’t like he cared if anything bad happened to her.

She raised an eyebrow skeptically. “And why exactly do you want to help me?”

“It’s the only way I can move on,” he invented. “I have to help someone find happiness. Otherwise I’m trapped as a ghost forever.”

She still looked suspicious. “Why?”

“How should I know? I don’t make the rules! Are you coming or not?”

Lily thought about it for a few moments, decided she didn’t have much left to lose, and said, “Okay, take me to early Hollywood.”

He grasped both her hands tightly in his, screwed up his face in concentration, and thought about them both traveling through time. Her gasp told him something had happened. He opened his eyes. The bus station was gone; they were on a deserted street, lined with a few scattered cars.

“I don’t believe it!” she cried. “Where are we? I mean, when?”

“I was going for 1940, but the cars look too old.” He supposed the timing was less precise when someone else tagged along.

Lily pointed to a movie poster on the building next to them. “The War. That came out in 1923. We must be around then.”

“Want to try making it in silent pictures?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Why not? If we fail, we can always try a different era, right?”

“I guess…wait, what do you mean, ‘we’?”

“You’re trying this experiment with me, aren’t you? You weren’t planning on letting me fend for myself in a strange year, were you?” she added, somewhat suspiciously.

“Oh, no, of course not,” he lied hastily. “Let’s both be silent film stars. How hard can it be?”

Extremely hard. Even from its earliest days, Hollywood has always been about connections, and since everyone working there in 1923 was born after Eddie’s time and died before Lily’s, they had none. Eddie wanted to offer to forego wages like he had done in the future, but that wasn’t going to work for Lily. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t just abandoning her. That would certainly complete his revenge, and then he could move on with his afterlife. But, much to his own disgust, Eddie actually wanted to see how she would fare in this unfamiliar world. So he stayed.

They started working as extras. Their combined wages were barely enough for Lily to survive on, but she didn’t seem to mind; she was constantly marveling about how inexpensive everything was. Most importantly, they had their feet in the door. Eddie was greatly impressed to observe that Lily was almost as good at schmoozing people as he was, and although it took time, eventually they started to land slightly larger roles. They decided to adopt new names; Lily became Minta Monroe, while Eddie went by Johnny Busterfield. They appeared in several mildly successful comedies and a couple of dreadful dramas, but they were having fun. Eddie grudgingly admitted to himself that he was starting to like Lily, and he enjoyed being around her so much that he almost forgot his ambition to make her as miserable as possible. Almost.

Then came what looked like their big break: a new teen comedy with a huge cast was announced. Minta Monroe and Johnny Busterfield murdered their auditions and landed key roles, alongside such big names as Buster Keaton, John Barrymore, and Slim Sockwillow. Eddie thought Slim looked an awful lot like both Edgar and James, but Lily didn’t seem to notice any resemblance to her ex, so Eddie decided it must be all in his head. He also could have sworn he’d seen most of the other actors before. He told himself that this was probably because they’d been in other silent movies he’d worked on, but deep down he knew the truth: he was still seeing images of the lives he’d ruined everywhere. But he pushed away these thoughts and plunged into the project.

The picture was to be called American Whoopee. Eddie had far more fun making it than he’d ever had in his life or death, but his enjoyment was nothing to Lily’s. She managed to convince the director to add a bunch of references to future teen comedies, simply for her own amusement. Minta Monroe was hailed as a creative genius. Eddie enjoyed sharing in her private joke too much to care that his plot to ruin her life was backfiring horribly. He started to notice that it was getting harder to stay solid; perhaps he was finally on the brink of forgetting his unfinished business and moving on to the other side.

American Whoopee was almost finished filming. Eddie was reading the newspaper, enjoying a rare afternoon off, when he heard a knock at their apartment door. He answered it, to see Slim Sockwillow holding a bouquet. “Hiya, Johnny, is your sister in?”

Eddie was bewildered. “My-”

“It’s okay, Johnny, I told him our secret,” Lily interjected, hurrying to join Eddie at the door. “Sorry, I meant to tell you I have a date with Slim this evening. You don’t mind, do you?”

Eddie liked Slim. They’d worked very closely together on this film and were constantly making each other laugh. But as he contemplated the young man holding flowers outside his door, Eddie didn’t see Slim; he saw Edgar Allan Poe, holding a pet rock.

Slim’s grin faltered. “Say, Johnny, I know how you feel; I have two kid sisters myself. But I promise to have her home at a reasonable hour. We’re just going out for a bite and a dance. Unless…unless you have any objections,” he added, quivering under Eddie’s hostile glare.

“I don’t care if he does,” Lily asserted, pushing the fuming, completely corporeal Eddie out of the way and taking Slim by the hand. “See ya later, Johnny,” she called, slamming the door behind them.

The newspaper Eddie had been holding immediately turned into a crumpled ball of fury. The one and only thing that could have ruined his contentment had happened. His alternate Annabel had fallen for this Prohibition-Era alternate Edgar. The fact that Eddie actually liked them and didn’t mind if they were happy was immaterial. The horrible night he’d almost forgotten about replayed in his head over and over as he paced around the apartment, interspersed with new images of Lily gasping “It was always you” in Slim’s arms.

After what felt like weeks to Eddie, Lily finally returned from her date. “Fine time to get home!” he spat at her the moment she walked through the door.

She had the audacity to laugh at him. “It’s only 8:30, and I can’t believe you’re jealous.”

Eddie was completely taken aback. “I-what? I’m not jealous, I-”

Lily rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Eddie, you’re a great guy, but I mean, you’re dead. You can’t honestly think you and I could have a potential future together.”

“I don’t- That’s not why I-” he stammered.

“I’m sorry about the brother thing, but he asked me if I was living with you, and I thought he’d be more likely to believe ‘Yes, but he’s not my boyfriend, he’s my brother’ than ‘Yes, but he’s not my boyfriend, he’s the ghost that brought me here from the future.’”

Eddie found his voice. “Exactly! You’re from the future! He’s old enough to be your great-grandfather! That doesn’t bother you?”

Lily shrugged. “Not really. We’re the same age now, and besides, I really like him a lot, and we had a great time, and we’re going out again tomorrow night, and if you don’t like it, you can go haunt somebody else!”

Eddie didn’t like it, but he had a better idea than haunting somebody else. The following day, he managed to sneak away from set long enough to make a few important calls from a phone booth around the corner from the studio. The day after that, American Whoopee’s final day of shooting, several papers reported some dreadful rumors about the film. It was said to be “filth” created to “corrupt the minds of young America” whose cast was “entirely comprised of drunken rabble-rousers who eagerly flout the laws of the land”. Each day that followed brought news of a new scandal involving either the film itself or its cast. By the time the trailer was released, the studio had received hundreds of angry telegrams, and after seeing the trailer, the public took to the streets to protest. Naturally, the film was never completed, and almost the entire cast (with the exceptions of Buster Keaton and John Barrymore, whose reputations had remained unsullied) were fired from the studio, with almost no hope of being hired elsewhere.

Lily was furious. “I can’t believe my life has been ruined by rumors AGAIN!” she fumed. “If I ever find out who fed the media those ridiculous lies, I will literally kill them.”

“Yeah, this sucks,” Eddie agreed, suppressing a smirk. “You want to try another era?”

“What I want is a drink,” she muttered.

“So that’s a yes?”

She sighed. “I guess. Hey, you couldn’t bring Slim along too, could you?”

Eddie managed to hold his temper. “Sadly, I can only time travel with one living person. Are you okay with that?”

Lily wasn’t sure she believed him, but she nodded and let the ghost take her hands. Eddie thought of the mid-Cretaceous period, reasoning that no Edgar look-alike could exist where there were no humans, and that even if he ended up a few decades off, that wouldn’t make much difference. But when they’d completed their journey, the world didn’t look nearly different enough. The streets looked essentially the same as the ones they’d just left, although there seemed to be a lot more homeless people around.

“When were you trying to go to?” Lily asked.

Before Eddie had to answer, a shabby-looking man approached them and said, “Hey, brother, can you spare a dime?”

Eddie reached into his pocket and found a quarter. “I’ll give you two bits if you tell me what year it is.”

The man eyed the coin hungrily, but with a trace of suspicion. “It��s 1934. You a Rockefeller or something? Nobody just gives away a quarter.”

Eddie handed over the coin and turned back to Lily as the man hurried away. “Sorry, I guess we didn’t go very far. Why are you smiling?”

“Because Prohibition ended in 1933 and I can get a drink here!” She hurried into a nearby bar. Shaking his head slightly, Eddie followed her. He was starting to think he would never succeed in making her miserable.

The bartender greeted them cordially. “Welcome to Bixby’s Lounge. I’m Bixby. What can I get you, and why are you dressed like a flapper?” he added, eyeing Lily’s outfit.

“Oh, just had an audition,” she replied casually. “I think I blew it though,” she added. “I’ll have a dry martini.”

“You’re okay staying in 1934 for a while, I take it?” Eddie asked when Bixby had busied himself with other customers, as she drained her martini glass.

“Sure, this is about when we were trying to go the first time, remember? Talkies should be easier for me than silent films. We better think of new names, though. I like the sound of Vivian Nightingale, what do you think of that?”

The name made him uncomfortable. He couldn’t place it, but he thought it was vaguely connected with that horrible night at Poe’s house. “That sounds familiar. Wasn’t that the name of an Oscar Wilde character or something?”

“Not that I know of. I’ve never come across it before. But I think it suits me, don’t you?”

The familiarity of the name still bothered him, but he shrugged it off. “Sure.”

“What will you go by?”

“Eduardo Dantes,” he decided, determined not to let anything distract him from his revenge from now on.

Once again, Lily and Eddie started as extras. This time, however, Eddie did everything in his power to prevent them from booking auditions. They got a couple of bit parts, but nothing that would gain them any recognition. But Lily was more resourceful than he’d given her credit for. After a few years of almost constant failure, she managed to finagle two invitations to a party for producer Roger Haircremé. “If we make a good impression on him, we’ll have this town in the palm of our hands,” she told Eddie.

Eddie accompanied her to the party with plans of creating the opposite of a good impression. As if she had read his mind, Lily suggested they split up as soon as they arrived. “If he sees us together, that might hurt both our chances,” she reasoned.

“You mean it might hurt your chances,” Eddie muttered, but she had already disappeared into the crowd of stars. She was beating him at his own game, and it hurt his pride more than he wanted to admit.

“Cigarette, sir?” asked a voice at his side.

He turned to say “No, thank you,” to the attractive cigarette girl, but before she walked away, he noticed her nametag. “Wait! Your name is Lily Thomas?”

“Almost. It’s actually TH-omas.”

It took Eddie a moment to digest this. “Wait, really?” When she nodded earnestly, he said, “I used to know someone named Lily Thomas.”

“Oh, well she can’t be any relation. The TH-omases and the Thomases have completely different origins. I’m from Minnesota.”

“Really? What brings you to L.A.?” he asked, though he thought he knew, and if he was right, he could still manipulate the evening after all.

“I wanted to be an actress, but it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be. I thought maybe if I could meet Roger Haircremé…”

“There he is right now!” Eddie exclaimed, spotting him across the room. “Here, I’ll hold your cigarettes, why don’t you go up to him and turn on the charm? Just don’t tell him who you are; he’ll never know.”

Eddie expected her to be suspicious, but she immediately did as he suggested. It worked perfectly; Roger had eyes for no one else the entire evening.

As the party was winding down, Eddie finally found Lily Thomas (not TH-omas) again. “How did your evening go?” he asked her, waiting for her disappointment.

“Fine,” she replied. “Hey, Bill, come here, I want you to meet my brother.”

Eddie froze, preparing for the worst, but the man named Bill looked nothing like Edgar. “Nice to meet you,” Eddie sighed with relief.

“Bill’s a director,” Lily explained. “He thinks I’d be perfect for the lead in his next picture, and he wants me to audition for him tomorrow.”

“That’s great, congratulations,” Eddie managed.

“You can head home now if you want. Bill will drop me off later.”

Vivian Nightingale booked the lead in Bill’s new film, and in his two films after that. Between the second and third, they got married. Annoyed as Eddie was by her success, he knew that Lily didn’t love Bill, and so could never be truly happy. It was almost enough.

Then the inevitable happened. Eddie was having a drink at Bixby’s Lounge when he heard a familiar voice ask for two fingers of scotch and limited eye contact. There, a few seats down the bar from Eddie, was the Edgar Allan Poe lookalike of the 1930s.

Eddie nearly panicked, but he calmed himself with the knowledge that Lily hadn’t met this one, and probably never would, if his anti-social demeanor was any indication. Still, just to be on the safe side, when the Poe doppelganger had left, Eddie asked Bixby if he knew who he was.

“Ford Phillips, private investigator,” Bixby said. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought he looked familiar. He’s not an actor?”

Bixby laughed. “That man hates show business and everyone involved in it. Personally, I love show business, but he’s one of my best customers, so who am I to complain? I’m Bixby, and Bixby never complains about customers.”

“Say, Bixby,” Eddie began slowly, an idea forming on how to keep an eye on this Phillips, “I notice your floor show is a little thin, and I could use a job. Think you could use me?”

“How good are you with puppets?” Bixby asked immediately.

This was not the response he’d anticipated. “Excuse me?”

“I love puppets. If you can do a puppet act, you’re hired.”

“Can you provide the puppets?” Eddie asked.

“Of course. Bixby’s got everything.”

“Then I can come up with an act,” Eddie agreed.

Ford Phillips came into Bixby’s at almost exactly the same time every night, but he never talked to anyone except Bixby. When Lily asked to see Eddie’s act, he told her to come several hours before Ford would be there, and he made sure to hurry her out before he arrived. Still, Eddie had a lingering fear that the more famous she became, the more difficult it would be for even someone who hated show business to avoid seeing her, and if Ford was indeed the Edgar he appeared to be, Annabel’s face could easily change his opinion of actresses. Eddie needed to interfere with Lily’s career yet again. But how?

The answer came with the following morning’s headline: “WILHELMINA VANDERJETSKI WEDS HOLLYWOOD MOGUL!!!” Underneath was a picture of Lily TH-omas, and the article detailed her wedding to producer Roger Haircremé, as well as glowing reviews of her first starring role, in a film which had just been released. Roger was quoted as saying, “Willie’s a breath of fresh air in this tawdry town. I was about to leave Hollywood before I met her, but as long as she wants to star in my films, I want to keep producing them.” So Eddie had done something right at that party after all.

Eddie prided himself on his ability to manipulate people, and Bill turned out to be even more of a pushover than he’d anticipated. It was almost too easy to convince him to switch to Roger Haircremé’s studio. Bill willingly signed a contract on behalf of both himself and Vivian Nightingale. The wife of the director didn’t stand a chance against the wife of the studio head, and Lily TH-omas beat out Lily Thomas for role after role after role.

“She’s not even that good of an actress, and she has to be the stupidest person I’ve ever met!” Lily vented to Eddie. “If I could work for a different studio, I might stand a chance, but that moron I’m married to thinks Roger’s the best producer out there. If it weren’t for that stupid contract-”

“How is dear Bill?” Eddie asked, thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Ugh, don’t ask. If I didn’t need his money, I’d divorce him in a heartbeat. What a bore. Luckily, he’s not the only man in the world.” Eddie couldn’t believe his ears. Had she managed to meet Ford despite all his efforts? But then she added, “It’s too bad I haven’t met anyone like Slim in this decade. I can’t find out what happened to him either. Man, I miss the internet.” Eddie started to relax, but she went on, “I’m thinking about finding another job, to save up for a divorce. Bixby’s seems like a good gig for you. Do you think he’d hire me too?”

That was the last thing Eddie wanted, but she wasn’t to know that, so he just shrugged and said, “It’s worth a try.”

When he got to work the following day, Eddie told Bixby, “Listen, I heard Vivian Nightingale was going to ask you for an audition, but I’m not sure she would be the best fit for your place.”

“Why not?” Bixby asked.

“I mean, she’s a film actress. I just think she’d seem out of place in a lounge.”

Bixby had a strange look on his face. “Well, I didn’t think so. She sang so well at her audition this morning that I hired her immediately.”

Eddie’s heart sank. “Oh. Okay. Well that’s…that’s good then. She’s more versatile than I thought.”

Somehow, Eddie managed to keep Lily offstage whenever Ford came in. This was made more difficult by Bixby, who seemed to want Lily and Ford to meet. Eddie noticed that Bixby’s manner had gotten much colder toward him since Vivian Nightingale had started singing there, but he didn’t give it too much thought.

Then Wilhelmina Vanderjetski hired Ford Phillips to find out who was blackmailing her, and her rival Vivian Nightingale was an obvious suspect. So Ford and Vivian met. And even when her name was cleared, they stayed in touch and became friends. Eddie was beside himself with rage.

“Four different men in five different states?” Bill repeated. “How is that even possible?”

“Trust me, it’s possible,” Eddie insisted. There was silence on the other end of the phone. “You still there, Bill?”

“Are you sure? That’s not the Vivian I know.”

“Sounds like you don’t know your wife at all. I thought you had a right to know. But you didn’t hear it from me,” Eddie added hastily.

“I understand. Thanks, Eddie.”

That evening, Eddie was distracted during his puppet act by a loud argument from Vivian’s dressing room. When he was finished, he knocked on her door and called, “You’re on in five minutes, Viv!” A moment later, she burst through the door, slamming it behind her. “Everything all right?” he asked innocently.

“Bill found out,” she fumed. “And what’s more, he has the gall to be angry about it. It’s all well and good for him to run around, but as soon as I do the same thing…”

“You married a misogynist in the 1930s. Shocking.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m going to sing, and then get drunk. He’ll calm down eventually.”

Eddie waited for Bill to emerge from the dressing room, but he didn’t. Vivian finished singing, and another act started, but still, no Bill. Finally, Eddie knocked on the door. “Bill? You okay?” He opened the door. “Look, buddy, I know it’s tough, but…” He stopped abruptly. Bill was dead. He had ripped the cord off the blinds covering Vivian’s window and hanged himself. “Oh, buddy,” Eddie groaned disappointedly.

This hadn’t been part of the plan. Bill wasn’t supposed to kill himself. But it suddenly occurred to Eddie how to use this to his advantage. He stole the suicide note, which simply read, “I can’t go on, knowing you don’t love me.” Next he untied the cord from the rafters and positioned Bill’s body on the floor. Then he went to see a movie at his favorite theater where the ushers recognized him, to give himself an alibi.

As Eddie had anticipated, the death was deemed suspicious enough to warrant an investigation, with the widow as the prime suspect. As Eddie should have anticipated but didn’t, this prompted Lily to hire private detective Ford Phillips to launch his own investigation. With the help of his sidekick, Fig Wineshine (who Eddie thought bore a nauseating resemblance to Lenore), Ford was able to prove that Bill had committed suicide, reasoning that his body could have fallen to the floor between his death and his discovery, and that not all suicide cases involved a note. Vivian Nightingale was not going to jail and was no longer married, and Eddie waited in trepidation for the thing he most dreaded to come to pass.

About a year later, it happened. Despite booking a few film roles, Vivian and Eddie were still primarily working at Bixby’s. After their last set of the night, Eddie was about to leave when he heard Lily tell their boss that she was taking a two-week vacation the following month.

“Where are you going?” Eddie demanded.

Lily actually blushed. “Well, on my honeymoon, if you must know.”

“You’re getting married again? To whom? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Calm down, Eddie. I’m marrying Ford Phillips next month, and I didn’t tell you before now because I knew you’d get upset and try to stop me. But Ford isn’t like Bill, or any of the others. He has a tough exterior, but he’s kind and genuine and intelligent, and I think he’s my last chance at happiness. You told me once that you needed to help me find happiness. I stopped believing that a long time ago, but please don’t prove me right.”

Eddie was startled. He stared into her eyes, trying to discern how much she had figured out.

“Absolutely, take as long of a honeymoon as you want,” said Bixby, making both Eddie and Lily jump. “And congratulations!”

“Thank you, Bixby!” She hurried off to change out of her costume. Eddie gaped after her, wondering how he could possibly win this time.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.”

Eddie turned to see Bixby glaring at him. “I don’t know what you’re-”

“Drop the act, Eddie, I know who you are.” To Eddie’s shock and horror, Bixby put his hand through the bar. He was a ghost, too. “That’s right,” said Bixby. “I’m not Bixby.”

For the first time in his crazy, mixed up afterlife, Eddie considered the possibility that he had lost his sanity. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I used to be known as Constable Wesley. I helped arrest the Brontë sisters, but I never caught you. When I died, I was forced to return as a ghost until I brought you to justice. I travelled through the centuries until fate brought us together here. I’ve been keeping an eye on you. I notice you seem to have lost some of your murderous tendencies, since apart from almost allowing an innocent person to be executed for a murder that wasn’t a murder, you haven’t gotten close to murder since you’ve been here. But if you try anything more to ruin the happiness of this person you plucked from the future because of her resemblance to Annabel Lee, I will be forced to make the rest of your afterlife a literal hell.”

Eddie’s head was spinning so fast he had to sit down. “How do you know all that?”

Not-Bixby poured himself a drink. “I’m Constable Wesley,” he replied simply, toasting himself.

Before Eddie could fully appreciate how completely stymied he was, the door to Bixby’s burst open, and a man stormed in.

“We’re closed,” Constable Wesley announced casually, as though he hadn’t just revealed himself to be a time-traveling ghost.

“Where is she?” the man demanded. “Where’s Vivian Nightingale?”

“I’m right here, Edwin, calm down,” Lily said, emerging from the dressing rooms.

The man was shaking, red-faced, and having trouble getting his words out. “You…said…you said…if not for…your husband…you and I…we…”

“Edwin, I’m sorry, but-”

“And now…you’re going to marry…” Suddenly he pulled out a revolver. “I won’t let you!”

“Edwin, don’t!” she screamed, but he pulled the trigger, then dashed out the door as she crumpled to the floor.

Constable Wesley glared at Eddie. “Tell me you didn’t call him.”

Eddie was in shock. “What? I didn’t even know-”

“Good,” Wesley snapped before taking off after the shooter.

“Eddie!” gasped Lily.

Eddie rushed over to her. There was blood everywhere. “You’re going to be okay,” he assured her, kneeling down and taking her in his arms.

“Stop lying to me,” she groaned.

“Lily, listen! I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen. I thought I wanted revenge, but really I just wanted-”

“Eddie,” she gasped again. His heart leapt expectantly. “Tell Ford how much I love him.”

The ghost of Constable Wesley helped bring Edwin to justice, which was apparently enough; he was able to move on. Eddie envied him desperately. He had no idea what to do with his afterlife now. He made several attempts to time travel back to that day and stop Edwin from showing up, or at least to take the gun out of his hand, but it didn’t work. He couldn’t be corporeal in two places at the same time. Stupid ghost rules.

He took to haunting Lily’s grave. Her tombstone had the name Vivian Nightingale on it, but no one had been able to find out when or where she was born. Eddie had been disappointed by how few people had shown up at her funeral, and he felt even more disappointed later when no one else except Ford Phillips ever visited her grave, until he remembered that her lack of connections had mostly been his fault. How could he have thought that ruining her life would help him? She deserved better than this pitiful grave that only one man and one ghost ever visited. She deserved some sort of memorial.

And that’s when it hit him. The Vivian Nightingale Memorial Ball. She wasn’t an Oscar Wilde character, but she had effectively introduced him to Oscar Wilde. And there was only one way that Vivian Nightingale could have a memorial ball established in the century before she existed.

He considered not doing it. If the ball didn’t exist, that night could go differently. Oscar Wilde wouldn’t be there to confuse his emotions, and his plot might succeed. He might win, or at least survive, and none of this would ever happen. Lily Thomas would be happy with James Rochester, American Whoopee would be released with actors other than Minta Monroe and Johnny Busterfield, and Lily TH-omas would never meet, marry, and be blackmailed by Roger Haircremé.

Eddie resisted for as long as he could, but ultimately, he realized it was futile. He couldn’t create a paradox. He needed to go back and establish the Vivian Nightingale Memorial Ball so everything could happen exactly as it was supposed to. And then maybe, just maybe, his unfinished business would count as complete, and he could finally move on.

#shipwrecked comedy #poe party #kissing in the rain #american whoopee #case of the gilded lily #fig and ford #there's also a very small nod to bertha's attic song in here #i'm sorry this is way too long #and kind of on the depressing side #but i couldn't help myself

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badlydrawndrawnings · 5 years

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ASOUE SEASON 3, Part 2

There are some things that I enjoy, some things that bug me, and some of those things that bug me are thing I do enjoy but i have to question regardless. The post grew so long I’m cutting it into two parts, and frankly this covers The PP and The End (part one won’t be linking because idk what Tumblr did with that update with links).. We are in the second half of the season, and boy, do I have a lot of hot opinions! Most of it it’s under the read more to not cog the tags.

Frank, Ernest, and Dewey: I feel so validated my theory of Dewy was talking to the Baudelaires last and pretending to be Frank or Ernest is confirm...here at least! Speaking of them, I think Frank was the first one the Baudelaires talk too, then Ernest talk second. In the first convo, Frank or Ernest was Serious and To the Point, and Frank (confirm in book it’s Frank)) was like that with Violet. In the second convo, Frank or Ernest was Friendly and Emotional with his words, and Ernest (confirm in book it’s Ernest) was being a bit cheeky with Klaus and humorous when lassoing Larry Your Waiter up (RIP). Sorry about your brother you two... but boy the shot Dewy floating in the water looks beautiful.

I think the show was trying to pull a red herring that Kit was ‘evil’ due her asking Dewy to give Frank her regards because no one knows about the unicorn that is Dewy.

Lack of Sir and Charles/Switching roles/The JS Debate: I learned beforehand Charles’ actor couldn’t make it to filming so they had to rewrite him out. Didn’t expect to get rid of Sir (granted, I hear Sir’s actor is like..expense to get back or something and season one was lucky to get him). Still, nice to see that they were able to get Jerome to fill in his (kinda) canon role and Charles. Also, are Charles and Jerome together? That’s a great step up Jerome! Also, nice to know Babs and Miss Bass are together (man I wonder how the in-laws will react to that). I think what really threw me into the loop is that the Netflix Show made JS, the person behind it all, to be Justice Strauss with others JS helps. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the book had ‘JS’ be anonymous as not even Justice Strauss or Jerome knew who is the real JS since they thought it was meet for them (with theories saying it’s Lemony pretending to his brother and the taxi driver in the PP is him. Thanks Netflix for actually confirming the taxi driver part). Didn’t mind Nero being with Esme. I like that (they didn’t show the report who name I freaking forgot. Guess that says something).

At the Opera Tonight & (Lack Of) Bertrand : Hey, Netflix...Olaf’s parents death was A HIT MURDER by Beatrice, The Snickets (Kit and maybe Lemony if 13 Secrets is valid, who know about Jacques), and most importantly, BERTRAND. The books made it clear both were involved in some way or form. In fact, the lack of Bertrand is so insulting. Lemony may not say talk about him too much, but damn it, Lemony liked and respect Bertrand and never hold a grudge. Lemony in the show is the same, just less because the writers really did put more of an emphasis on Beatrice as the Lost Lenore and true OTP (????). In fact, why did the Opera events paint the noble side of VFD good with the accidental death? It was hit, and everyone was guilty and not free of sin. Here though, they are guilty as hell but free of sin as ‘it was an accident’. Well, since Bertrand wasn’t involve in the events here...the guy is actually innocent and free of sin good job Bertrand you don’t have blood on your hand (this sounds like sarcasm but it’ not). Also. you a handsome man.

Personal Headcanon That I Will Never Let Go Now Due to the Above Nonsense: Olaf’s parents were part of VFD, and were sympathetic to the fire starting side of schism, but overall close to neutral (Olaf didn’t and will never know, and book implies the schism wasn’t bad until after Olaf did his thing to frame Lemony for the crimes), due to their positions of society as aristocracy, a father in a high government related job (thanks Netflix for making Dad the Chief of the Official Fire Department it almost lines up perfectly) and mother as A-List Theater Performer. They managed to get a faster reunion when Olaf is 17 (Lemony, Olaf, and a few others are supposed to be the same age while the other siblings are older by a few years, and 18 seems to be the legal age of becoming an adult in this world). The three were at the opera for their first time reunion, and Beatrice and Bertrand were given the task on getting rid of them, and they thought ‘oh this will be easy’ because Kit was helping to deal with Esme and they succeeds. They were about to celebrate and leave when they hear Olaf and see him running to his dead parents (they have no idea he was there. If Lemony was involve, then they did knew but used Lemony as a distraction to make sure Oalf won’t witness the deed. As to why Olaf as to see the body? Because seeing a body adds extra fuel to people waiting revenge). Olaf is still on the noble side at this point (if barely), and he doesn’t know the truth until later, after somehow losing the family fortune and a switch to the fire starting side. Incompetent banking may or may not be involve.

Hotel Denouement (Fire): Bit upset the sign isn’t written backwards, but hell, I want to stay there regardless!!! Also, I like how the show kept most of the fates a mystery expect Justice Strauss (how did she get down from the roof). The books implies Mr. Poe will die another night, so ergo in Netflix Show Mr. Poe and oddly enough, Vice Principal Nero of all people, survive as well. Thanks Nero for saving Mr. Poe for his offscreen date in the future. Side topic, but my headcanon in the books is (excluding Mr. Poe as his is given) Esme, Ernest, Hal, Hugo and Colette and Kevin survived. Those that made it out but died due to fire related injures later on (within a day or a week) would be Frank, Jerome, Charles, Sir, Nero and the Teachers, and Carmelita. Everyone else is 100% dead (guess I got to change my 100% dead Justice Strauss status lol). The choices were pick due to drama (Esme cares for Carmelita and would be 100% heartbroken to see her die after the two made it out. For Frank and Ernest, I figure losing one brother would change their hostile relationship to a reluctant team up to get out of the fire together. Frank, being noble, gets Ernest out first resulting getting injuries and dying later, leaving Ernest all alone. Sir and Charles were still holding hands when they got out, but Sir died first and Charles went next due to a broken heart) or luck (Hal survived one fire already; I want Hugo, Colette, and Kevin to catch a good break).

I cried when the ending happened that song f*** me up so bad like things could have been different and happy but I’m stuck in misery and woe.

THE END/VFD AND SCHISM: I HATE THIS EPISODE SO FREAKING MUCH. Well, the Island parts (lol the red herring of Beatrice II being Sunny just by wanting to be call by her last name). They cut characters stuff with Friday (and her mother), the mutiny (that was the best part!!!)...almost all the stuff that made The End good! Also, wtf was with the BS of Ishmael making VFD? Like, I like how he was the Principal, that I can accept. But I got the impression, and it was actually implied, it been around for a long time before Ishmael was even born. He made it sound like a book club for the prestigious good people that are rich and bored. Newsflash Netflix: IT’S NOT. Kit flat out mentions that the schism started when she was four, and it only got worse when her generation came. In fact, the schism only got worse when Olaf went after Lemony, making it the schism everyone knows today. The way the show paints it...it’s the pettiness form of petty and revenge and actually revenge I would like normally but I hate it in the context. I have more, but I’m be making a post about it...a (crack-ish/shitpost comparison of sorts you will of sorts. All I can say is the the White Face women are younger than they look or lost their family and sister in a fire while in their 20′s or 30′s (Ishmael and the Man with Beard but no Hair and Woman with hair but no Beard and Co -> Lemony and Co aka Schism start at teenage/young adult years -> Baudelaires and Co).

Honestly the good stuff was Sunny thinking of pushing Olaf overboard, and the whole thing leading up to Olaf and Kit’s death I cried so much.

Chapter 14: Okay, I’m a sucker for a happy ending after so much crap happened. Lemony and Beatrice II found family again (if for a short time), Fiona and Fernald got a Pushing Daisies ending when Captain Widdershins shows up (referring to Emerson Cod’s reunion with his daughter), Quigley reuniting with his stock footage siblings + Hector, the Troupe having a happy ending fulling their dream, and IDV maybe making it to the the islanders in time. Do I admit that the whole point of their ‘last appearance’ with the Great Unknown (or IDV just disappearing) is to give a message that you can’t always know what happens and mysteries are still out there (imo). Yes, but again, I’m a sucker for happy endings, so I’m fine either way. Also, in Season One there was a narration of Lemony with a very tiny Self Sustaining ship in the BG. Since we know Lemony is actually narrating from the future...it’s a given the Quagmire and Hector would survive. It’s a blink and you miss, but it’s there. So yeah, while everything else could be chalk up as a fake happy ending imagine by Lemony and/or Beatrice II, the Quagmire Triplets and Hector were given a happy fate from the start! Okay, I guess they still need to come down at some point but...

I would watch the PP episodes, but never the End unless I want to make myself angry.

#netflix asoue #denouement triplets #dewey denouement #beatrice baudelaire #bertrand baudelaire #asoue season 3 #a series of unfortunate events #ASoUE #spoilers #asoue spoilers

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wizardsnwookies · 6 years

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POTA100918 - Ghost Stories

Redlarch was large enough that the comings and goings of a handful of strangers were for the most part ignored. They were a Caravan town after all, people came and went all the time. The disappearance of three adventurers meant as little to them as the sudden appearance of four more. It was the way of things. Little more than a few more coins at the inn.

The All-Faith’s Shrine warmed his spirit the moment stepped over the threshold. Something about the home of any kind of faith felt welcoming and safe to him. He enjoyed the feeling for however brief a time it would last, for as always, he was here on his grim duty.

“Master Dion?” A gentle voice turned his attention away from one of the many magnificent tapestries that covered the plain stone walls. It’s soft and precise tone fit its owner well, a slight elf female who stood taller than most men Dion had made acquaintance with. Stature, however had nothing to do with this. She carried herself as a woman of her faith, proud and utterly confident in her movements.

“Yes, Alura of Tempest I presume?”

“It is our pleasure to receive you.” Alura offered a slight bow of the head, sweeping her hand out towards the entirety of the shrine. “We don’t get many of your kind here, it is a rare honor.”

“It is my honor to perform this solemn duty. Please, how may I be of service here?”

Dion fell into a slow stride alongside the priestess. The hall before them was brief, bringing them into the large central chamber with a ceiling that seemed to stretch out to the heaven’s themselves. Pillars of stone rose up to brace the rafters, all long their height were sculpted scenes of great faith towards all gods. More tapestries covered the otherwise bare walls, each more colorful than the next, carefully woven out of luxurious threads and yarn. Alura moved with a fixed gaze as if the splendor of her surroundings were utterly mundane.

“Redlarch is in need of much more than a Doomguide I’m affraid, it is troubled times indeed.”

“Please, my lady indulge me.”

“Some are rumor, but much is beyond the help of anyone. The earth around us seems to revolt; earthquakes, wildfires, storms of rain and sleet, great winds that gust from nowhere. The loss of an important caravan.

However, one such rumor may suit you well in particular. There is a place just outside of town known as Lance Rock. Many youths breath conflicting tales, singularly they might be shrugged off as fanciful tales of children, together they may point at something more substantial.”

“Truth often hides within the shadow of rumor.”

“Well spoken.” Alura finally stopped at the center of the chamber and let her head slowly fall backward, gazing up into the domed ceiling high above them. “I dare not sully this holy place to speak of what floats on the lips of these babes. Go to the Swinging Sword, the innsman there can tell you everything he has heard.”

A sense of foreboding fell upon Dion like a shadow. For a Priestess of Tempest to fall silent on a subject was rare, and often it bore ill tidings. Yet he would not falter, if there was even one soul to be guided into the next world he must be there to aid them. No matter the circumstances.

---

Everyone stared blankly at the strange Priest with a silence that had not fallen on the Swinging Sword since it opened early this morn. The confidence drained from his face as the awkwardness of it all sank in, shrinking him back inside himself somewhat. Speaking with the innsman had filled him with a sense of urgency. Disease, death, and ghostly figures filled the rumors the man had heard from his patrons. Dark things moving in the vicinity of Lance Rock, where their children frequently play. They were still but rumors he admitted, but he would feel much better if someone, anyone, looked into the matter.

Dion wondered why the constable had not followed up himself. The innsman scoffed, seemingly not satisfied with the excuse he was given, that there were far more pressing matters to attend to than a few ghost stories. Admittedly, Dion’s zeal got the best of him. Filled with purpose and duty, he shouted his intentions to the entirety of the Tavenr, loud and precise so that all could hear...and was met with blank faces. Flea chuckled to himself and gulped down the last of his ale.

“Well...that’s certainly one way to get attention.” Aunt Lenore cocked her head somewhat. “I know I’ve been dead for the last twenty years but is that really how things are done nowadays?”

“Not typically.” Flea stood, slamming his tankard on the table. “Which is a shame. People spend too much time dancing around the subject most of the time.

“Aye! I’ll join this task, assuming it pays.” His voice carried over the heads of crowd, slowly getting back to their own business, a dull murmuring already gaining in volume. He shouldered his way across the floor, splilling drinks as he bumped shoulders. Those so assaulted would turn to accost him, but shrank back upon seeing the half-orc’s size.

“If shouting out your intentions is how you go about things, you’ll probably be needing me.” Dion turned to his left just in time for a slender arm to fall across his shoulders. A pair of golden eyes of a high elf smiled at him.

“Name’s Alura, and you can thank me by buying me a drink.”

“Oh, of course.” Dion blinked, taken aback by the forwardness, but opened his purse to her nonetheless. When joined by the hulking half-orc, the cleric chose a table in which they all might sit and discuss their plans.

“I think you, this is an important undertaking we are to set out on.”

“Aren’t they all?” Elura carefully sipped her wine, sinking deep into the wood-spindled chair. “Not to be crass, but you didn’t answer our good friend’s question.”

“Flea.” He nodded, appreciating the acknowledgement. Too often the religious types got caught up in their own morals and ideals. Which is all fine and good, but they don’t put food on the plate.

“Yes, of course. My apologies. The innsman is of course happy to pay us for our efforts. Though I want for no reward, I would not presume to ask the same of others.”

“Good man.” Elura raised her glass to him. “Do we have anything further to go on besides some wild rumors? Something in the area that might be connected, a tomb perhaps?”

“Not that he is aware of. Although he did speak of caves in the nearby ravine.”

“Caves can hold many things.” Flea offered.

“I was born in a cave, you know!” Great grandfater Oorg raised a gnarled finger and Flea knew if he didn’t stop him now, he would continue on his diatrype for most of the evening.

“So was I Grandfather, so were most of us. Please, continue priest.”

Dion blinked. “Who were you - “

“Don’t worry about it, just go on with it.”

“Yes...well, what I’m afraid of is of course some kind of dark magic taking place. A spellcaster of ill intent, if left to fester, will spread like blight upon this town.”

“Or it could be nothing, like I said, caves can hold many things.”

“I agree, I don’t like the vague nature of it all.” A new voice made them all nearly jump in their seats. The strange Golden Dragon born sat as the fourth of their table, looking curiously at them.

“How long have you been there?” Elura furrowed her brow, a bit disturbed that a rogue of her class did not detect him in his approach.

“Since you sat down.”

“...and you were just-”

“Listening, I wanted to make sure I had all the details before I offered my aid.” He blinked. “Why? Is that-”

“Weird? Yeah, just a little bit.”

“I apologize, I’ve been at the monastery for some time and social culture is bit lost on me.”

“Clearly.”

“My name is Miv, and I offer you my assistance in this venture.” Dion smiled as the monk bowed from across the table. He had not dared to dream of such a large spread of talent for this. A monk, a rogue, and what he could only assume by the smell, a barbarian. All pledged to aid him in his duty.

“I am Dion, and I welcome you to our group.”

---

“You are of Mirabor? Did you know anyone on that Caravan?” Sir Daniel glady accepted the drink offered to him by the stranger sitting at the bar of the Swinging Sword. He had no worries or suspicions, her armor being of official issue to the guard of Mirabor. Being a Dragonborn of Silver decent didn’t hurt either, their kind were a lawful lot, seekers of justice. Thus, she was a kindred spirit, and he welcomed her company.

“I...yes. I believe I did.” Banshea struggled to answer, while she couldn’t remember anything up until waking up in her own grave, if she was indeed a guard on the caravan than she must have known her colleges. “I heard they disappeared on their way to Summit Hill?”

“Aye, strange thing it is. I come from there myself, truth be told.”

“Oh? Then what gleaming have the good knights made on the matter?”

“We have not I’m afraid, stretched a bit too thin these days. Lady Stormbanner recently received a group of adventurers looking into it not a few days ago.” He paused mid sip, thinking back on the evening they had all shared together. “Strange group, they were.”

“What have they found? If anything?”

“I know not, and I know of no one who does. They went to investigate the Monastery across the river when they left, that was the last anyone had heard from them.”

Banshea heaved a sigh, disappointingly little to go on, but it was more than she had this morning.

“You should know.” Sir Daniel began delicately. “They did find evidence of a battle on their way. It is believed to be the point where the Caravan was ambushed, but not much was found.

“They found many dead Mirabor guards, I’m afraid.” His voice was low and compassionate, offering a clap on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, truly.”

“My thanks.” Banshea offered a bittersweet smile. “What of the antagonists? Were they among the dead?”

“Some of them, a group of Hobgoblins and one of the monks from the nearby monastery. They all bore a strange symbol upon them, the adventurers suspected some kind of cult activity.”

That was more to go on. A solid lead as opposed to a vague assumption of one. She felt her sense of purpose and duty swell in her chest. It was a strange feeling. She held no memories of this life that she once had. No memories of this lord whom she owed allegiance. Yet, she had no question in her heart that she must go and pursue this mystery. She was tasked for a duty to protect the Caravan, and failed. She could at least seek justice for those slain, and perhaps find a piece of herself in the process.

---

“Very well then, it is decided. We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Dion stood to punctuate the end of whatever gathering this was. The four of them had made an accord and were bound to it, as far as he was concerned. “I thank you all for your support, and I shall pray tonight for a peaceful journey.”

“Pray all you want, my hammer will take care of the Peacekeeping around here.” Flea smirked but did not stand. It was early yet, and he could still get some drinking in before the ancestors started their squabbling again.

“I should turn in, if I am to make the necessary morning meditations.” Miv joined Dion on his stride to the door, offering a wave to the half-orc already with fresh tankard in hand.

“Well aren’t you guys a pair of wild party animals.” Elora tipped back her glass of wine and let the warmth envelope her.

The two holy men turned and ran into what felt like a brick wall wrapped in hide and chain. Before them the large frame of a female Silver Dragon born stood rooted in place.

“You, do you still require assistance at Lance Rock?” Banshea’s voice was thundering and shook the pleasant buzz from Elora’s head.

“Ok, people seriously need to stop just popping up out of nowhere.”

“I suppose one more could only further the chances of success.” Dion stumbled backwards, the stern silver face staring down at him.

“I offer you an accord then. I require a group to accompany me South to investigate the loss of several delegates from the Lord’s Alliance. I shall grant you my blade if you would be that group.”

The four looked at each other in silence. They had heard the rumblings of such a thing in town, but had not thought much of it. Something of this importance surely must have been taken care of? Apparently not.

“Lords tend to pay pretty well. I’m in.” Flea shrugged.

“Sounds like fun.” Elora bowed her head with a smile.

“I go where I am needed.” Miv said after a slight pause.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Dion brushed his clerical robes back into place and offered his hand out. “Then, I believe we have a deal miss...?”

“Banshea of Mirobar.“

Buy Me a Coffee

#Dungeons and Dragons #princes of the apocalypse #role playing games #campaign diary

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leahquark · 4 years

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Zoe and Kra ‘O: Quoth

I waited, my legs tired and my arms weighed down, as a flutter of tiny footsteps rapped the ground near my room. I nearly tripped over myself as I stood and rushed toward the door, leaning up against it.

“Zoe?” I heard Kra ‘O ask before I’d gotten there. “Why is the door closed?” With a bright and brimming smile I began.

“‘Tis some visitor!” I shouted, attempting to ensure Kra ‘O could hear. “Tapping at my chamber door, only this and nothing more.”

“Zoe can you let me in? I can’t use the handle.” Kra ‘O questioned, a slight shuddering as she pecked at the ill fitting wood divider.

“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door. Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door! This it is and nothing more!” I pronounced.

“Zoe, what are you...” Kra ‘O began as I interjected, speaking loudly over her.

“Sir or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore. But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door that I scarce was sure I heard you!” I flung the door open with a mighty swing. Kra ‘O’s eyes went wide.

“Zoe?!” she exclaimed. “Why do you look like a Victorian goth vampire princess who was dragged through a vat of makeup and accessorized by a fantasy costume store?” I ignored her statement, though it did brighten the smile already upon my face, as I continued speaking.

“Lenore?” I asked.

“Lenore?!” Kra ‘O repeated in confusion, the response so perfect it invoked a giddy hop of excitement in me. “Wait!” Kra ‘O exclaimed all at once. “No!” she shouted.

“Surely, surely, that is something at my window lattice.” I pronounced, beckoning Kra ‘O in as I took a seat at the foot of my bed. “Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. ‘Tis the wind, and nothing more.”

“It’s October isn’t it?” Kra ‘O exclaimed.

“It is!” I announced, breaking character. “And you remember what you promised last year.”

“Of course I do.” Kra ‘O responded with a defeated sigh. “And I’ll do it, but don’t expect this every year.”

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou!” I pronounced in response, leaping back onto the bed as Kra ‘O slowly and carefully walked into the room. “Art sure no craven! Ghastly grim and ancient Raven! Wandering from the Nightly shore! Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

“Are you going to wear that outfit the whole month?” Kra ‘O questioned.

“Only during the day hours.” I answered. “I’ve got something much spookier at night.” Kra ‘O shook her head in disapproval. “Come one Kra ‘O.” I said, speaking in sweet tones. “You agreed, and it would make me so happy.” Kra ‘O sighed a deflation of air as she consigned herself. “Now, tell me thy lordly name!”

“Nevermore.” the corvid quothed. “What is a quoth?” she proceeded to ask.

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winterfell-crow · 6 years

Text

The Story of The Wolf and The Crow

I stared across my cottage at this black dressed girl. Her blue eyes gleaming as if she was still in the moon light. Her face was elegant, yet bold. Her eyes piercing, yet soft. She had to be at least 5'11, for she was staring me in the eyes without looking up of down. An athletic build with big....ya know not going there, more pressing matters than judging someone's bust, I don't know like a mud covered witch with three wolves now taking up most of my cabin!

"By what name should I call you" I spoke eyeing the lot. She pondered for a moment "names are powerful things, but for now call me Wolf." Fitting really, for a girl the barged in here with three wolves. "Then you may call me Crow" I replied. Lenore cawed softly in the corner.

The gray wolf's ears perked and they all got into low stances. Even Wolf herself got into a ready stance. "Friends of yours" I joking said in a low breath "might as well crash their hunt." I turned towards the door, looked back at Wolf, winked, and stepped out into the darkness of the night.

"Good evening gentlemen" I shouted scaring all but three of them. "Give us the wench" one of them demanded he was a stocky fellow, missing a few teeth, probably hasn't seen a bath in his life, oh and he had a pitch fork... how cliché. "Now don't make me ask ye again" he stepped forward. I scanned the crowd fast, twelve in total, three with torches, two with shovels, four with machetes, two with scythes...highly impractical, and let's not forget pitchfork guy. "Out for a hunt boys" I firmly gripped my bearded axe, keeping it hidden behind my leg. "As a matter of fact we are" a voice bellowed from behind the mob.

An older gentleman, maybe in his late 50's, salt and pepper hair strong aged face, a scruffy beard, wearing a long brown leather trench coat embroidered masterfully in silver, stepped through the mob. He would make thirteen. "I have a question for you young man" he spoke, I was probably older then he but hey I do look young "have you seen any wolves?" This man was a Church Witch Hunter, the say never fight an old man in a profession where men die young. "I can't say I have" I answered, as long as he doesn't draw his sword I have a good chance of getting Wolf and I out of a shitty situation. "Boy" his tone grew stern "if you haven't seen any wolves then explain the prints." He was right the wet ground had tracks all across it, even worst of all to my door. "We can be reasonable" he continued "hand over the witch and you don't burn with her" I mean it was a reasonable offer and to say the least it was tempting. "I can't do that sir" I began "a long time ago someone told me 'never turn you back on those drawn to your flame' I still don't get what they mean but as long as I stand here you're not getting by me." Note to self never answer the door to a wolf again. "Let's get 'im" the pitchfork guy screamed going into a half-assed drunken charge, followed up by four other men. I pushed his fork aside effortlessly with my left hand as my bearded axe split his skull sending a shower of brain matter and blood into the eyes of a torch wielder. He reeled back colliding into the man behind him as he wildly swung about. I caught his throat with the hook of my blade and kicked him even farther into the man behind him, his arteries rending sending a shower of blood over me. A scythe wielding boy came in to reap at me but I got within his range, shoulder checking him and knocking him of balance, he staggered back as I gracefully bowed under the blade of the scythe. I swept his heel with the hook of my axe, tripping him onto his back, as his scythe found its way into the chest of the man next to him. The man behind me finally threw the dead body of the torch wielder onto the ground. I twirled around slamming my axe into his ribs right below the left arm. I kicked his body off my axe and turned around to finish off the scythe wielder trying to drag himself away from me back to the safety of the mob. I dug into his calf with my axe dragging him back towards me. I finished him off, slamming my boot into the base of his skull. "WHO'S NEXT" I challenged the crowd, eight more to go.

#the story of the wolf and the crow #from crow to wolf

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rmoseley · 7 years

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Jacked part four

I locked eyes with Dean. They were swimming with concern, I nodded. “Yeah.” not that he would care. He was probably thinking about Joe. We found the clown. Or rather the Rakshasa. It was the blind knife thrower. The door to the room he led us in was stuck, he vanished a knife landed just next to my head in the door. Another one sailed just beside my neck as Dean pushed me in front of him out the door. We met up with Sam and ran to the fun house. We were separated. “Dean? Sam?” I shouted hitting at the wall. “Find the maze! Hurry!” I heard Sam yell. I ran to it seeing the calliope come into view. I was moved just in time to be pinnined to the wall. “Oh for fuck’s sake!” I yell trying to pry the knife out of my jacket. Dean tried to pull it out while Sam pulled the steaming brass pipe of the calliope out. He was pinned to me. All I could do was look at Dean. I was going dizzy as a knife stuck itself in the wall grazing a bare piece of flesh from my T-shirt riding up. Dean looked down at me, an unreadable emotion crossed his face. Then as soon as it appeared it vanished when he set to work pulling the knives out of the wall. My breath hitched as he pulled the last one out, it was just above the waist line of my jeans. His fingers brushed over the skin. Making my head spin. I was swooning over Dean. At Bobby’s the Impala was nearly done I was walking around when I heard the sound of glass breaking. I ran up there just in time to see Dean going ape on Baby’s trunk. “Dean…” I said placing a hand on his shoulder. He turned around. I wish he hadn’t. He looked really angry. “Go away Jackline I don’t want to talk. You’re just as bad as Sammy.” I crossed my arms. “Dean I-” “I said go away!” he pushed me back I tripped on my own feet and glared at him. I got up and dusted myself off. And walked off. I didn’t talk to him for a while I still wasn’t talking to him when we went on a case in Montana. A couple severed heads, some drained cattle, we thought we’d check it out. That’s when we met a hunter, another one that actively sought to kill vamps. I developed a strong sense of dislike for him when he was encouraging sadistic behavior in Dean. Sam got up to go to the motel I got up to follow him Dean grabbed my wrist. “Where do you think you’re going Jackie?” I wrenched my arm out of his grasp, glaring at him hopefully enough to convey my anger, “To bed.” I said as I followed Sam out the door. We called Ellen. “Hey Ellen its Sam…” Sam forced me to stay in the room which was a bad idea. We were bound and thrown into a van. I wake up shoulder to shoulder with someone. A bag over my head. It was yanked off I was sitting by Sam. The thing in front of us was a euro fangbanger. Shit. Well it would have drained us if someone wouldn’t have told it to wait. Her name was Lenor. She wanted to talk to us. She wanted us not to follow her. I put two and two together. Gordon was hunting them out of his own sick pleasure. I was still mad at Dean but I had to warn him. He was being hardheaded about this. We told him that they let us go and thatcthey fed on animals. He still didn’t believe us. I stopped him by stepping in front of him. “Dean, please. They would have killed us if they wanted to. You have to believe us.” I said my blue eyes searching his green hazel eyes. He put his hands on my hips and moved me aside, walking back towards the room. He said that killing supernatural things is our job. “No killing evil things is our job. If they ain’t killing people they ain’t evil. Dean.” I said so angry that my accent came out. We got into it him me and Sam yelling at each other before I gave up and walked back to the rooms. Dean punched Sam. I was going to be the peace keeper. I stepped in front of Sam. “Stop.” I said looking into his eyes. He clenched his jaw and said he was going to the nest. He looked down at me, an unreadable emotion swimming in his eyes, before he started walking to the rooms. Gordon was missing. We were going to stop him. Or rather Sam and I were going to. I looked Dean in the eye and stepped closer to him. “Trust us. you haven’t given us any reason to lie.” he looked down at me a serious look on his face. He swallowed hard. The tension was thick in the room Sam looked uncomfortable. I backed away and turned to walk to the door, “or don’t. Its your choice.” I said walking out the door. Dean had to hot wire the Impala because someone *cough cough* Gordon *cough cough * jacked the keys. I am so going to Gank that guy. We walked in on him torturing Lenor. I drew my pistol. The fucker threatened Sam with the knife he was going to use to kill Lenor. “They aren’t human, they haven’t changed and I can prove it.” he said as he cut Sam and let the blood drip on Lenor’s face. “No, no,” Lenor repeated over and over again fighting the urge to feed. So Dean pulled a Gun on Gordon, who waited till Dean turned his back before he tried to fight him I tried to intervein which got me tossed like a rag doll, I hit my head on the table and conked out. I woke up in Dean’s arms, my head to his chest. I looked up wincing as the tender flesh met his arm. “Dean? Wha- what happened?” I groaned. He looked down at me a serious look on his face, always so serious here lately.

We were going to visit the boys’ mother’s grave. Dean thought it was stupid, I agreed with Sam. We were at the cemetery. I gave them some space looking around I saw something peculiar. At one particular grave all the vegetation surrounding it was dead. It was in a circle around one single grave. “Uh guys? I really hate to interrupt your visit but, look.” I pointed to the dead tree. “Everything around it is green except for the parts closest to the grave.” I said. “What do you think happened?” I was shocked. Dean Winchester asked my opinion on a hunt. Mind blown. “Unholy ground? Maybe something happened after the funeral.” I shrugged. “I doubt its a sign of an unholy presence. There would be more signs. An omen or two.” Dean gave me a not bad face and I scoffed. He held his hand out to me to help me up, I was still sore from being thrown into a wall. I took it trying to hide the obvious redness in my cheeks. So we got the girls name. Angela Mason. Her father is a professor at the local college. We knocked on his door. “Professor Mason?” the old man said yes. “I’m Sam this is Dean and Jackie, we were friends of Angela’s. We wanted to offer our condolences.” we talked to the professor while Dean fiddled with a strange book. “This’s a strange book.” “its ancient Greek. I teach a course.” Dean changed the subject. “So a car accident. That’s an awful way to go.” he said the man nodded. “Angie was just a mile away from home…” “losing someone like that is hard. Sometimes it feels like they’re still around. You ever get a feeling like that?” I quirked an eyebrow at Dean. “That’s perfectly normal, Mr Mason, with what you’re going through.” I said looking at Dean.“ “I’m telling you there’s something here we just haven’t found it yet.” Dean said as the thumbed through his father’s journal. I nodded. “I agree with Dean Sam, something’s obviously going on.” “So far you have a patch of dead grass and a funny feeling. We shouldn’t even have bothered that poor man.” I crossed my arms when Sam suggested it was a flop. Dean left to go drink I was sitting on the bed. Sam was doing the same. “Sam?” he turned to me, “I think Dean is right. The dead grass was in a perfect circle.” Sam tuned back to face the wall. I went with Dean to investigate. Angela’s boyfriend killed himself. I investigated the scene with Dean. It was a blood bath, and the fact that all the plants and goldfish were dead, just added to my I told you so parade. “I think Sam owes you an apology.” I said smirking at Dean as I slid into the impala. Dean was being stoic again. My arm rested on Baby’s consol. Dean’s was right beside mine, one hand on the wheel. His fingers grazed mine ‘on accident.’ I looked at him, a grin on my lips. I jumped when his fingers laced with mine but my smile grew wider into an ear to ear, face splitting grin. I felt like a giddy teenager, I squeezed his hand. This man was full of surprises. We found out that Angela’s boyfriend cheated on her. That marks her as a vengeful spirit to me. We went to burn her body, we stopped digging. Her coffin lay untouched in the earth. “Ladies first.” Dean said. I slid into the hole and wrenched the coffin open falling on my rear. “Its empty. This is bad.” I said noticing strange symbols carved in the wood. Dean looked pissed. The next day he confronted her poor father. “What’s dead should stay dead!” Dean said still angry. “Dean,” I warned. He didn’t seem to notice. "What you brought back isn’t even your daughter anymore. These things are viscous they’re violent, they’re so nasty they rot the ground around them, I mean come on, haven’t you seen pet cemetery?” he was accusing this sweet old man. “Dean that’s enough!” I shouted. “We are sorry sir, were leaving. We won’t bother you again.” I followed Dean outside. “What the hell was that Dean? that man was innocent.” Sam and him kept arguing. I held the bridge of my nose. If anyone heard us they probably thought we were crazy. “So its Neil then?” I asked remembering the timid guy we questioned. “Neil its your grief counselors. We’ve come to hug!” Dean yelled. I sniggered then regained seriousness as I loaded my pistol. We entered his basement, the place smelled like death and the vent was loose. “Shit.” I cursed under my breath. “Look she killed Matt because he was cheating, it takes two to have hardcore sex.” Dean said. Oh god the thoughts again. I stubbed my toe on purpose to draw my mind away. I hissed and hopped around much to their amusement. “Stubbed my toe.” I said slightly laughing. It worked. So we went back to her friends house. Lindsay was in danger. I shot her right in the back. She turned around and I shot her again, she jumped out the window I moved to follow her but Dean grabbed my arm. He ran after her coming back minutes later. “Man that Dead chick can run.” he said as he stepped back into the window. He confused me. “I say we go have a little chat with Neil.” I said. Angela killed Neil. We were lighting candles to perform the ‘ritual’ waiting for that undead freak to come I was going to nail the to her grave bed. I heard rustling in the bushes. I stood up ready to Gank her. Sam lured her out. I shot her before she could break Sam’s neck.

#supernatural #dean winchester #fanfiction

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