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consumedkings-archive · 3 years

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WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter eleven: after you've gone

word count: ~12.6k

rating: m

warnings: canon-typical religious blasphemy, though it's in full-force here with joseph so i wanted it to be noted in the warnings. there are mentions of self-harm, both past and implied presently, and they're not treated very lightly. elliot is having a hard time.

notes: there's a lot of moving parts in this so i apologize in advance if it feels a bit slow, but everything felt really important to include and i wanted to make sure nothing got left out. thank you so much to my beta @starcrier who literally proofed this beast with all of the love in the world.

i won't ramble on too much, but i did want to say that the reception for the last two chapters really made my whole heart just explode and i wanted to thank you all! what an incredible experience it is getting to write these two gigantic idiots. <3

“I saw her. Our mor.”

Helmi cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear, scribbling absently on the side of the file she’d continued nosing through once she’d gotten back to the bunker. Like this, she felt far from Kajsa—farther than she had in the longest time. Maybe since they had welcomed her into the Family.

“Did you?” She stretched back against the truck’s seat, feet kicked up on the dash as she scanned the page, going over her own notes. Starvation, classical condition. On animals and people? In the back seat of the truck, Peaches rumbled her discontent at lack of attention; Helmi reached back and scratched her ears until the rumble turned into what she recognized as a more contented purr.

“Yes. She is doing well. Her color is just as Ase said, you know. Perfectly balanced. Poor John—I can see his suffering.”

Helmi hmm’d, the thoughtfulness matching the patient rumble Peaches had rewarded her affection with.

“Is Deputy Pratt behaving?”

“I should hope so. He has no reason to have any loyalty to the Seeds, outside of fear.”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Helmi was sure, in the very marrow of her bones, that Kajsa was smiling.

“And what did you give him, Helmi? To make him loyal?”

She considered. “A more impressive fear.” And then: “Also, I said I wouldn’t kill him.”

“That is just a more impressive fear bundled up pretty, my heart.”

“Mm,” Helmi replied in agreement. Whatever the case, she thought that Pratt had more to gain from fucking the Seeds over than he did by fucking them over—and that’s why Kajsa entrusted this sort of thing to her and didn’t do it herself, after all. If it had been Kajsa here, eyeing Pratt like a piece of lunchmeat, she’d have him drugged to the gills and barely aware of what was going on. Not being of use.

It’s why we make a perfect pair, something inside of her said, joy shared, joy doubled.

“Don’t rest on your laurels.”

Sorrow shared, sorrow halved.

Helmi sighed. “I’m not.”

“Keep putting pressure. I want them squirming, hjärtat.”

“I will.” She paused, sitting up in the truck and glancing out at the remaining members of the Family. Those that hadn’t given themselves a swift, clean death. After Kian’s face was crushed in, Kajsa had gathered them all and said, It’s going to be harder, from here. If you feel you cannot do it, if you think that you do not have the strength to answer our calling, then it is your time. We love you.

It had been the time for many. Morale had been—and still was—low. Ase’s death first, gut-wrenching and tragic, and then Kian’s; worse than the last. Worse, because while he had been grieving, while he had been suffering, he had still been their second-in-command. Meant to be infallible, even more so than Ase. He had been meant to carry them into their next life, after It was appeased. Contented. After It had turned the world to winter.

Now, more than ever, with only a handful of them left to huddle around their fires and sleep in the backs of cars, and kiss and laugh and hug each other in the inky black night, they felt like a ship adrift at sea.

Kajsa’s voice hummed in her ear, plastic and metal vibrating where it lay trapped between her head and shoulder. Helmi’s gaze swept away from the remaining Family members and turned her gaze back to the file. The Seeds were deeply rooted in this place—the tendrils of a tree that might be dead at the trunk but stayed for many decades after, if it wasn’t ripped out at the base.

“Did you hear me, Helmi?”

“No,” she replied truthfully. “I was distracted.”

“I am coming back,” Kajsa reiterated patiently.

“The others will be happy.”

“And what about you? Will you be happy?”

Helmi paused. She closed the file, dropped it back onto the dashboard and cranked the seat back so that she could stretch a little, her eyes tracing the tinny, ancient ceiling of the truck she’d lifted from Eden’s Gate. She exhaled, once, and then held her breath; closed her eyes, felt the ache of it between her ribs.

“I sense before me a lost lamb.”

“Not lost,” Helmi replied, her lungs tight. “Just—thinking.”

“Must I divine the dark cloud over your soul myself?”

She allowed her body to take air back in. “I wonder,” she murmured, “if it will be enough to appease the Father.”

“Do you wonder,” Kajsa hummed, “or do you worry?”

A moment of silence stretched. And then, the rich, melodic timbre of the Hierophant’s voice came through again, idle and pulled snug against her ear, like Kajsa was really right there again to say the words against her skin: “What will you do, if Staci Pratt defects despite your Machiavellian threats of harm so great he should never consider to incur it?”

“I don’t know,” Helmi replied uneasily. “It would depend on if he brought mor and the interloper, or if he just—”

“The answer, hjärtat, is that you do not know, because it has not been revealed to you yet.” Despite the interruption, Kajsa’s voice was pleasant and serene. Ever since Ase’s death, she’d been more tempered—like she was playing a role, filling a void. Helmi almost missed her cruelty. Like it was a creature comfort. “There is no use in wondering, because we will never know before it is our time to. We want for much. Whether or not we are given it remains to be seen. Our Father is a most...”

Her voice trailed off. Helmi tried to think of what words Kajsa might use; stringent, perhaps, ambitious, or even enigmatic—

“Wretched god,” Kajsa finished, a grin in her voice. “It does so love to watch us toil, does It not?”

“Yes,” she answered after a moment, because wretched resonated somewhere in her soul, somewhere in the marrow of her bones, reminding her why this had felt like home ever in the first place. Wretched, to watch them suffer, to give them so little information and let them suffer wreck after wreck.

In front of her, the dark of the forest swelled, breathed, reminded her: failure was not an option. Theirs was not a benevolent, forgiving God, the kind who would forgive sin if one only asked—the Father was wrathful, was vengeful, and would make them suffer their insolence and their ineptitude.

“I should get going. I imagine our mor will not be far behind, thanks to your ingenuity, and I want to be in Hope County to welcome her.”

“I am,” Helmi blurted out after a second of hesitation, “happy, that you’re coming back.”

There was a pause on the other end; and then, a soft breath, where Helmi thought maybe Kajsa was smiling again.

“Ingenting under solen är beständigt, my heart.”

The call clicked. Only empty air and static, then, buzzing faintly in the ear, the words dead in her mouth before she’d had the chance to say them back.

Nothing under the sun is lasting.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elliot was going to be sick. Nevermind the morning-after-dread of realizing she had caved in on her most basest animal desires—What, the man who’s perhaps lied to you the most tells you he’s never thought you’re crazy, and you let him fuck you? Come on, Elliot,—but listening to Pratt ramble nervously into the phone about how he didn’t realize everyone was gone, nobody stopped to look for him, nobody tried to call, he thought she had left too and she had, where was she? Was she okay?

“I’m fine,” she managed out. Guilt ripped through her sternum, burning hot and shameful. I’m fine, Pratt, don’t worry about me. Got well and truly railed last night, it’s fine. Oh, also, I’m going to have a baby. And I’m married. Don’t worry, you found out about the same time as me, just off a few weeks. “I’m at my mom’s.”

“In Georgia?”

“Yeah.” Elliot swallowed thickly. “Are you okay? You sound like shit.”

Pratt laughed uneasily on the other end of the line. “I’m with, uh—I’m with them.” He paused. “The Seeds. And their—the lawyer lady.”

“That doesn’t tell me if you’re okay,” she reiterated, more firmly.

He laughed again. “I’m on the phone with you, aren’t I?”

Frustrating. They might all be looming around him, waiting to hear what she was going to say. It was a trap, of course. Jacob or Joseph had done enough digging around in her past to find out they’d gone to school together, had gone to school dances, had basically dated—and they knew she’d evacuated the entirety of the Resistance otherwise. They were clearly laying a trap to get her to come back. But for what?

“Hey, um—” Staci cleared his throat. “Ell, there’s—a lot of bad stuff going on. There’s these people, and they’re—they’re just killing people, left and right, gutting them and sticking them up and—Jesus, they fucking split Miss Mabel open like a fish, and I’m—”

Oh, there it was; the sickness, the violent urge to throw up. The Family was supposed to be dead. They had been killing themselves off in pairs after Kian’s death, weren’t they? Elliot blinked rapidly, trying to calm the furious beating of her heart, the way it slammed against her rib cage and demanded penance.

Calloused fingers swept her hair to the side and squeezed at the juncture between her neck and shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. She closed her eyes tight, willing herself to accept it for what it was—John, comforting her, because even now he knew her well enough to see she was spiraling.

I can’t, is what she needed to say. I can’t come back, Staci, I can’t, not me and not my baby, my hands are already covered in blood I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—

“—I’m so fucking scared, Ell.” Pratt’s voice wobbled on the other end, hitting straight at the fresh welt of guilt in her chest, ripping and tearing at it.

I can’t—

“I don’t want to be alone—”

I’m sorry I can’t I’m sorry—

“—I’m sorry—”

“I’ll come,” she blurted out, her voice hoarse, the burn behind her eyes and in her nose a threat of oncoming tears. She couldn’t stand it—couldn’t bear to hear him like this, when this whole time he was supposed to have been safe. She’d let him down, and while she had a responsibility to herself, the responsibility to the others had always come first.

And, better still, was the tiny, tiny fragment of hope that the dark-haired woman with a mouth like broken glass would be left behind, too. The dog with the man’s face and the strands of her hair glinting between Its bloody teeth would stay here, in Weyfield. It would wait for her, but perhaps there would be some peace there, too.

It waits for you, It waits for us all, It will have you. As It gives, so too does It take.

“Tell them I’m coming back.” Elliot bit the words out through her teeth. “And tell them if I come back and you’re hurt, or dead, or—if there’s anything wrong with you, I’m going to fucking kill them. Okay?”

“No need,” came Jacob’s voice over the phone. “You’re on speaker, Deputy Honeysett. We’re well acquainted with your particular brand of mania.”

“Great,” she snapped, feeling a vicious flush spread through her cheeks despite the fact that she didn’t feel bad at all for what she’d said. “You thought I was fucking manic before? I had nothing to lose, then. Imagine how much worse I’ll make your life now—”

John’s hand squeezed again. This time, she shot him a venomous look over her shoulder and shrugged him off. Elliot knotted her fingers in Boomer’s fur and prompted again, “Is that clear?”

The eldest Seed sounded like he was smiling when he said, “Crystal, Deputy.”

“Good.” She paused. “And don’t fucking call me that. I’m not a deputy, anymore.”

“Sure thing, hellcat.”

“Pratt—”

Jacob’s voice came again: “Have a safe trip.”

The phone call beeped once, twice, three times, and then ended. The hard knot of dread in the pit of her stomach did not lessen; she hit the redial button, and it went straight to voicemail. Again, and again, and again, her hands shaking as she thought wait, I didn’t get to say goodbye, I didn’t get to promise I’d be there, I’m coming Pratt, I’m coming please don’t be worried, before she shoved the phone into John’s grip.

“Call him back,” she demanded, “make him pick up the phone—”

“Elliot,” he began, “if he turned the phone off, I can’t—”

“Fuck you!” she snapped, coming to a stand and raking her fingers through her hair. “You fucking knew they had Pratt, didn’t you? You knew that he was still trapped there and he didn’t get out, and you fucking left him there, so that you could pull me back if it didn’t go the way you wanted—”

John stood too, setting the phone on the bedside table and lifting his hands. The gesture was meant to calm and soothe, see my hands? Here they are, no threat here, but all it did was make her angrier, stoke a fire inside of her that had apparently lain dormant since she’d left Hope County.

Elliot smacked his hands down. “Don’t treat me like some fucking animal, John.”

“I’m not,” he defended quickly, dropping his hands all the way back to his sides when Boomer barked twice, sharp and accusatory, hackles lifting. “I didn’t know Pratt was still there. I thought the Resistance had got him out, and I didn’t bother asking.”

“You should have bothered—”

“I’m just as displeased as you are,” John interjected dryly, the dark coloring of his tone implying that he was—but for perhaps a different reason. It struck her that he might, in fact, be so displeased because he was aware of their history, on some level. It did feel a little gratifying to know that he was squirming for such an insignificant reason.

“You fuckhead,” she spit. “You put a fucking baby in me and you still have the insecurity of a middle school boy.”

“We both know,” he replied tartly, “that our baby is not in any way binding you to me, Elliot. And is it so shocking, considering that the thing that I want most in the world is for you to come home, and you fight me at every turn—”

“Hope County isn’t my home anymore—”

“—but Staci Pratt calls you and cries a little into the phone, and you’re jumping at the bit to go back?”

“Fuck. Off,” Elliot bit out between her teeth, face flushing. “Pratt is my friend, which is more than I can say for you.”

“Right,” John agreed, “because you let the person you hate fuck you.”

Her mouth clamped shut, biting and swallowing back a wad of venom she thought might make her sick if she let it out. There was too much of it, the things that she wanted to say—fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, I fucking hate you, you make me sick, if anything is wrong with Pratt I’ll kill your brothers and then I’ll fucking kill you too—but she didn’t say any of it.

Instead, she said, “Get out. I’m getting changed and we’re leaving.”

John sighed, passing a hand over his face for a moment like maybe he regretted what he’d said. “We can’t.”

She felt her voice spike, near incredulous hysteria: “Pardon?”

“Old Father Time of the Job Ineptitude mentioned he had Federal agents showing up out of nowhere,” he snapped. The words had her stomach twisting; her first thought was a tiny spike of happiness at the idea of Cameron Burke, and then it was quickly doused by the sharp reminder that she’d stolen his gun and ran with it. Because he thought she was crazy. Because he was going to put her behind bars.

John continued, “He seemed to be implying it was somehow related to me showing up, and by proxy you, and if we up and leave—”

“It’ll make it look more suspicious,” she finished, feeling a little numb. “Okay, so—what? How long do we have to wait?”

He scratched his cheek, his eyes flickering absently over the duvet on the bed, like he was trying to map it out in his own head. No doubt, he was trying to operate on multiple timelines—the timeline of Not Raising Suspicion, and whatever timeline Joseph had given him.

Some things really did never change.

“After your mother’s Christmas party,” he ventured finally. “It’s not quite Christmas—could look enough like we’re sticking around for enough holiday cheer to be passable before leaving again. Pritchard’s clearly not unfamiliar with your mother’s...”

His voice trailed off. He looked to her as though asking for permission to say something critical; when Elliot remained stonefaced and immovable, he finished, “...temperament.”

“Nice save.”

“Well,” he replied, humble as ever. “Anyway, that probably wouldn’t rouse suspicion. If it is Burke, and your house isn’t getting stormed right now, I have to think he’s here on unofficial business. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just come and bust the door down and grab you?”

Elliot hoped that was the case. She hoped this meant that Burke was just trying to find her, and was not hunting her down at the behest of the government. If there was one thing that Joseph had been right about amidst all his doomsday-saying and whatnot, it was that according to the news, there was a big chance the government had bigger things on their hands. Bigger concerns than a tiny town in Montana and its cult inhabitants.

“Get out,” she said again. “So I can change.”

“You—” John sucked in a little breath, stopping himself from what was inevitably going to be stirring another argument; he lifted his hands again, this time in surrender. “Alright, Ell. I said you’d get anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

“Chop-chop.”

“I’m going. Mind if I pull some clothes on before I walk out into the house owned by your mother, where she has almost assuredly been sipping her vodka martini since four AM?”

She felt her eyes narrow. “Fine.”

Turning, she crossed the bedroom into the master bath and shut the door behind her, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes until fine webbing scattered across the dark of her eyelids. This was the last thing she needed—and it felt, surely, traitorous and awful to think it, to think, this is the last thing I need, Pratt needing rescuing, when the only reason she’d felt comfortable leaving Hope County in the first place was because she thought the only people who were left were cultists.

Elliot dropped her hands from her eyes, blinking a few times until her vision cleared. In the mirror—much as it had been since coming back from Hope County—stood a girl that she thought looked like a stranger. Blushed cheeks and kiss-reddened lips, her neck littered with love marks, the healthy glow blooming up from beneath the WRATH scar on her chest, exposed by her loosely cinched robe.

That’s not me, she thought, pulling absently on a strand of red hair and swallowing thickly. I’m not that girl.

Her face was softer than before, more lively color rising up around her eyes and cheeks and mouth. More of her freckles had come out. There was a tiny, tiny—almost imperceptible—slope to her tummy, now, too.

Not me, came the thought again, more distressed this time, her brows pulling together at the center of her forehead. That’s not me. I’m not that girl. Who are you, pretty girl? Not me.

The woman and her dark hair—dark dark dark, like an oil slick, looming in the corner of her mind. Her mouth red as pomegranate and stretched like broken glass.

I hear stress is bad for the baby.

A knock came at the door. Elliot blinked, feeling unwell and unsure of how long she’d been standing there, her hand having dropped to cup the slope of her stomach experimentally. Women did that, right? When they were pregnant? Did it make them feel closer to the baby? Did it make them feel more protected?

Did she feel safer?

“Ell,” John said, nudging the door open, “your mother is...”

Pulling away from the door, she cinched the robe tight and busied herself at the sink, turning the water on. As he stepped into the bathroom, she could see John was now fully-dressed, freshly-showered. She’d been standing in front of the mirror trying to recognize the person staring back at her long enough for him to do that, it seemed.

“That was a quick shower,” she said briskly, splashing her face and rubbing absently at her cheek. She could feel John’s eyes on her through the mirror, even though she refused to meet them.

“I’ve always preferred it that way,” he replied casually. And then: “Get distracted?”

Yes, she thought, but didn’t say, because then the things he’d said last night that had made her feel sane and normal wouldn’t mean anything anymore. John would have said I don’t think you’re crazy and he’d have to take it back, because if she told him there was a stranger standing in her mirror, he would think she was crazy.

“It’s weird,” is what Elliot offered after a moment, trying to find a way to be honest and redirect, “to see a baby bump. Even if it’s small.” She cleared her throat and fished her toothbrush out of the holder. Continuing briskly, she added, “And the scar. I spent a lot of time avoiding it.”

John’s expression had done that funny thing that she supposed was softening at her words. He stepped forward; the ghost of his fingers trailing her ribs over the robe made her skin prickle with goosebumps.

“I’m not done being mad at you,” she warned him, eyes flickering to meet his gaze through the mirror.

“I know,” he replied, tone agreeable. “I just—”

The brunette paused then, waiting for her to stop him before he smoothed the warmth of his palm over her hip, across the expanse of her abdomen. It was painfully intimate in a way that didn’t imply sex—intimate, in the way that she felt seen, that she could see the relief coloring the edges of his expression.

John pressed his mouth to the back of her shoulder. “Just missed you,” he murmured after a moment. “Getting to touch you. Even just like this. Especially just like this—”

Something panged sharp and unforgiving in her chest. “Well, don’t get used to it,” she replied tightly, brushing his hand away from the baby bump after letting it linger for a moment. “And I don’t remember inviting you in.”

“Your mother was asking after you,” John said, by way of explanation, looking pleased from their little moment. Fucker. “She wanted to know if you’d be drinking coffee this morning. I think her exact words were, ‘Mr. Seed, would you ask my daughter if she’s going to take the risk of drinking coffee this morning? I know she shouldn’t be, with her condition—’”

“Ugh.”

“‘—but since we’re going to be picking out her dress for the Christmas party today, I could make an exception—’”

“Fuck me,” she muttered, wetting her toothbrush and putting the toothpaste on it. “Ask her if she can make it extra strong.”

“I’m actually enjoying being out of your mother’s ire for a minute.”

Elliot rolled her eyes. “No coffee for me.”

“Got it.” John headed for the bathroom door, and then paused again, turning to look at her. “Ell,” he began, “I really didn’t know—you know, about Pratt.”

That pesky little flutter of something agonizingly sweet—softness—in her chest flared again.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” is what she said, before she turned the toothbrush on and started scrubbing her teeth. That seemed enough of an answer for John, for once, because he left and closed the door quietly behind him after deliberating.

The minutes, and hours, and days—well, day or two—until they got back to Hope County were going to be something close to agony. She could only hope they had taken her seriously when she told them that she’d better come back to a Pratt in one piece.

I don’t want to be alone. Pratt’s voice echoed hauntingly in her head. She thought she could remember the sound of voices in the background—a woman’s, at least. Faith? Or John’s friend, Isolde? Surely Jacob and Joseph were there listening to him call her, too. She’d been so fucking stupid to let them get to her.

No, not stupid. Not stupid to want Pratt to feel safe, and like someone was coming back for him.

I’m sorry, she thought tiredly, as though the words could somehow get to him. I’m sorry, that it’s me you have to wait for.

I’m sorry that I won’t be the person you remembered.

I’m sorry.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You did so well, Staci.”

Faith’s voice jarred him out of the weird pause in time he’d been marinating in. It had been just a few seconds, maybe—Jacob and Joseph were talking in low voices, the dark-haired woman standing at the point of their little triangle with her arms crossed and her brows furrowed—that his brain had shut off, the distress in Elliot’s voice echoing eerily in his head. She’d sounded so upset. He wouldn’t have called, wouldn’t have started to ask her to come back, if he’d known how much she didn’t want to.

But that wasn’t true, either. He would have called, because Helmi had said, Either the Seeds are going to drag her back by her hair kicking and screaming, and eventually kill her, or she comes back and we keep her safe.

‘Safe’ had been the keyword there. He didn’t know how much he could take the woman at her word, but considering everything—well, it was better than trying to take the Seeds at their word.

Faith’s hand touched the back of his, startling him into a tiny jump. He cleared his throat. “Um—I wasn’t...Acting.”

“Still,” she replied sweetly, “I know it must have been hard.”

She was so polished—skin all dusted silver and moonlike, flushed with a little high color in her cheeks, her blonde hair tumbling around her face loosely. In the chapel, the air was tepid at best, and frigid at worst, keeping a little pink in everyone’s faces.

It was strange to look at her now. Her hands were soft; her skin unblemished. Just hours ago, he’d been sitting in the car, noticing the same kinds of details about Helmi—about how human she looked, hand slung over a steering wheel, her cracked phone plugged into the truck’s stereo and her chipped nail polish and the scars and bruises littering her knuckles. The way she’d shot him a toothy, wolfish grin as she cranked the volume up and said, What, Staci Pratt, you don’t like Blue Öyster Cult either?

In comparison, Faith didn’t feel human at all. She felt like a dream.

“Can—” Pratt came to a stand, rubbing his palms on the tops of his thighs. “Can I go? Lay down, or something?”

Three pairs of eyes snapped to him. The dark-haired woman, who Jacob kept referring to as Sol, completely ignored his question and looked at the redhead to say, “Has someone checked him for head trauma?”

“I’m not—concussed!” Pratt snapped, his voice wobbling. “I’m just tired.”

Jacob’s eyes narrowed. He looked like maybe he wanted to say something, and then reconsidered, saying, “Dr. Hale will take a look at you and then sure, Peaches, you can rest.”

It took every ounce of his self-control to not tell Jacob to stop calling him that. He had to remember that as far as they were concerned, he hadn’t been taken in by the “other side”, he’d been sitting scared and meek like a good boy at the compound.

Pratt’s eyes darted, catching sight of the woman that Jacob gestured to with a free hand. Right. The Fall’s End vet. She’d been here for what—a little over a year? He couldn’t tell if she was being held captive by Eden’s Gate or if she was there by her own volition, though the few times he’d run into her before she’d seemed like a pretty even-keel person. Didn’t she have like, two degrees or something? What was she doing here?

He made his way to the back of the church, meeting the curly-haired blonde halfway. Definitely looked too clean to be a cultist. “You’re not a people doctor, right?” he asked uneasily, watching as her head cocked to the side and her mouth quirked in a bit of amusement.

“No, Mr. Pratt, I am not a people doctor.” She fell into step beside him, opening the chapel door for him. “But I do have first aid training, which I think is about as good as you’re going to get around these parts.”

“I didn’t get a concussion.”

“That’s good. When was the last time you ate?”

His mouth twisted in a frown, trailing after through the snow as the cold began to sink into his bones. She seemed awfully confident moving around the compound, if she wasn’t part of the cult. But if she was, what was she doing here? How did—?

Pain bloomed behind his eyes, a fresh headache sinking into his nerves. Too much. It was too much confusion, about Elliot (pregnant? And John Seed was with her?) and about the Family and about all of these—these people that he didn’t really recognize hanging around the Seeds. And the compound was so quiet. Where was everyone? Had the Family really taken that many of Eden’s Gate out?

“Mr. Pratt?”

The woman opened a door into a bunkhouse that glowed with golden light from within and radiated heat. Two long-haired shepherds lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, lifting long faces and peering at him with dark eyes. He stepped inside and cleared his throat.

“Uh, a day, maybe,” he replied after a minute. Taking a seat when she gestured for him to, he shifted uncomfortably as she set a first aid kid on the cushion beside him and pulled one of the wooden chairs up in front of him.

“And slept?” She blew a curl out of her face and opened the kit, fishing around to find some alcohol wipes and Neosporin. He guessed he was a bit worse for wear than he’d thought, initially; not that he’d been taking great care of himself, even when it had just been him and Dani. She’d encouraged him to stay high, not stay better.

Fuck, I’m such an idiot.

He let out a little hiss when she pressed one of the alcohol wipes to a cut on his cheek.

“The same,” he replied, reaching up and brushing her hand away. “What—what are you doing here, doctor?”

“Arden is fine.” She sat back, regarding him curiously. “I’m cleaning that cut, Mr. Pratt. It looks agitated.”

“No, I—” Pratt let out a little breath. “I mean here. In the compound.”

Arden stared at him for a moment, like she didn’t understand why he was asking her that question. She lifted her hand and arched a brow inquisitively; when he nodded shortly, she leaned forward again, balancing her free hand on his shoulder and using the other to gently dab at the cut.

“I’ve spent the last month or so holed up in my house,” she explained to him. “Me, and the dogs, I mean.”

A little smile ghosted over her lips, and despite himself, Pratt felt a wry smile tugging at his own. It was difficult not to feel relaxed, when Arden moved with so much surety. In the glow of the radiators ticking away and the warm yellow light, especially.

“Mostly reading. They had assigned one of the boys to me—Santiago. I think he’s John’s man. He doesn’t strike me as one of Joseph or Faith’s.”

Pratt made a little noise of agreement, because he knew exactly what she was talking about. She dropped the alcohol wipes to the side and reached over for the Neosporin, dabbing some onto her finger and then reaching back up to resume her work.

“Sorry,” he said after a moment. “That you got—stuck, I mean. Here.”

“Oh, you don’t need to apologize, Mr. Pratt.”

“I feel partially responsible,” he admitted, feeling some of the tension flee his shoulders. “You know, being law enforcement and all—”

“Hold still, please.”

“Sorry,” he said again. “I guess what I mean is—sometimes it feels like a real failing on our part. All of those people, I...”

He paused, and Arden leaned back, giving him a pat on the knee. “That’s alright, Mr. Pratt,” and her voice bloomed with comfort. “Where was I?”

“Up at your house, with the dogs and maybe one of John’s men.”

“Right. I wasn’t allowed to leave, you know, on account of the—” She gestured with an elegant hand. “Cult running amok.”

He nodded. “Cult number two.”

Arden smiled, and continued, “And then just a few days ago, after one of them started killing those folks in Fall’s End, Jacob came up to get me.”

The way she said it made him feel, a little uneasily, that maybe he was misreading it. Jacob came up to get me did not sound like Jacob came to pick me up because I’m his prisoner.

And then she said, “He was worried, you know. Only having a radio up there. I know how to use a gun, but I’d prefer not to, if I don’t have to, and—”

“Sorry,” he blurted out, “but are you—”

She blinked light eyes at him, almost owlishly, like she didn’t understand the question. “Am I...?”

“With? Them?” Pratt gestured towards where the chapel lay, beyond the bunkhouse walls. “The—Eden’s Gate?”

“Oh!” Arden laughed, almost sheepishly; he felt a nervous little laugh bubbling out of him too, almost hoping for the relief of her assuring him that she was, in fact, not in league with the Darwinian psycho that had spent the last few months mindfucking every resident he could get his hands on.

She came to a stand and pulled a bottle of ibuprofen and a granola bar out of the kit, dropping them in his hand.

“Eat the bar before you take the ibuprofen,” she told him, “or it’ll—well, I’m sure you know. Upset stomach, and all that. Do you want to take a shower?”

Pratt’s fingers curled around the ibuprofen bottle. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m sorry,” Arden replied, not sounding very sorry at all, “I guess I just thought it a bit silly. Who else would I be “with”?”

His stomach somersaulted, sinking viciously. Suddenly, the granola bar—which had certainly been sitting in the kit for who knew how long—looked even less appetizing than before. While his vision swam for a second, the woman carried on conversationally, as though she had not just revealed herself to—

Well, to be in league with the Darwinian psycho that had spent the last few months mindfucking every resident he could get his hands on.

“But—they think the world is ending,” Pratt blurted out, lifting his eyes to look at her finally. “And—doctor, all the people they killed, and—”

“Don’t strain yourself, Mr. Pratt. You’ve been under quite a bit of duress as of late, I think, and it would be best to try and keep those stress levels down.” She moved to the small pantry beside the bathroom, shuffling around and producing a few towels, leaning into the bathroom to set them on the counter. “Though, you do bring up a funny point—have you been listening to the news? I suppose you haven’t. I remember listening to the news before all of this business went down and thinking that the world had ended a long time ago. We were just a bit behind, all the way out here. Do you want to take a shower?”

Blinking furiously, Pratt searched his brain for the answer; he muddled through the disappointment raking down his spine, the delicate little hope that had been fostered at the prospect of finding someone who was kind and not under the Seeds’ thumb being crushed beneath the weight of the reality of his situation.

“Yes please,” he managed out, his voice hoarse.

“Alright. Eat that bar first, so you don’t pass out in the hot water. And Mr. Pratt?”

“Y—” He had clumsily ripped open the granola bar and shoved half into his mouth, the fear of being seen as disobedient when Jacob Seed was within radius flickering like a wildfire through his body. He swallowed thickly, the dry food feeling like it was sticking to the inside of his mouth. “Um, yes?”

Her expression colored sympathetic, Arden reached down and fished a water bottle out of the case, dropping it in his hand.

“The honorific isn’t necessary,” she told him. “Remember, Arden is just fine.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbled. “I mean—Arden.”

She smiled, this time with teeth. “Good. You holler if you need me.”

I won’t, he thought, even though she was probably preferable to anyone else coming to his rescue.

Maybe he really would rather be dead.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Scarlet insisted that John stay at the house while they went to the boutique. It was all a big show of his mother-in-law attempting, he thought, to be polite, though she failed miserably at it; and as much as John wanted to argue that it would probably be best if he came along—considering their late-night visitor—he could tell when a battle was a lost one, and when it wasn’t.

“Do you think you can do that, Mr. Seed?” she asked, pulling the objectively ostentatious fur coat around her shoulders and buttoning it. “Remain in my home for a few hours, without causing me any problems?”

He said, “I think I can certainly give it a shot,” to which the blonde rolled her eyes.

“Please do more than that.”

“Rest assured, I am fully capable of behaving myself, Mrs. Honeysett.”

He couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Every second he spent in her presence, being reminded of how little she liked him given how much she didn’t know about him—or care to get to know about him, anyway—he thought, I cannot fucking wait to get back to Hope County and the resurgence of the Family. I cannot wait until that is my only fucking problem. Anyone else and she would have been thoroughly cleansed; clearly, Wrath ran in the family. Just the thought of it made his fingers itch.

Elliot had looked tired already, standing at the door and letting her mother go first. As soon as Scarlet was out the door, carefully picking her way down the front steps, John’s hand went to Ell’s hip; her lashes fluttered at the contact, but she didn’t jerk away; only tensed, considering the act of balking and pulling away from him but not yet committing. So there had been progress.

Her free hand came to his shoulder, resting there uncertainly. “Please don’t do anything to my mother’s house.”

“As much as I would love to, I will refrain from my wretched impulses. I am a man of God, after all.” He grimaced. “Do you think she’ll like me more if things are immaculate?”

“Ha-ha. She certainly will not.” She paused, letting out a little breath. “Okay. Back in an hour.”

He felt a smile tug at his mouth. “Ambitious.” His hand drifted to the small of her back, and he said, “Ell, before you go—”

“John, I don’t—”

Elliot turned to look at him at the same time that he stepped forward, closing what little distance there was and rapidly; she blinked, and her eyes flickered to his mouth instinctively, like she was expecting it—like she’d gotten used to the affection when he closed in on her like that. The gesture sent a little thrill through his stomach.

Mine.

“Don’t let her stress you out,” John murmured, keeping his voice low between just the two of them. “You’ll look good in whatever you pick.”

She turned her face away, cheeks going pink. “What’s this, huh? Still trying to make up for being a complete fuckhead this morning?”

He grinned. “You really have gotten brattier.”

“Goodbye, John,” she said, and then he leaned in and kissed her; the connection made every part of him sigh, collectively, as though he’d just been waiting for it.

Waiting for her.

Yes yes yes, it all said when she didn’t pull away, his fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater at the small of her back as her hand slipped from his shoulder to his chest, yes, mine all mine.

Elliot did pull back after a moment, putting a bit of space between them—though it seemed more to catch her breath than anything else. She only pulled back enough for their eyes to meet; John’s gaze darted downward, watching pearly teeth as they tugged at her lower lip, worrying it there for a moment.

“To answer your question,” he continued as casually as he could, “that’s not how I intend on making that up to you.”

“So you agree?” Elliot asked. Her voice came out evenly, despite the color blooming underneath the freckles on her cheeks. “You were being a complete fuckhead this morning?”

“I did so miss our banter.”

“Bunny,” Scarlet called impatiently from the driveway, “the boutique is going to get crowded if we don’t get there when it opens.”

“I’m coming!” Her gaze darted back to him. “The best way to make it up to me would be to say the words out loud,” Elliot informed him as she inched toward the door. “So that baby can hear them, too. At least you’ll have been more honest around our child than with me, if we’re keeping a running tally, and we should—”

He tugged her back from the doorway again, lighter, more playful as he went in to kiss her a second time; but she pulled back, just out of his reach, hand planted firmly on his chest.

Elliot said, “I told you not to get used to it.”

“I’m not,” he answered lightly, “just taking what I can get.”

“Elliot.”

“Coming!” Elliot cinched her coat up more snug, closer to her throat and where the scar lay expertly over her sternum, and snagged the keys off of the counter to the beat-up Honda Civic John had lifted from Eden’s Gate. Right. He couldn’t wait to hear Scarlet’s input on that car ride.

The redhead made it down two steps before she paused, turning and looking at John and going, “Um, bye,” in a tone that was more sheepish than he anticipated; it was almost shy, and it caught him so off-guard that he didn’t even get the chance to muster a response before she was making her way across the snowy driveway.

“Drive safe,” John called, once he’d gathered his senses a bit more. Elliot glanced at him over her shoulder and then ducked into the car, closing the door and beginning to pull her way down the drive. He waited until they’d turned onto the freshly plowed road before he turned back into the house and closed the front door behind him.

Boomer had seated himself in front of the window, letting out a little whine as his tail swept along the floor.

“C’mon, furry sentinel,” he sighed, not risking putting his hand within biting reach. “Just you and me today.”

The Heeler whined again, apparently thoroughly displeased at this news, and stayed rooted at the window to watch for his girl to come home.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he hit the redial button on the number they’d gotten a call from that morning and waited as the phone rang, pacing around the polished living room. It rang enough times as he idly adjusted glasses on a bar cart that he thought for certain no one would pick up—and then the phone clicked, and a warm voice came through.

“Hi, John.”

He blinked in surprise. “Hello, Faith. How’d you get this phone?”

“Isolde passed it to me when she saw your call. She wanted me to tell you that she’s too busy to talk to you.”

A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Sounds like everything’s operating as normal, then.”

“I suppose.” Faith paused. “Are you coming home soon?”

“I am.”

“With Elliot?”

“Yes, she—” John cleared his throat and made an effort to sound as unbothered as possible. “She’s very concerned about Deputy Pratt’s well-being.”

“We’re taking good care of him. Will you tell her that? Better than he’d be getting out there, anyway,” and she said the word out there with such a surprising amount of venom that John realized he’d nearly forgotten about the Family’s reappearance. Well, there couldn’t be that many of them left, could there?

And then Faith said, “A lot of us are dead, John.”

His hand went to the mantle for a little support as he leaned against it. There was a bit of a bite to Faith’s voice—almost accusatory. A lot of us are dead, she said, as he stood in the plush home of his mother-in-law while they went dress shopping for a Christmas party. It occurred to him that none of his siblings—nor Isolde—were aware of what they’d been dealing with the last couple of days; they must have felt like he was getting off easy.

“The Father says we only have a little while longer,” she continued, “and that if we can’t fix this in time, we won’t wait for you. He’s been alone, a lot. Talking to God. Praying for more time, for you.”

The words made his stomach wrench, a little. He would have felt worse if he didn’t know already that there was an exit plan in place, one that Elliot was already on board for. “We’re only here for another day, and then we’re leaving” John replied. “The sheriff mentioned some—Federal agents. I don’t want to rouse suspicion and bring them down on us again.”

“Do you think it’s Burke?”

“Maybe.” He pressed his forehead against the stone mantle. “Probably. No one’s come storming in yet.”

“I hope it’s him. I hope he follows you all the way back here.” And then, darker: “He has a lot to apologize for.”

John made a low noise of agreement. It felt good to have a conversation with someone who seemed to be on the same side as him, for once—no bickering with Scarlet, no bickering with Elliot, and no bickering with Isolde. As of late, it seemed he was only capable of incurring arguments; though that did seem to be changing quickly with his wife.

“We’re having a service soon. Did you want me to tell Joseph anything?”

“Ah, no, that’s alright. I just wanted to let you know we had a plan.”

“Do you want to talk to him?”

“No,” John said again, more quickly and with a bout of unease sprinting up his spine. “No, that’s alright. I’ll let you go. We’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Alright.” Faith’s voice lightened when she added, “Tell Elliot I said hello.”

Bad idea, he thought, but said, “Of course,” and hit the end call button. It wasn’t until his entire body relaxed that he realized he’d been fully tensed, waiting for some kind of verbal blow—and though there had been a few, he felt...

Fine.

I feel fine.

It was fine. Everything was fine. Joseph was praying for more time for them. They’d make it back without a hitch. And then, when the world ended, and took the remainder of the Family with them—

Well, that would be all the better.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“My children.”

The heaters rattled, clicking in the lukewarm air in a steady, mechanical heartbeat. Candles lit throughout the chapel drenched the members of Eden’s Gate in a strange, golden glow, and as Joseph’s voice carried all the way to the back where Staci sat between Jacob and Arden. He could see in the front row sat Faith and the dark-haired woman—who he’d come to understand was Isolde Khan, John’s old business partner—and there was a moment where Joseph’s eyes fixed on her before they lifted back to the congregation.

“God has truly been testing us,” the man continued, pacing away from the altar the front, hands folded behind him. “As you know, I have spent a lot of time in silence and solitude so that I might be the most open to receiving from Him. For the longest time, I thought—had we done something wrong? Had I led us astray? Were we being punished?”

An uneasy murmur rippled throughout the crowd. In the front, Pratt could see Isolde writing something down in a notebook; he wished he was closer, so he could see what it was—what was so interesting that she was taking notes now, of all times? What could she possibly be doing?

Preparing for the worst-case scenario, he thought idly, shifting in his seat. Jacob’s eyes cut over to him and he cleared his throat. The shower had done nothing to ease his nerves.

“But I’ll tell you—devout, and loyal, we have not been left to the wayside.” Joseph stopped, pressing a hand onto a woman’s shoulder, squeezing. “I have heard His voice. I have received His word. We are not only followers of God’s word—we are His soldiers.”

The noise that passed through the congregation this time was brighter, agreements—it must have felt good. Not just passive sheep, to be shepherded; soldiers. Capable of violence. And they were.

“We are His warriors.”

The woman Joseph’s hand was on was getting teary-eyed, and when he departed from her to sidle his way down the aisle, she all but collapsed in on herself, folding in half to bury her face in her hands. Another attestation of acknowledgment rippled around him, louder.

“This world is a wretched, vile machine, taking in and spitting out sin, flooding our garden with locusts,” the Prophet continued, his voice lifting in volume. “We are, my children, the only people who have the great fortune of seeing this—of knowing what no one else in the world seems capable of understanding. God has told me—”

Sick, Pratt thought dizzily, I’m going to be sick.

“—that a life of bliss awaits us, if we can only...”

Joseph paused, as though he needed to look for the words, as though he hadn’t been reciting this all day in preparation for the sermon; Pratt knew that he must, the assured cadence of his voice coming so firmly that there was no way it wasn’t rehearsed.

“...look past the dread, and the fear,” he continued earnestly, allowing his hand to be taken by another member, “because fear is the language of the Devil—if we can look past it, and dedicate ourselves fully to His cause, there is only happiness and serenity waiting for us on the other side of this.”

“How do we do it, Father?” a man to the other side of Jacob cried out, his voice a panicked fever-pitch. “How do we show Him we’re devoted?”

Joseph’s head turned. His gaze landed on Pratt, lingering before lifting to the congregant. “We’ve got to stop the machine.”

Optimism flooded the crowd. An easy solution. Stop the machine, like it was nothing. Like they weren’t dealing with a group of people who killed as easily as they did.

“Throw your bodies upon the gears, upon the wheels, upon all the apparatus,” Joseph intoned dutifully, pacing back toward the front. “Whatever it takes to bring the machine to a grinding halt. We can no longer passively take part in the End—we are warriors of God, and our divine right is not instinctively endowed. It is earned. And we will show that we have earned it by exterminating these interlopers invading our garden.”

Pratt’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Eden’s Gate members came to a stand around him; loomed in his vision; eclipsed what little murky light reached him. Cheers and applause rolling around in his head. He thought for sure he’d heard this all somewhere, before—

Oh, yes. And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all! The irony of Joseph lifting lines from an activist’s speech was not lost on him.

A heavy hand gripped the collar of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. “Stand up,” Jacob muttered. “Good posture’s important.”

He steadied himself on the pew ahead of him. Amidst the chatter of the congregation, eventually quieted down by Joseph’s patience at the front of the chapel, he could hear renewed excitement. More life had been breathed into the peggies than he’d seen in a long time—well, considering that he’d only been here roughly a day, and the whole place felt like a ghost town even now, that was saying something.

“Please,” Joseph called lightly, “join me in prayer.”

Heads bowed. Pratt let his chin drop to his chest, but his eyes didn’t close; his gaze darted to his right, where Arden stood, hands clasped politely in front of her. Her head did not bow for prayer.

He was only vaguely aware of the words coming out of Joseph’s mouth, redirecting his eyes back to the floorboards beneath his worn shoes. Lord, we pray that you might show us guidance and wisdom in these uncertain times; show us how to be most like you, for only you are perfect...

Elliot was going to come back to this. She was going to come back to this, and he was going to have to figure out how to get her out of here without any of the Seeds noticing. Helmi had said, meet me out back, by the river, in three nights, but he couldn’t keep track. Had it been one night? Two? Less than one?

“I am your Father,” Joseph was saying. “You are my Children. Together, and only together, will we march through the Gates of Eden.”

A rousing amen echoed around him. They milled about, chatting excitedly—perhaps delighted to have a focus for their ire, for their agitation. The members of Eden’s Gate looked worse than Pratt remembered. Dirtier. Thinner. More exhausted. He thought that it must be nice to have a purpose—

Fuck me, not that shit again.

He filed out of the row behind Arden, and with Jacob behind him, following her to the front where Isolde and Joseph stood. They were speaking in low tones, bundled close together; she tapped her ten against the front of her notepad in what looked like an agitated tick, but he couldn’t hear what it was she was saying. By the time they were close that he might have heard, Joseph lifted his head from where he’d bent a little to speak closely and looked at him, smiling.

“It was nice to see your face in the crowd this day, Deputy Pratt,” he said, his voice warm. “Did you enjoy the sermon?”

Pratt opened his mouth, and then closed it. He didn’t want to play this game.

“Go on, Peaches,” Jacob prompted, clapping his shoulder.

The nickname sparked something angry inside of him, like dragging a match against the sandpaper side of the box. If there’s anything wrong with you, I’m going to kill them, Elliot had said.

Pratt turned his gaze to Joseph. “I thought the Mario Savio part was a bit much.”

A surprised, abrupt laugh barked out of Jacob. Joseph’s expression remained flat and serene. In fact, the only person who seemed to have any negative opinion about his words was Isolde, narrowing her eyes as she turned to look at him fully.

“We’re not exactly looking to hit notes with the intellectuals in the crowd, Deputy Pratt,” she informed him coolly. “They don’t care who said it first. They care who said it better.”

“Y—” Pratt swallowed. “Okay, well—”

“‘Okay, well’ shut the fuck up,” she snapped. “Or I’ll have Jacob take you out back and put you down like Old Yeller.”

“You can’t,” he protested quickly, “Elliot said—”

“Do you think I care in the least what some woman five states away said?” Isolde cut over him quickly, the elegant, soft roll of her accent a strange and unsettling juxtaposition to her words. “I’m getting this ship in fit fucking order, and that means I don’t need you inspiring dissent. Anyone with an opinion that is less than glowing, radiant, gorgeous—they get taken care of, whatever that means. Got it?”

Pratt closed his mouth tightly, until the pressure was beginning to build between his molars. I just have to make it until Elliot gets here, and then—and then I’ll—then I can get—

He took in a little breath. “Yes.”

“Peachy.” Isolde flashed a smile that was all-too-saccharine, and then turned to Joseph. “Let’s sit.”

“Of course.”

They departed to a pew just to the left of them. Jacob was grinning at him, wolfish.

“Thought about telling you she wrote it,” he said, “but that was much more entertaining.”

“You look pale, Staci,” added Arden, her voice light as it redirected from Jacob’s apparent joy at his suffering. “Maybe you should go lay down. I don’t want you straining any of those injuries.”

Okay, he thought, and maybe the words came out of him but he couldn’t tell; he couldn’t tell anymore, but he did want to go lay down. Lay down, and close his eyes, and sleep until Elliot got back.

He’d never been happier at the prospect of seeing an ex-girlfriend.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When they arrived at the boutique, Sylvia was standing outside, bouncing on the balls of her feet in what Elliot could only assume was an attempt to get warm. It was difficult, to focus on something as inane and arbitrary as dress shopping when she knew that Pratt was back in Hope County, dealing with God-knew-what the Seeds were throwing at him.

Well, the Seeds. And more. The Family, who were supposed to be dead, and—

I hear stress is bad for the baby. A familiar accent, wasn’t it?

“Well, are you just gonna sit in there all day or what?” her mother asked, having stepped out of the passenger side.

“Did you invite Sylvia?”

Scarlet sighed. “I thought it might be nice, for you.”

It was an unexpectedly sincere gesture on her mother’s part. She swallowed a thick emotion down, clearing her throat and managing out, “It—is, mama, thank you,” before she got out of the car and took the keys with her, heading towards the front doors of the main street store.

“Howdy, Freckles!” Sylvia greeted her warmly, throwing her arms around her in a tight hug. “Been a few. Wyatt’s still got your Jeep, he’s been runnin’ it a few minutes a day to make sure the battery doesn’t go bad.” She smiled brightly, turning to Elliot’s mother. “Mrs. Honeysett, you look mighty lovely.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Sylvia tugged the door to the boutique open, ushering them inside so that she could trail in after. The inside of the store was toasty warm, making Elliot regret having worn a scarf, but it was too late now—the coat and scarf combination were doing the work to keep her scar covered.

“I just love this place,” Scarlet sighed, shrugging out of her coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. “What do you think, Elliot? Maybe something blue. I’d put you in green, but with that red hair, you’d look like a Christmas ornament. Blue’s a nice winter color—very fashionable.”

“Sure, mama,” Elliot replied, brushing her fingers along the silk of one of the dresses. The last time she’d been in anything that blue and nice had been back in Hope County. At her “baptism”. The same one Burke had been dragged to, the same one that John had held her under for just a little too long for, maybe distracted by the Marshal’s arrival back then.

“Psst.” The sound of Via’s voice caught her attention, pulling her from the waking memory. The blonde had pulled what appeared to be the most atrocious Christmas gown that could have been looked at off of the rack, holding it up and lifting her eyebrows as Scarlet chatted enthusiastically with the store’s saleswoman.

“Stop it,” Elliot said, fighting back a smile. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, dead serious, Freckles.”

“It has mistletoe on it, Via.”

“How else am I supposed to fetch a husband, if not by readily-accessible entrapment?”

Well, she thought a little dryly, that is how John got a wife.

It was odd, to think of the moment with anything less than hostility—to have come to a point where there were things more pressing than a marriage that, in the end, might not matter anyway. John had said that he knew the baby didn’t mean she’d take him back; had acknowledged there was no guarantee. For once, he’d shown up in her life with every intention laid bare for her to see.

Maybe not every intention. But she’d root them all out, eventually, and pretend like it hadn’t become something of a game, to catch John in a lie and watch him squirm.

She let the boutique’s owner show her around, clearly making quite a show for her mother, and politely turned down any suggestions for a deep v or off-the-shoulder type of garment. Sylvia had picked out a few; most blue, some blush, a few red, and then loaded some into Elliot’s arms.

“Try ‘em on!” she chirped. “Yes, even the green ones. Maybe your mama doesn’t want an Elliot Christmas ornament, but I do.”

Elliot heaved a sigh, though it was only half-sincere—anything delivered with Sylvia’s bright, cheery smile, she was hard-pressed to feel anything less than good about. Maybe that was dangerous, to be so comfortable with someone.

Or maybe, she thought, closing the dressing room door behind her, that’s just how having friends are. You remember what that was like.

She did. As she undressed and zipped the back of one of the red dresses Sylvia had selected—thoughtfully aware of the fact that she’d want most of her chest covered—she regarded herself in the mirror. There was that stranger again, flushed cheeks and bright eyes staring back at her. A familiar nose shape, a familiar slope of her cheekbones—but the rest of her. Where had she gone?

With one hand she pushed the door open, the other one lifting the back train of the dress as little as she walked out. A grimace had planted itself on her face, even despite Sylvia’s elaborate applause at her appearance.

“Oh, bunny, you look darling,” her mother sighed, having turned to take a look. “What’s the matter? You don’t like it?”

“Not big on the sparkles,” she admitted.

“I like them. You’ve always looked good in red, though. That fair complexion of your father’s.”

Sylvia grinned. “Try on a green one. I wanna imagine how you’ll look on my tree!”

Elliot stuck her tongue out at the blonde, turning around and scurrying back into the changing room. There were a few more dresses—even a green one—that were in the running, but eventually, she’d settled on a floor-length piece, dark blue velvet and halter-topped to get the most sternum coverage. When she’d redressed and rejoined the group outside, her mother was beaming as she gossiped with the boutique owner.

“Elliot’s quite modest,” her mother said conversationally, “and she’s already married, you know.”

“Thank you, mother,” Elliot sighed, a little smile fighting its way onto her face.

“Whatever are you still wearing your coat for? Your face is all red.”

“I’m—” She paused, swallowing. “Still cold.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Cold? It’s eighty degrees in here. And your face is all red.”

Sylvia had glanced up from across the store, neck-deep in dresses of a warmer shade. Elliot could feel the eyes on her—her friend, her mother, the boutique owner—and she cleared her throat and tugged absently at the tag on the dress.

“It’s fine,” she said after a minute.

“Well, at least take your scarf off.”

“I think it’s a lovely scarf,” the owner tried, a little helplessly.

“Mother, it’s—I’m fine—”

But her mother moved too quickly for her to realize what was happening; her mother’s hand unwound the scarf with expert ease, and then froze, her eyes fixed on what Elliot thought assuredly was the little of her WRATH scar, revealed.

Her stomach rolled. Heat flooded her body, worse than before—it was the kind of sticky-wet heat that came with the threat of throwing up, the kind that crept up the spine and gripped by the nape of the neck. Elliot felt her lashes flutter; she dropped the dress abruptly and yanked the scarf out of her mother’s hands to wind it securely around her neck again. The boutique owner had quickly turned to the clothing rack, as though something very emergent had occurred on the inanimate objects.

Stupid. She was so stupid. She should have just worn a sweater. She shouldn’t have looked at her scar that morning and thought, maybe it is something to love, she shouldn’t have ever risked the chance that her mother would see it, stupidstupidstupid—

“My God,” Scarlet said tightly, the tone of her voice washing Elliot with shame. “What did you do?”

I’m sorry, she wanted to say, automatically. Mama, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not good anymore, I’m not—

“Phew, I sure am dressed-out,” Sylvia announced, having come over. “I’ll have to go home and weigh my options. Ell, you wanna head outside for some air?”

“I think that’s best,” her mother replied curtly, before Elliot could even think to formulate a sentence. “I’ll finish up in here.”

She thought about trying to say something—trying to explain, maybe, what it was that had happened. But how could she? Her mother had suffered through the years she’d inflicted pain on herself, after daddy and after Mason, and she had told her mother she was better, now. Healed. Good. What could she say, to make it alright?

Because there was no world where she could say, I didn’t want it, and mean it.

Via’s hand fit snugly in hers, tugging her lightly out through the front door of the boutique onto the street. It wasn’t until she took in a lungful of cold, dry air that she realized she’d been holding her breath; her lungs ached, her head swimming, and she was gripping Via’s hand too tightly.

“Hey,” Sylvia said softly, “s’okay.”

It’s not, she thought miserably, it’s not okay, I’m not okay, I want to go—

Where? Where could she go?

I want—

Nowhere? Anywhere?

—to go—

“Home,” she managed out unsteadily, “I should go home—”

Sylvia gave her hand a squeeze. “You want I should give your mama a ride back to the house?”

“Yes.” She swallowed, sniffing. “Yes, please.”

“Okay, Freckles. Sure. You just—maybe you just take a little drive for yourself, collect your thoughts.” Via paused, and then leaned a little to catch Elliot’s eyes; though her vision blurred from the threat of tears, the blonde still smiled a little. “You gonna be okay all by yourself?”

It was a strange question to ask, but Elliot knew what she meant. Are you safe? Alone?

“Yeah,” Ell replied in a thick, watery mumble. “I am.”

“Okay. Can you give me a call when you get home?”

She nodded weakly. Via pulled her into a hug, tight and gentle all at once, enough to make the dam break; just for a little, just for a minute, the tears streaked down her cheeks and caught up in the fabric of the scarf where it wadded against her jaw.

My God, what did you do?

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, pulling back and sucking in a sharp little breath. “Um, I’m really—s-sorry—”

But Via shook her head firmly and brushed some of the hair back from Elliot’s face, wet from her tears. “Don’t apologize. Go get a little breather.”

She fished the keys out of Elliot’s pocket for her, putting them in her hand and hesitating.

“Promise you’ll call,” she reiterated.

Elliot nodded. “I—I promise.”

“Okay. No take-backs.”

“No take-backs.”

Via gave her another hug before ushering her towards the car. As she climbed in and turned the key, her hands shaking, she thought about the way her mother had looked at the scar—with disgust. Horror. Shame. Via hadn’t looked at her like that, when she’d seen it. She’d seemed embarrassed, at having put Elliot in such a position; but not like that. She hadn’t looked horrified.

John didn’t look at it like that. He’d spent a lot of time last night, tracing the shape of the scar with his eyes, with his mouth, reverent and adoring. Makes you hungry, doesn’t it?

At least leaving would be that much easier.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They came back separately.

When John heard the front door open, he’d been starting a pot of coffee in the kitchen. He poked his head around the archway to look out in the foyer, only to find Scarlet standing there, furiously unbuttoning her coat and dropping her gloves into the drawer. Two dress bags hung on the coat rack.

“Ell outside?” he asked casually, coming around.

“Certainly not,” Scarlet replied tartly. “She’s—”

And then the woman let out a sigh, closing her eyes for a moment—for the first time, Scarlet Honeysett looked to be composing herself, which he thought she was nearly incapable of losing sight of. It seemed even the impenetrable armor of the Honeysett matriarch had its own weaknesses after all.

His tiny little thrill at the sight of Scarlet looking troubled was short-lived, however, because she said, “My daughter walked into the boutique sporting this—wretched scar—”

Oh, he thought, suddenly.

“—never been so humiliated in my whole life—”

Oh, no, because he knew exactly what she was talking about and Elliot would be—

“—have no doubt, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet bit out viciously, “that scar is new and you have certainly not influenced her away from such activities.”

He needed to find Elliot. She would be distraught; why hadn’t she come home with her mother? And why wasn’t Scarlet more pressed concerning her daughter’s well-being?

“And where is she?” John asked, ignoring the stinging anger bubbling in his chest. Wretched scar, she’d said. Like it wasn’t beautiful. Like it wasn’t gorgeous. Like he hadn’t spent a whole night looking at it, running his hands and mouth over it, knowing that Elliot had looked at him and wanted it and trusted him and if there was something more devoted, it was carrying someone’s child. “Elliot? Where is she?”

“Taking a moment to regain her senses,” the blonde replied sharply. “She has vowed to be home soon. Mr. Seed—”

He had gone to reach for his coat, pausing at her words and looking at her expectantly.

Scarlet twisted the gloves in her hands for a moment, her brows pulling together.

“I just think,” she finally said, “that as her husband, you are responsible for her as much as I am. You have to be taking care of her when I’m not around.”

“I do,” he replied.

“Evidence says contrary,” Scarlet snapped. “She has come back to me with more—damage—”

The sound of a car pulling up outside snapped John’s attention elsewhere. He knew that if he stayed much longer in the conversation, they would be leaving sooner than what they had planned, if only because Scarlet wouldn’t tolerate him in the house for the things that he wanted to say to her. Damage, he wanted to say, that is only as bad as it is because it’s compounding on your incessant need to brush aside her problems like they’re nothing, like she didn’t need help then.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, pulling his coat on and opening the door. The rush of cold air bit at his face and hands; Boomer came rushing out around his legs, springing down the steps and hurrying to the driver’s side of the Honda. John was only vaguely aware of the door closing behind him—and it didn’t matter, anyway.

She didn’t open the door when Boomer got there, scrabbling at it for her eagerly. She kept her hands on the top of the steering wheel and pressed her forehead into it, the engine ticking as it cooled. When John got there, he reached for the door handle to tug it open. Elliot hit the lock button.

“Ell,” John said, “open the door.”

She lifted her head tiredly from the steering wheel. Where her hand sat over the lock button, her fingers trembled a little, and her face was flushed—not with health, but with the sickly red of feverish, panicked crying.

“Baby,” he tried again, a little more urgently, putting his hand on the glass of the window, “Boomer wants to see you.”

Elliot’s eyes were fixed on his jacket. “Would you—” She stopped, her voice muffled by the glass, and then she took a deep breath and said, “Would you even be here if I wasn’t pregnant?”

“What?” John blinked at her.

“If I didn’t have the baby,” she tried again, her voice thick and watery with unshed tears, that pouty lower lip trembling, “would you have even come for me?”

He stared at her. It had never occurred to him, that there might be a world in her head where he didn’t come for her, where he didn’t find her, where he didn’t try and bring her back.

“Of course I would,” John said, drawing her eyes to him. “I love you, Elliot.” And then, more urgently: “I love you, with or without the baby.”

She looked away from him, then, staring out the other side of the window, fingers curling uselessly against the steering wheel even as the keys lay in the passenger seat—like she wanted to run. Like she wanted to floor it, and go somewhere, anywhere.

“Open the door, Ell.” He swallowed thickly. “Won’t you?”

The door lock clicked. He tugged at the handle and it opened with ease, Boomer instantly shoving his face into Elliot’s side and whining, tail wagging so furiously his whole body moved with it. John pushed the door open the rest of the way and reached for her, and her hand caught his wrist and pulled, and she buried her face into his chest and trembled like a leaf in a breeze.

“I’m so tired,” she moaned miserably into his chest, hiccupping with grief, “I want to go home.”

John wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head and keeping her tugged close.

“I know,” he said. “We’ll go. We will, I promise, Ell, okay?”

“Please—” The redhead pulled back to look at him. “I can’t—you can’t—lie to me, anymore—”

“I know,” John said again, a little helplessly, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. She was clutching him so tightly he was sure her nails would leave marks on his skin, even through the fabric of his clothes.

“I won’t.”

#far cry 5 fic #fc5 fic #ch: elliot honeysett #ch: john seed #john seed/female deputy #fic: witching hour #john seed x female deputy #my writing #otp: death keep off; i am your enemy #this chapter is about as long as the last one but also feels so much: bigger #thank u to everyone who reached out to me for the last two chapters it literally !!!!!#makes my whole fucking day #when i get feedback or even just to chat with some of y'all #*smooches u*

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Best Female Spy Movies & TV Shows to Watch After Black Widow

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Black Widow is out, bringing the women-led spy genre to the Marvel Cinematic Universe. The film follows Natasha Romanov in the time between Captain America: Civil War and Avengers: Infinity War as she works to bring down the Red Room, aka the Soviet-affiliated program that took her as a baby and brainwashed her into becoming an assassin. While the women-centric spy drama may be new for the MCU, it’s has been one of the most prolific and entertaining action sub-genres over the past few decades. If you’ve watched Black Widow and you’re looking for more taut and emotional spy thrillers to check out, we have some TV and film suggestions for you…

Hanna

Many have seen the 2011 action feature directed by Joe Wright and starring Saoirse Ronan as a girl assassin raised in the wilderness by her spy father Eric Bana, but the TV series based on the film is even better. Currently moving towards its third season, the Amazon Prime series has so much more room to delve into the nuances of the film’s premise, especially in its second season, which moves completely past the events of the movie. While the first season leans into the coming-of-age themes inherent in Hanna venturing out into the world for the very first time, the second season chooses to delve further into the spy drama of it all, expanding the series’ focus to center some of the other teen super soldiers born into the same program Hanna was rescued from as a baby. If you would have liked to learn more about the other Widows Natasha and Yelena are working to save in Black Widow, then Hanna is the show for you.

Atomic Blonde

Stylish and featuring some of the best fight scenes this side of John Wick (the film’s director David Leitch, also worked on John Wick), Atomic Blonde stars the incomparable Charlize Theron as a spy tasked with finding a lost of double agents that is being smuggled into the West on the eve of the Berlin Wall’s collapse. Like Black Widow, Atomic Blonde only has so much narrative time to delve into the complexities of this set up and setting and, maybe sensing it won’t be able to do them justice, instead leans into the aesthetic and action of this world. It works, thanks in no small part to performers like Theron, James McAvoy, and Sofia Boutella, who bring to life the stress, violence, and desperation of this intersection of place and time far better than its script.

Queen Sono

American and British spy dramas often have white westerners traveling to other, poorer nations for missions, depicting a real-life colonial power structure while rarely interrogating it. Queen Sono, billed as Netflix‘s first African original series (it is a South African series, specifically), is a spy drama that centers Black characters and community in fun and powerful ways, bringing the familiar tropes of the genre to what will probably be a new setting for most American viewers. Queen Sono follows South African spy Queen (Pearl Thusi) as she works to balance her dangerous and clandestine missions with her personal life. Funny, emotional, and action-packed, Queen Sono is a must-see for any spy drama lover looking for something new—and it’s a damn shame Netflix won’t be moving forward with a second season.

Alias

To me, Alias will always be the original. The female-led spy drama was on network television when I was a teenager, and its combination (especially in the first season and a half) of fierce fight sequences, tense spycraft, and character-driven drama made it my favorite show. Like Black Widow, Alias is grounded in family drama, most especially the father-daughter relationship between Sydney Bristow (Jennifer Garner) and spy dad Jack Bristow (Victor Garber), but later bringing in other familial dynamics as well. The series starts as your classic double agent story, as Sydney decides to take down the agency she works for after they have her fiance killed, but, in classic J.J. Abrams style, the plot really spirals out from there—for better and worse. Airing for five season and more than 105 episodes, if you’re looking for more family-driven spy drama, Alias is the show for you.

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Deutschland 86

All three “seasons” of this excellent German-language Cold War spy series that follows an East German boy forced to become a spy in West Germany are worth watching, but the second installment, set in 1986, gives us viewers many more lady spy characters to be impressed by compared to the original Deutschland 83 story. Main character Jonas remains the protagonist of this tale, but his Aunt Lenora, probably the best spy in the entire show, takes an even bigger role in Deutschland 1986 and the subsequent Deutschland 89, as does her lover/partner Rose, a South African operative working for the African National Congress and played by the MCU’s Florence Kasumba. Throw in Jonas’ baby mama Annett, back in East Germany working as a junior intelligence agent, and the mysterious Brigitte, and you have a second season teeming with complex and cutthroat women spies.

Nikita

This highly underrated spy series ran for four action-packed seasons on The CW before totally sticking its landing in 2013. Technically an adaptation of the 1997 La Femme Nikita TV series, which was in turn an adaptation of Luc Besson’s 1990 action film of the same name, Nikita quickly surpassed both originals to become one of the best female-led spy stories of all time. Starring Maggie Q as the titular Nikita, the series began after the former spy has vowed to take down the secret agency that trained her, known as the Division. Our story begins when Nikita plants her protege, Alex, within Division, with a plan to work together to take the agency down. Of course, going undercover comes with its own emotional and ethical complications, and Alex may not know all that there is to know about her mentor Nikita, and Nikita’s role in Alex’s tragic past. With a stellar supporting cast that includes Melinda Clarke and Xander Berkeley, Nikita was far better than it needed to be and, if your a fan of the action spy genre, is definitely worth watching.

Killing Eve

Maybe it was the Russian accent, but Yelena has mad Villanelle vibes in Black Widow, and I mean that in the least psychopathic way possible. Unless you live under a rock, you’re probably aware of this BBC America series starring Sandra Oh as a bored MI-5 agent and Jodie Comer as the spy-assassin she becomes obsessed with catching, but if you haven’t yet checked it out and are looking for another female-driven spy story with plenty of banter, then Killing Eve is the show for you. The second season gets a little rocky, but with a riveting season three and the announcement that season four will be the show’s last, now is the time to jump on the Killing Eve bandwagon.

Little Drummer Girl

In terms of tone or style, Little Drummer Girl shares little with Black Widow—it’s much more geopolitical thriller than superhero action—but I’m including the British spy series on the list because it does share a star with Black Widow. Yelena’s Florence Pugh plays an aspiring actress named Charlie who is recruited by Mossad to infiltrate a Palestinian group planning an attack in Europe. Based on a novel of the same name by acclaimed spy author John le Carré, the six-episode series is directed by Korean filmmaker Park Chan-wook and co-stars Michael Shannon and Alexander Skarsgård, and the talent is not wasted. The miniseries delves much more into the ethics of spycraft than Black Widow is able or comfortable doing, asking difficult questions about how violence and manipulation are used and justified across national lines. If you’re looking for a spy drama that isn’t afraid to ask the tough questions, then Little Drummer Girl is for you.

Gunpowder Milkshake

OK, this one is more of an assassin drama than a spy drama, but the cast is too good not to include it on the list. Starring Doctor Who‘s Karen Gillan and Game of Thrones‘ Lena Headey as a pair of daughter/mother assassins, Gunpowder Milkshake is another action thriller that is all in with the familial dynamics. Past the two stars, Gunpowder Milkshake also features the iconic Michelle Yeoh, Angela Bassett, and Carla Gugino, rounding out the cast of action women. The film doesn’t drop on Netflix (in the U.S.) and theaters (elsewhere) until Friday, but you’ll be ready.

The post Best Female Spy Movies & TV Shows to Watch After Black Widow appeared first on Den of Geek.

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kiss-my-freckle · 2 years

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The Vampire Diaries: 4x5 Rewatch

Elena: Dear diary, I know its been a while. A long while. I haven't needed - I haven't wanted to write this stuff down, but I don't want to say it out loud either. The thing is: I'm a vampire and I hate it. I feel hopeless, depressed, angry. But most of all, I'm scared. Part of me just wants to end it, but then I think of Jeremy. I'm all that he has left, so I need to find a way through this. No matter what it takes.

Stefan: But now, for the first time in a while, there's hope. Somewhere in the world, there's a cure for vampires. If I can get it, Elena can be human again. I can give her back her life. So, that's what I need to do. No matter what Klaus asks, no matter what lies I have to tell or secrets I have to keep, I'll do it. No matter what it takes.

This is where their paths split. Stefan wants to cure Elena, while Elena wants to find her footing as a vampire so she can be there for Jeremy. He’s the reason she’s not ending her life.

Stefan: She's been spiraling since her transition, and at times, I barely recognize her.

Damon: No, I see. It's a classic shame spiral. Elena: I'm not in a shame spiral. Damon: Oh, you so are. Newbie vampire remorse? Whew, it's worse than a hangover. Elena: I'm not in a shame spiral, Damon.

The biggest focus in this episode is the belief that Elena is spiraling. Stefan and Damon both believe she’s spiraling because both stand on the opposite side of her lies. Damon thinks she’s spiraling because she feels regret. Stefan thinks she’s sprialing because she doesn’t feel regret.

Damon: Maybe he's dodging me. Elena: Why would he be dodging you? Damon: Oh, I don't know. Maybe the hot, sweaty dance party business. I figured you spilled your guilty, little guts the minute I left last night. Ohhh, you didn't tell him, did you? Elena: No, Damon. I didn't tell him that I got high on blood like some crackhead and then dirty danced with you. It was a mistake, okay?

She didn’t tell Stefan about their dance for the same reason she didn’t tell him she fed on Damon. She knows how jealous Stefan gets. Had he been there when she straddled Damon on the bed, he’d be livid. It’s instinct that allows her to do this. All of it. Elena isn’t spiraling. She’s falling into her feelings for Damon, and she knows it. She can’t even talk about their dance without breathing heavy because it’s consuming her.

Stefan takes shots at Damon when he’s jealous or hiding something.

Stefan: How about we just leave the murdering to Damon?

Jealous because Elena fed on Damon.

Stefan: Do you think he cares about April or Matt? He'll get Jeremy out for you, but then he'll go right after Connor no matter who gets hurt.

Hiding his deal with Klaus.

The truth starts to unravel over the werewolf toxin.

Klaus: He took the hybrid's head, which means he wants werewolf toxin. Stefan: Which means he plans to stay in Mystic Falls to kill vampires.

Klaus and Stefan know something Damon doesn’t.

Stefan: This guy is known for setting traps, right? We'd be pretty dumb to walk into one, especially if he has werewolf venom. Elena: Does he? Stefan: He's had it before.

Damon had no idea Elena suffered from werewolf toxin. If he had, he would’ve known Klaus cured her, and would’ve questioned him just as Stefan did. Curing Elena without asking for anything in return, definitely. Pretending to be the big bad vampire has its advantages.

Elena: Why am I thinking about you? Damon: Because you're a vampire now. And part of you knows you're a lot more like me than you are like him.

Damon: For someone who doesn't want to be like me, you sure are good at it.

Now double it up, and you see the truth for what it is.

Stefan: Well, I already told you, Connor has werewolf venom. We need someone to draw his fire, the hybrids are immune to it so they're our best bets. Damon: Well, how are you sure that he even has werewolf venom?

IF he has werewolf venom to he DOES have werewolf venom. Stefan knows he let it slip, so he grabs a vervain injection for Damon. He’s fully intent on saving this hunter.

Damon: No. Best case scenario is now you're a hostage. Worst case scenario: he figures you out, kills you on the spot. Elena: Stop treating me like I can't handle myself. Alaric trained me and I've been practicing with Stefan.

Damon: No, Elena, this guy is dangerous! Elena: So am I, Damon! Damon: Then you need to be smart. He doesn't know you're a vampire. You get as close as you can and you kill him.

It isn’t that Damon doesn’t think Elena can handle herself. It’s more about him knowing how dangerous Connor is because he’s already tried to kill him and failed. He needed Elena to put on that display that left her straddling him on the bed. It’s the entire reason he trusted her to go after Connor.

Because Connor nearly killed Jeremy - then nearly killed Elena, I definitely think Elena would’ve killed him even if Damon hadn’t told her. A vampire’s instinct is to survive, so any vampire getting staked by a hunter would kill. Still, they filed this under the sire bond, so consider it a sire bond moment.

Elena has no idea why Connor went after Jeremy in the first place. Jeremy told Damon about the disappearing tattoo. This is how Jeremy got involved in luring Connor to the hospital where Damon and Klaus were meant to kill him. At that point, Damon told Klaus about the tattoo, not knowing what the tattoo was for, so he had no idea Jeremy was being used to draw it.

Jeremy: Apparently, I was with Connor all day yesterday, but I can't remember. Someone compelled me. Elena: I think I know who.

Elena knows because Stefan was there with Jeremy.

Elena: Wait, what are you doing here? Stefan: I was just hanging out with Jeremy. We had a couple of things to talk about.

Stefan: This is the most important thing that I have ever asked you to do. I just need you to trust me. Please.

Elena is trusting Damon with everything. Emotionally, she’s Damon’s girlfriend, so Damon is the one who should be helping her get through this. And he does - get Elena through her transition. As I said in a previous rewatch post, the first stage of the sire bond is to trick Elena into a confession. Stefan knows about Elena’s feelings for Damon (because of the sire bond). Elena knows about Stefan working with Klaus.

Now they're ready to take Elena home.

#Bite me #TVD rewatch

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wisteria-lodge · 3 years

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slightly burnt lion primary + bird secondary

i have Strong Feelings on things, but bc i’m very aware of my fallibility, i like to fact-check and investigate to make sure it’s safe to proceed. the info usually comes from sources i’ve vetted and trust deeply but if it makes me uncomfy i’ll just follow my gut.

Very relatable, very Lion primary (I am also mildly obsessed with own fallibility.)

i don’t like being unsure but i recognize that nothing is ever fully certain and at least i can trust that i’m doing my best.

Lion.

“my best” conflates idealist and loyalist houses a little, in that i think doing the right thing is important but it weirds me out when people somehow think that being kind (to yourself even! tough love is kindness too!) isn’t the right thing? as if cruelty is worth it if it serves an ideal?

So far you actually seem like a classic Paragon Lion, and those guys tend to look pretty Badger a lot of the time.

i think everyone deserves a baseline of respect, so that i can love on my favourites without shame; i set boundaries on how far i’m gonna go for people, so that i don’t hurt people in the going.

Oh tricky. Because that does sound very Badger, and I have been known to confuse Paragon Lions and Badgers before.

maybe it plays into my spiral of misperception a little: addressing concrete expressions of pain is harder to twist than just the idea of helping.

Hey, I don’t think that deliberately causing someone pain ever helps.

that said, i think i’m burning? or burnt? a lot of people i thought were cool turned out be terrible.

Okay. This is hard. And this could absolutely still absolutely be a Badger existential crisis. But... it’s the moral judgement in the word terrible. I think what’s happened is that the people you admired did something to lose your respect, and the problem with that is now you longer trust your own judgement as much as you did. And that is very Lion.

edit: you’re definitely the anon who sent in that follow-up ask about secondaries, the diction is the same. And this bit “having a subsequent crisis where you reevaluate the moral compass you’ve painstakingly put together and internalized to see if YOU aren’t making the world worse because if your heroes can do it… so can you?” SO. VERY. LION.

and i’m not sure if i’m being helpful to the wider world or not.

This is some very Lion angst framed in some very Badger language.

the worst part is that i put a lot of time and faith into these things, and i always genuinely i’m doing right. when both your intuition and the check and balance system fail you start to wonder if you’re not just misreading things and how you’re ever going to tell if you’re getting it right.

That is a really Lion flavored existential crisis.

wholehearted trust in something feels risky and frightening even when i wish i could just stop doubting things all the time.

Yeah. You’re an internal primary. Lion.

and even when i’m wrong it just doesn’t feel right to change. i stick to my guns bc doing otherwise hurts. (although i wish i had the strength to concede to illogicality) i adhere to most ideas out of sincere belief, and if everything is in flux anyway i gotta pick something and cling to it w my fingernails LOL.

You’re certainly no Bird. What can I say. You need to keep the possibility of change open. Especially as a Lion primary. It is so easy for us to fall into the trap of rigid self-righteousness. And I know it hurts. It hurts more than anything. But resetting those instincts, that moral compass, is a thing that can be done.

if it helps i’m a bird secondary with some kind of improv model (nervousness about vulnerability and the need to constantly colour-correct your personality except around a trusted few vs feeling trapped by the expectations you’ve been playing to and longing for authenticity—FIGHT)

That thing you just said? That thing about feeling trapped by expectations and longing for authenticity? That’s your lion primary talking. Listen.

#sortinghatchats #lion bird #lion primary #bird secondary #paragon lion primary #lion primary vs badger primary #sort me #wisteria sorts

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yoursummerfrost · 4 years

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Hogwarts House Sorting: Lucifer Characters

After hemming and hawing for weeks, I finally decided to commit to making this character analysis. I’ll be using the @sortinghatchats system of house sorting because I really love how much nuance it allows for!

You can find excellent explanations of the system on their blog, but a brief explanation for the un-initiated: Primary houses explain WHY a person does things. Secondary houses explain HOW they do them. Frequently, people may model another house, meaning they borrow that system or approach, but will fall back on their “true” house when the chips are down. Additionally, people can lose touch with their house(s) in a process called burning/falling/petrifying/stripping. Without further ado, here we go! Sortings under the cut. [Spoilers through Season 4].

LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR. I’ll start with Lucifer’s secondary, which I think is more straightforward. Our chaotic Devil is a Slytherin secondary through-and-through. He’s at his best when he’s improvising by charming other people, waltzing into a drug dealers’ home base, or paying off a traffic cop. While he can look like a charging Gryffindor or a favor-dealing Hufflepuff, these are ultimately tools that Lucifer uses to be a more effective Slytherin.

At first glance, Luci looks like a Slytherin primary, too. However, I actually think our titular Devil is a burned Hufflepuff primary who resorted to modelling Slytherin when he Fell. In fact, Luci’s character arc over the course of the show is to un-burn, a journey that starts even before he meets Chloe in the pilot. Hufflepuff and Slytherin primaries are both loyalist; the main difference between them is in the scope of their loyalty. Slytherin primaries prioritize a smaller circle of people whom they have decided to prioritize. In contrast, Hufflepuffs believe in the innate value of people, and seek to prioritize people based on need or a sense of what is fair–in Lucifer’s case, this revolves around the basic right to free will.

Hufflepuffs tend to burn when the world has treated them so unfairly that they end up believing that caring about everyone is an impossible goal. Facing this rejection, they narrow their circles and start to prioritize looking out just for themselves, or a few loved ones. This often comes with a sense of shame: if the Hufflepuff were a better person, they could be kind to everyone (and remember, being kind doesn’t mean being nice). Lucifer is constantly asking himself this question. Is he a monster? Can he be a good person? In the pilot, his first interaction with Amenadiel includes asking, “Do you think I’m evil because I was born that way, or because dear old Dad decided I was?”

At the beginning of the series, Lucifer mostly looks out for himself and, to a lesser extent, Maze. However, even in the pilot, we see glimpses of his inherent sense of justice and compassion for humanity. His interactions with Delilah (and his reaction to her death) set the stage, and his work with the LAPD–beyond his fascination with Chloe–continues the trend. Linda says it best when she tells him, “I think you’re starting to enjoy seeking justice for the good ones.” He only punishes people who have betrayed his innate sense of what is kind and fair–people who hurt other people–and he detests when someone takes away another person’s choice.

This isn’t to say that Slytherins can’t have this innate sense of fairness and compassion; it’s that a Slytherin would still put their “own people” first when the chips are down, and feel good about that decision. A Hufflepuff would feel like they’ve done the right thing when they put the collective good first. When Luci gives Marlotte her own universe at the end of season 2, he’s prioritizing the good of the world–and God and all his siblings in Heaven, estranged they may be–above keeping someone he loves very dearly: his mom. It’s a pretty significant character moment that this is the moral act which gives him his wings back.

Similarly, Lucifer’s pivotal decision at the end of season 4 also shows his Hufflepuff primary. He makes a huge personal sacrifice by going back to rule Hell, and hurts Chloe and his other loved ones to do it too. At the end of the day, Luci wants to do what’s best for humanity, even if it’s at cost to his inner circle. The flip side of this is the very Slytherin decision he makes at the end of season 3 which triggers the reappearance of his Devil face: killing Cain. Lucifer has killed exactly two people, both for the Slytherin motivation of protecting Chloe. Now, we can argue that Luci’s Slytherin model actually served him pretty well here, and the show generally wants us to support Luci after these difficult choices. But the key is in his reaction, which is an intense level of guilt uncharacteristic of someone who genuinely believes that the ends justify the means when it comes to protecting the people they love.

For our true Slytherin primaries, we need to look no further than the occasional murder-buddies, Maze and Dan.

MAZIKEEN SMITH. Maze is a classic Slytherin primary through and through, and she petrifies over the course of season 3. Her Slytherin primary clashes with Lucifer’s Hufflepuff primary as he slowly un-burns; she can’t understand why he cares so much about humans and why he would change for them. It also explains why she’s so betrayed by his refusal to take her back to Hell: For Slytherin Maze, Lucifer refusing to prioritize her must mean that he cares about her less. For Hufflepuff Lucifer, he has to consider the good of the system–and taking Maze back to Hell could endanger everyone else by angering his father. Plus, it would break up the family!

At the beginning, Maze’s circle consists of herself and Lucifer, and she’s willing to go to any length to protect him–including almost killing Chloe and siding with Amenadiel to bring Lucifer home. While her stance on humanity ends up changing, it’s primarily because she finds some humans that she happens to like–Trixie and Linda, first and foremost, though she adopts more as the series goes on. She tells Chloe, “I’m glad I didn’t kill you,” not because she suddenly decides murder is inherently bad, but because she ends up looking at Chloe and thinking, ‘This one is mine.’

Maze petrifies when she slowly loses everyone in her circle besides herself. This starts by Linda and Amenadiel lying to her and spirals out of control when Lucifer refuses to take her back to Hell. “None of you deserve me,” she tells him, and suddenly finds herself with no one to protect but herself. However, Maze un-petrifies at the end of the season; the first step is when Amenadiel shows her compassion, but she ultimately finds her place again when she rushes to save Linda from the bluffed threat from Cain.

Maze is a Gryffindor secondary. She’s at her best when she charges head (and knife) first into situations. However, she also has a Ravenclaw model that, similarly to Lucifer, she uses to make her a more effective Gryffindor. Maze collects weapons and fighting styles in a very Ravenclaw-fashion so that she can be the best possible torturer and bounty-hunter, but when trouble arrives, she’s not going to stop and make a plan–she’s going to kick trouble’s ass.

DAN ESPINOZA gets along with Maze so well because they’re both Slytherin primaries. Dan’s willingness to feed Warden Perry to the mob–and his lack of remorse afterwards–because Perry is a scumbag who hurt someone he cares about is clear evidence of his primary. He also knows exactly where to look for a little backup in Maze, who’s always down to offer him the means to his end. At his “Detective Douchiest,” Dan is leveraging his Slytherin primary to justify his bad behavior. He’s loyal to himself, after all, and throws himself into his work to avoid being attached to anyone else. However, Dan’s primary is also a strength. It makes him fiercely loyal and dependable to the people he loves–willing to do whatever it takes to protect them, or get them the revenge they don’t believe in getting for themselves.

Speaking of throwing himself into work: Dan is a Hufflepuff secondary. He’s a hard-working detective who keeps his head down–which makes him clash with his Gryffindor ex-wife, Chloe, who would rather make loud, controversial decisions in the name of justice–and puts in steady hours to chip away at his goals. When he’s in a good place, he puts a similar work ethic into the people he loves. When he’s in a bad one, he hides behind his work and detaches from the “human” side of his secondary.

CHLOE DECKER. Like I just mentioned, Chloe is a Gryffindor primary who desperately wants to pretend that she’s a Ravenclaw. Her Ravenclaw model–attributing morality to the legal system, carefully considering the facts when making decisions–can serve her well, and she falls back on it when she’s trying to wrangle Lucifer’s Slytherin antics. However, Chloe’s real strength has always been following her gut–occasionally to the point of self-righteousness. This also explains her base moral conflict with Dan, who both prioritizes people over ideals. A similar conflict could exist with Lucifer, but Luci is constantly encouraging Chloe to trust her instincts–he values her true primary more than her model. She has an innate sense of right and wrong that she has to fight very hard to overcome, and things normally go worse for her when she does.

I’m talking about the clusterfuck that was early season 4, obviously. Chloe sees Lucifer’s Devil face at the end of season 3 and is faced with a reality that her Ravenclaw model was stubbornly refusing to accommodate; she has a gut reaction of fear that tells her to run away. This initial need for space wasn’t actually the issue. I think that, if Chloe had met anyone besides Father Kinley, things would’ve been just fine. But when she meets Kinley in Rome, Chloe is manipulated into ignoring her Gryffindor instincts. Her heart is telling her to trust Lucifer–that he’s a good person who she loves. However, Kinley manipulates Chloe into trusting an external source of morality instead: his twisted brand of Catholic pedagogy. What restores Chloe’s conscience is tossing out everything Kinley tries to tell her and realigning with what she feels, which is love for Lucifer.

Chloe is also a Gryffindor secondary, although her Ravenclaw secondary model is more useful and stable than her primary model. Like Maze, she borrows the thoughtful planning and skill-collecting of a Ravenclaw. Chloe tackles cases by examining every angle, carefully interrogating suspects, and weighing the pros and cons of every solution. I would hazard a guess that most of her colleagues assume that Ravenclaw!Chloe is all there is–especially because she seems so much more sensible that her reckless partner. But if we dig deeper, Chloe is more than happy to charge into situations with a stubbornness and bravery that’s nearly unmatched. When push comes to shove, Chloe will take a psychologist on a date rather than wait for special permission to speak to a suspect, leverage Lucifer’s impulsivity to shake down perps, and stand between Lucifer and Cain’s henchmen while daring them to shoot.

AMENADIEL. Our resident solider of God is a little harder to pin down than most of the others for me, primarily because I really want to know more about his time in Heaven before the series started. Amenadiel reads either like a Ravenclaw or Gryffindor primary, though I lean towards a stripped Gryffindor. This is complicated by the fact that Amenadiel was stripped long before he realizes it during season 2. Stripped Gryffindors learn that they can’t trust their own moral compass and have to find a new system to follow instead. I think this happened to Amenadiel when he was still living in the Silver City, perhaps around the time Lucifer Fell, if not before.

Amenadiel functions by being his father’s loyal solider–by doing exactly what he’s told, because it’s supposed to be the right thing. He labels his brother as selfish, reckless, and evil despite harboring a clear love for him at the same time. This cognitive dissonance exists because someone else taught Amenadiel that he should believe those things about Lucifer. He survives in Heaven by falling in line–essentially adapting his father’s party line, like a Ravenclaw would. The issue is that a Ravenclaw would be satisfied with adapting such a system, and would not struggle as much to revise this system later if they found it inadequate.

In contrast, Amenadiel is constantly struggling to figure out what’s right. He’s horrified by his own behavior during season 1, causing him to Fall from angelhood and lose his wings and powers, but can’t seem to re-orient himself. He tries on different hats–first being like Lucifer, then following their mom instead of their dad, and finally trying to follow their dad again–but nothing ever feels right. Amenadiel’s greatest comfort is found in the realization that angels self-actualize. Once this realization comes, Amenadiel learns to trust himself again and regains his wings once and for all.

Amenadiel splits himself between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw secondaries and somehow manages to fail at both. (I say this with love). This is mostly because, I think, his Gryffindor primary is so stripped that his HOW is too detached from a WHY that makes internal sense–this leaves him ineffective and lost. Looking at season 4, though, I think Amenadiel is a Ravenclaw who models a Gryff secondary. While he’s still up for a Gryffindor-esque charge into the fight, Amenadiel approaches Linda’s pregnancy and impending fatherhood with a desire to learn as much as he can and make a better world for his son.

LINDA MARTIN is a Ravenclaw primary who briefly falls when she sees Lucifer’s Devil face, then promptly picks up herself back up and builds a new moral system for herself. It takes her about a week and she’s fairly satisfied with the result, even when her emotional and physical fears flare back up and she has to baby-proof her ceiling. Pre-fall, Linda believed in a system of compassion and warm skepticism, which made her an excellent therapist. She liked to think she might be reincarnated as a chameleon. She enjoyed the process of questioning the world. During her fall, Linda found her current system incapable of accommodating the simultaneously massive and personal scale of Divinity–and post-fall, she builds a new system that largely looks the same as before but, as Amenadiel helpfully points out, contains “different questions.”

With Linda, we’ve finally found a straightforward Ravenclaw secondary, no modelling to be found. Linda likes to plan for trouble, and she flounders when that opportunity is taken away from her. She’s constantly trying to remind people that she’s not that kind of doctor, and while she lets herself get swept up into Lucifer’s schemes–like breaking God out of a psychiatric hospital–she’s never comfortable in that kind of situation and the decisions she makes impulsively don’t tend to work out well for her (see: the resulting interrogation from the ethics review board).

ELLA LOPEZ is another “double” house, and our second Hufflepuff primary. While many people who have a strong religious faith can be seen as Ravenclaw primaries, Ella’s connection to her faith is driven by her innate love for humanity. She believes that people–including the Devil, who she says gets a bad rap–are basically good and deserve love and kindness. After Charlotte’s death, we see that Ella’s response is not to lose faith in her approach to life like a Ravenclaw might–instead, she resents a God who she thought shared her Hufflepuff morals and clearly doesn’t, if such senseless bad things can happen to good people.

Her Hufflepuff secondary is a fairly classic kind, combining cheerful work with an interpersonal warmth that endears people to her. Ella’s natural charisma is a sweet, understated variety that makes even Azrael, the Angel of Death, want to look out for her. While Ella rarely leverages this consciously–and her lack of desire to do so feeds into her charm–there are multiple points in the series where people casually go to bat for her. Two prime examples are when Charlotte tells off Pierce in an immensely satisfying fashion and when Lucifer scares Ella’s brother straight.

CHARLOTTE RICHARDS. Oh, dearest Charlotte. So much of her time is spent in a existential crisis that she’s another hard one to pin down. but I think she’s a Slytherin primary. When Charlotte finds out about the Devil of it all, she doesn’t run like Chloe, and she doesn’t have to reconstruct her view of the world like Linda does. Instead, Charlotte struggles to understand how to be a “good” Slytherin. Pre-trip to Hell, it’s implied that Charlotte lived fairly selfishly, extending her Slytherin circle to herself, her clients, and perhaps her children. Post-Hell, Charlotte is rocked to her core by the realization that she was not living free of guilt.

Now, some could argue that this means Charlotte isn’t actually a Slytherin. However, Slytherins aren’t free from other aspects of morality just because their first priority will always be their chosen people. Charlotte prioritized protecting criminals who she knew did terrible things, and she put herself first to an extent that many people would feel guilty about, even though most would agree that it’s good to put yourself first sometimes. When she’s trying to become a “good” person, Charlotte initially tries to give up her Slytherin ideals entirely. She quits her job and joins the DA’s office, trying to more like the cheerful Hufflepuff Ella.

This ultimately fails; it simply isn’t her. But Charlotte finds success–and a tragic redemption–when she learns that there’s more than one way to be a Slytherin. She turns some of her Slytherin loyalty outwards, towards victims and survivors of domestic abuse as well as new loved ones–Dan, Ella, and Amenadiel. She’s willing to go to great lengths to protect the people in her circle, which is still a very Slytherin motivation, but one that she feels much more at peace with in the end.

As for Charlotte’s secondary? Look, anyone who steals a dude’s motorcycle while cheerfully informing him, “Don’t worry, it’s for God!” is probably a Gryffindor. I don’t make the rules here.

MARLOTTE. The thing about being a Hufflepuff primary is that people matter, but not everyone has the same definition of “person.” At first glance, the Divine Goddess might look like a Slytherin primary. However, I argue that she actually values all “people” equally, it’s just that she considers Celestials to be people, and humanity to be both too foreign and simple to matter. (This logic is, by the way, the same reasons Hufflepuffs are no less capable of racism, homophobia, etc. than anyone else).

Goddess’s primary goal is to reunite her family, sans God, and she’s willing to roast a bunch of humans on the Santa Monica Pier to do it. Humans are fundamentally expendable–except for her “favorite human,” Dan, who essentially gets a loophole when she spends enough time with him and stops seeing him as “other.” But Goddess doesn’t consider any Celestial to be expendable. She’s not willing to harm Luci and Amenadiel, even when she realizes that they were planning to betray her. She doesn’t value herself more than she values her children, and she doesn’t play favorites. If she did, she might be content to try and stay on Earth, or to wage a war in which some of her children (i.e., the ones who didn’t side with her) died. If Goddess were a Slytherin, it would be possible to “kick” people out of her circle, like Maze does when she petrifies. Instead, Goddess’s natural state is essentially inclusive, much like her son, Lucifer–they just have a pretty substantial conflict over who gets included.

Goddess is a determined Ravenclaw secondary. When she needs to make things better with Lucifer, she learns how to make “cheesy noodles.” She throws herself whole-heartedly into learning how to live as Charlotte Richards–including reading every legal book every, apparently. While she’s certainly cunning like many Slytherin secondaries, Goddess actually doesn’t function very well without a plan. Things fall apart for her pretty quickly when she runs out of time in her body and has to make decisions off the cuff. Unlike Lucifer, who works best when he’s under pressure, she needs time to set up her course of action.

EVE is another difficult one to sort because so much of her characterization is about not knowing how she is. This makes her primary fairly obscured, and I hope we’ll see more of her in season 5 so I can revisit this sorting. For now, I’m going with a Gryffindor primary. Eve is motivated by doing what feels good–whether it’s leaving Heaven because she’s tired of being someone’s wife or convincing her boyfriend to punish people. She has an instinctive solution to every problem–even when logic says, ‘Hey, maybe don’t release demons from Hell?’ because she knows how things should be–and that’s with her and Lucifer together.

The reason she clashes with Lucifer is that while Eve’s primary is about ideals, Lucifer’s primary is about people–whether he’s operating on his Slytherin model or his true Hufflepuff primary. Lucifer cares a whole lot about other people’s desires–including Eve’s–but he doesn’t care that much about his own if they hurt other people. Interestingly, Chloe and Lucifer have this same idealist vs. humanist conflict; Eve and Chloe just have very different flavors of Gryffindor morality, and it turns out that Chloe’s ideals match up with Lucifer’s Hufflepuff values more of the time. Furthermore, Chloe comes to accept Lucifer’s Hufflepuff-ness in a way that Eve doesn’t. Chloe actually prefers Luci as a Puff–her Gryffindor righteousness says that they should protect other people, which is the same thing Lucifer wants to do.

Much like Ella, Eve uses a Hufflepuff secondary to build connections with other people that she can depend on. However, Eve leverages those connections on a much more conscious level than Ella ever does–in fact, it’s essentially the first thing that Eve ever does, both in her life and in the series. She starts by connecting herself to Adam, trying to be the perfect wife. Then, she leaves Heaven and seeks out Lucifer, relying on him to help her accomplish her goals. After getting dumped, Eve jumps to Maze instead. She’s a particularly effective Hufflepuff because of her Slytherin model, which allows her to adapt to whatever the other person needs her to be (see: the entirety of “Super Bad Boyfriend.”) You could make the argument that Eve is actually just a Slytherin secondary, since the “chameleon” aspect is so central to how she functions. However, Eve has a level of discomfort with her constant mask-wearing that a Slytherin secondary probably wouldn’t. In fact, deciding to part ways with her Slytherin model and figure out who she is represents Eve’s big character moment at the very end of the season.

MARCUS PIERCE/CAIN. I saved Cain for last because (in my opinion) he’s the closest thing to a pure antagonist that we have on the show, but frankly even that’s debatable [EDIT I FORGOT KINLEY EXISTED LMAO]. Anyways, Cain is a Slytherin primary who has been petrified for so long that he’s ready for a hard-out on the whole immortality thing. The only person in his circle is himself–we see, mostly in flashbacks, that this is because he’s tired of the pain that comes with losing people he loves. Cain only wants to live again once he adds Chloe to his circle and she reminds him what it feels like to have people to live for.

The neat and/or horrifying thing about Cain is that he’s a fantastic example of a truly insidious Hufflepuff secondary. His entire Sinnerman persona revolves around crafting a network of people and resources he can depend on. When Luci and friends put his back against the wall after the death of Charlotte, Cain doesn’t resort to charging, improvising, or leveraging his own skills. Instead, he calls up a bunch of people who owe him favors and are too terrified to betray him, and they do all the dirty work for him. It actually very nearly works, too.

#lucifer #lucifer netflix #sortinghatchats #i have like........so many more feelings but this got so long #but like i have endless thoughts about how different character dynamics are impacted by their houses #idk maybe ill make a sequel to this post with my thoughts on those?#we'll see #I wrote a thing

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arlingtonpark · 4 years

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SNK 126 Review

TFW you know you’re going to die.

Just…where to even start.

God damn this chapter.

Rushed. Rushed. Rushed. Rushed. Rushed. Everything about this chapter was rushed. I don’t know what Isayama’s final destination is, but he sure pulled out all the stops to get there as fast as possible. Every possible chance Isayama could cut a corner, he took it. In every possible way.

People are speculating that we’ll get flashbacks that’ll sooth the sting of this chapter. I doubt it.

Attack on Titan has been pretty flashback heavy this past arc, but that was an artistic decision that served the story.

There was a three year time skip and that time needed to be filled out. We jumped ahead three years and suddenly Eren is AWOL and working with Zeke.

Showing events unfolding on Paradis interspersed with flashbacks to key moments during the time skip was a storytelling device.

Firstly, it allowed Isayama to control how much we knew about our character’s motivations.

Stuff happened in those three years, and those events have shaped the character’s actions in the present. Through strategically placed flashbacks, Isayama was able to slowly reveal new, relevant information about everyone’s motivations.

Secondly, flashbacks also allowed Isayama to build suspense. Again, flashbacks are strategically placed to reveal only what’s relevant.

When it seemed Eren was working with Zeke, we only saw stuff that made it seem like he was working with Zeke. Now that we know Eren was always working against Zeke, we’re seeing stuff that more directly deals with his true motivations.

And finally, having flashbacks helped keep things interesting. There’s a lot of political maneuvering during the post-Marley Arc chapters, and while well told, it could easily have been boring. Cutting between past and present was a way to break up these sequences of people mostly just talking with each other with something most would find interesting.

Having flashbacks actively improved the story.

Now think about chapter 126. What purpose would flashbacks serve here?

The answer is none. No artistic purpose, anyway. There probably will be flashbacks, but that’d be damage control, not artistry.

My hunch is that the gaps in the story are more due to rushed pacing, or even worse, Isayama just not caring. I think this becomes clear when you look at the totality of…whatever this chapter is.

True, we don’t see when Hange and co. made contact with Armin and co. and when they hooked up with Jean and Mikasa.

And it’s true we also didn’t see important beats like why Annie decided to join up, or why Magath and Pieck joined, too.

But we also didn’t see a lot of smaller stuff that we, nevertheless, *should* have seen.

Falco said he heard Connie mention Ragako Village while they were camped out. That didn’t happen on screen, but Connie was shown talking out loud, briefly. We are apparently supposed to take it as a given he mentioned Ragako, too. At some point.

When Armin and Gabi confront Connie in Ragako, they ride in on horseback and stop when Connie threatens Falco. But towards the end of the scene, we see that Armin and Gabi are standing on the ground. At some prior point, they dismounted their horses off screen.

Falco loved his brother. Then Colt died and Falco had a role in that. He died in Falco’s transformation. Hugging him. Crying for him. Falco never knew before now. His brother was dead and he never even realized. Now he learns it.

Off. Fucking. Screen.

He’s crying with Gabi and at first it seemed he was just overwhelmed by what happened.

Then I saw his speech bubble.

Falco [sobbing]: Colt.

Are you fucking kidding me.

Things reach peak IDGAF during Onyankopon’s execution scene. In one panel, Jean is standing to Onyankopon’s back right. Next panel, he’s teleported to the back left. Then Jean points his gun at Onyankopon, and he’s on the back right again! When Jean pulls the trigger, he’s back to being on the left.

I doubt there’ll be flashbacks to any of this shit. These moments were obviously skipped because Isayama dropped the ball.

Maybe the homebuilder will go back and add that much needed support beam, but considering they seemingly forgot to fireproof the chimney, they probably aren’t.

I call it the Principle of Brown M&Ms. Whenever Van Halen played a concert, they stipulated in their contract that their dressing room be furnished with a bowl of m&ms, no brown ones.

If there really was a bowl with no brown m&ms, they could be sure that venue management was diligent and on their game. If they cared to fulfill a small detail like that, they could be trusted to care about crew safety, etc.

Van Halen should trash Isayama’s house I will crowd fund the money.

I have little trust in Isayama to do this right. Looking at the totality of the chapter, it’s clear these are mistakes rather than decisions.

The through line of this chapter is suicide.

They’re all going to die. All of them. And they know it.

Just look at their faces in the final shot. Expressions range from stone-faced (Armin) to shitting the bed (Gabi). They all know this means death.

No one is doing this because they think they can win, except maybe Annie.

Connie’s logic was that he wanted to be a soldier his mom would be proud of. Fighting Eren is where this logic takes him. No plan for actually winning is brought up, he just decides fighting the good fight is what makes a mom proud.

Hange is doing this for the sake of not running away. They consider doing what Shadis rejected: living the rest of their days shitting on a mountain. The reason they’re not currently doing that is just what Levi said: they don’t stop.

Magath admitted last chapter that they couldn’t win, but that informing the world of the apocalypse was better than waiting to die. Fighting Eren against all hope isn’t far from that, so that’s probably their primary motivation as well.

I’m willing to bet Armin is similarly motivated. There’s a very revealing parallel between Armin and Connie in this chapter, though an underdeveloped one.

Connie wants to be a soldier his mom could be proud of. But, of course, Erwin is Armin’s idea of a soldier to be proud of. Erwin was charismatic, smart, and kept calm under fire.

Connie and Armin strive for essentially the same ideal. Being a good soldier. That means slightly different things to each of them, but broadly, it’s the same.

Mind you, Armin’s idea of Erwin is significantly more sanitized than the real Erwin was, but that’s not the point. For all his flaws, Erwin genuinely was someone to look up to. He showed true leadership, intelligence, and empathy. He was a good person all around.

Armin didn’t even want to think about fighting Eren; he had given up hope on that. Would Erwin have done that?

My guess is that Armin thinks taking down Eren is how he can truly become like Erwin Smith. Erwin never lost sight of the main objective, even if it meant long odds. Save humanity. That meant getting to that basement, so they went to that basement.

Right now, saving humanity means stopping Eren.

Chances are slim, too, but that never stopped Erwin, either. Armin knows that. Once a goal was set on, Erwin never wavered. He pushed towards it.

So you’ve got humanity’s fate on the line and an impossible obstacle to fight if victory is to achieved. Sounds like a classic survey corps mission. No wonder Armin is doing this.

Jean is doing this because of his conscious. Floch tempted him with a chance to peace out. Instead, he chose to peace out and kill Eren.

He could have lived a quiet life. Not just a life he wanted before, but arguably the life he deserves after all the misery he’s endured. He said no.

He let Marco infect his brain and now he can’t not be good.

This is what happens when you huff ashes.

Levi is doing this because he made a promise to Erwin and he stands by that. Killing Zeke was the last order Erwin gave him. Levi promised he’d carry it out. If he fails, he fails Erwin. I don’t think Levi’s ever contemplated failing, but honestly, it’s hard to imagine he wouldn’t take that shame to his grave.

Gabi’s already resolved to fight Eren, so she’s just sticking to what she’s already planned.

No idea why Annie is doing this, so don’t ask. >.>

They’re doing this because they refuse to roll over. They can’t respect themselves if they do. Not Hange, not Connie, not Jean.

They can’t take pride in themselves otherwise.

So they’ll march to their deaths, and they don’t care if there’s no hope. They’re throwing their lives away, but they know it’s the right thing to do.

Unfortunately, most of this, admittedly pretty cool, character work happens off screen.

God damn this chapter.

So. Much. Of this chapter was mishandled.

Connie’s subplot resolution was the most blatant example.

I already mentioned Falco hearing stuff from Connie off screen. And Armin and Gabi dismounting their horses…at some point. The BS continues afterwards.

Armin pleads for Falco’s life, but Connie claims Armin is telling him to give up on his mom, and Armin is totally shut down by this.

LOL.

This is the exact same objection Connie raised the last time they spoke. What stopping Connie would mean for his mom was specifically on Armin’s mind when he set out with Gabi.

Like, Armin, bruh, you really had nothing to say to that?

He really, really didn’t think to come up with a response. Armin. The guy who tends to overthink things.

Fine, whatever. So Connie’s objection causes Armin to spiral into self-loathing despair.

The stakes are dizzyingly high.

A child taken hostage.

A deranged man threatens to kill him.

The boy’s girlfriend is there. She’s smart, but still just a kid. And she doesn’t know this man. She doesn’t know how to talk to him, she doesn’t understand his motives, she’s not very emotionally mature herself.

But she’s desperate. Desperate.

Armin is the only one who’s kept his head. It has to be him.

He needs to calm the madman down, convince him killing the kid isn’t the right way, and maybe assure him an alternative solution exists.

Erwin probably could’ve done it. He was charismatic, smart, and calm under fire.

Armin…was not that here. It was genuinely stupid of him to not have come prepared. Like, at even a basic level.

He failed.

So fuck it, at least if the mommy titan ate him, Falco will live, the mom will be back, and Gabi can have her boyfriend.

So Armin throws himself at the titan, and it was only happenstance that everything worked out.

That’s the logic of this scene, but it’s all muddled. The stupidity Armin displayed dampened the drama.

The speed with which he falls into despair was unnatural. Armin’s badly insecure about living up to Erwin’s image, but it’s never been shown to be this bad.

There’s no believable progression to Armin’s feelings. He tried to be a hero, he face-planted, now he wants to die. They sort of skipped a couple of beats here.

Then Connie says maybe the stupidest thing he’s ever said in the manga: that inheriting the Colossal Titan would only have made his mom suffer.

???

So giving her the Colossal Titan would be bad, but not the Jaw?

I just assumed Connie thought turning his mom into a titan was worth it in the end. Did he just now realize how bad that would have been?

The series can’t just not address this. Connie named killing Falco and Armin as the bad things he did. Is he really not going to grapple with almost turning his mom into a titan, which he only implicitly admits was a bad thing?

Next scene is Louise and Mikasa.

Louise is a very devoted person. She cares deeply for Mikasa because Mikasa saved her life, and inspired her to devote her heart. She enlisted in the military, risked her life for her country, and now she’s on her deathbed, mortally wounded in battle. Not many people would speak ill of her like I would.

…

Is there anyone in this manga as pathetic as Louise?

Really, is there anyone?

Louise was saved from a titan by Mikasa. This inspired her to fight for her country.

Ok, that’s good.

She admires Mikasa and dreams of fighting by her side.

Yeah, that’s fine. We all wish we could hang with our heroes.

Then she took the scarf Mikasa threw away for herself. Because she thought it’d bring her closer to her.

Like how a stalker rifles through their victim’s trash for keepsakes.

That’s. pathetic.

It is pathetic how much Louise pines for Mikasa.

Compare Louise x Mikasa to Mikasa x Eren all you like, it’s not the same thing.

Mikasa and Eren were family. Their love is at minimum familial. Mikasa pines for Eren, which she very annoyingly never addressed, but there’s a sense to it.

When Mikasa lost her family, she was a helpless kid who had nothing. The Jeagers, and especially Eren, helped her rebuild her life. They took her into their home and accepted her as a family member.

The scarf matters, but only because it represents the humanity Mikasa was shown when she needed it most. She is endlessly grateful for that.

So of course she’d break the law for Eren, many family members would. Her willingness to do anything to save Eren bordered on derangement, but she’s gotten better at that. And she’s reevaluating her image of Eren in light of recent…happenings, which is good.

Louise is just a goddamn fangirl.

She doesn’t know Mikasa. She doesn’t pal around with her. She just stalks her like a creep.

Maybe they could have been friends. If Louise had just approached her, explained her story, and tried to befriend her, they could’ve become good friends. Certainly, Mikasa would have been flattered to see she inspired someone so much.

But that’s not what happened. Louise chose to be a stalker instead of a friend. I don’t think she was ever really interested in Mikasa as a person, though.

This is the likely last time she and Mikasa will interact, and Mikasa was so cold to her. Louise didn’t care. She got to fight alongside her hero for a time and that was enough. That’s so childish.

She looked up to Mikasa, but never seemed to want to befriend her. She just wanted to fight alongside her. I don’t think I’ll ever understand people like Louise.

If you respect someone so much, why wouldn’t you want to get to know them?

She said she’d die with no regrets because of this.

No regrets over never befriending her hero. No regrets over Floch, who lead her movement, putting people against the wall. No self-reflection. Nothing.

What a sad life to have lived.

She never questioned herself or what she felt. Just stunningly unself-aware.

…Maybe Daz would be more pathetic, but he’s more of a caricature of a pitiable person, so he doesn’t count.

Louise was a perfect fit for the Yeagerists. Louise, Floch, Eren. These people think with their hearts instead of their brains. They act on their feelings with no thought. It’s animalistic.

Eren loves his country, so now he’s off killing everyone else. Floch feels righteous indignation, so now he’s fucking over everyone who opposes him. Louise feels admiration for Mikasa, so now she’s dead.

Floch is holding his Trump rally, and declaring ultimate victory. i swear, Floch talks like a politician giving a stump speech. It’s the same prepared remarks with the same talking points over and over and over again.

“We are persecuted. All hail Eren the Liberator. He will set us free. Make me King of Ape Mountain.”

You can just tell Floch isn’t a very creative person. He’s repetitive as hell, a real one-man act.

Then one of the dumbest moments in the chapter happens.

Mikasa is watching Floch’s speech for some reason. Then Some Guy approaches her, and casually asks if she wants to help lead Paradis.

Who is this guy?

Why is he asking her this?

Why is this guy pointing out Jean for no reason?

Clearly the point is to establish Mikasa’s stance on helping the Jeagerists, and to hint at Jean’s coming betrayal, but, jeeeeeez, was this badly telegraphed.

Isayama’s never been all that subtle, but this is just bad. It reads like the first draft of a story than a finished product.

Next dumb scene.

Connie, Armin, and the kids are eating their way to Reiner, and they just bump into Annie, and even though she admits she’s committed awful crimes, Connie just starts paling around with her.

Huh?

His friends betraying him and killing other friends was, like, a thing with Connie. He had major beef with Eren for this exact reason. He specifically named Annie as an example of this.

Eren, Reiner, Bertolt, Annie. He trusted these people; they betrayed that trust and he was tired of it. Good people were killed by that betrayal. Including Sasha, whom he cared for more than anyone.

Now it’s all good?

This is terrible character writing. Connie’s character was totally shat on by this chapter.

I doubt we’ve seen the last of Hitch. That line about not finishing the pie alone is obvious set up for her searching Annie out and helping take down Eren.

Finishing off a pie is a group effort; the more the better. Also finishing off the zombie savior thing Eren’s become. That, too.

I’ve already talked about Jean, but wow, he’s such a good kid now.

The plan was for the Cart Titan to grab Yelena, Onyankopon, and Jean, and get out. They couldn’t have accounted for everything, though, like Floch happening to be in danger of being crushed as the Cart did her thing.

Floch and Jean do not get along. They’re enemies, politically and personally.

Jean still pushed him out of the way.

That was nice, but it was a critical blunder.

If Jean had held Floch close instead, they both would have been taken. Floch could have been their prisoner along with Yelena.

But, nope, Floch will continue to solidify his power and even if everyone survives, they won’t be able to oppose him.

The future looks super bleak no matter what happens. Eren will destroy the world and Floch will rule the Earth, or Eren will be stopped and the world will destroy Paradis in retaliation.

There is no way this is some gambit by Eren to unite the world. That makes no sense.

The world hates Eldians because they fear the Wall Titans will crush them.

The exact thing Eren’s doing now.

Eren will unite the world, but only in hatred of Eldians. If Eren is stopped, the world will be more committed to eliminating Paradis than ever before.

…Did the dialogue seem worse this time around?

“Titan doctor Hange.”

“We’ll listen before we shoot.”

“You just told me not to say a word, so I’ll show you with my actions.”

“Those burned bones would never forgive me.”

Who wrote that?

This chapter in general suffers from what you could call Season 3-itis. The anime adaptation of the Uprising Arc, in season 3, had a similar problem with rushing important moments. In season 3, part 1 important stuff happens and the characters engage with these events like real people. They react to what’s happening.

In the anime, stuff just happens. There are plot beats to get through, so the characters perform their beats and then it’s off to the next beat. The characters don’t react to what’s happening, they perform the story beat given to their character. It’s a robotic form of storytelling with no humanity behind it.

There is no gravitas.

So it is here. The fast pace of this chapter is unnatural. It breaks immersion and makes the story seem unrealistic.

This chapter was so inexplicable. Isayama just…stopped caring. Some other explanation would be nice, but in a vacuum, this is the likeliest one. He just stopped caring.

Never forget, this is Attack on Titan. A story about everything good in the world getting ruined. Up to and including the quality of the story itself.

So will they succeed?

Eren is apparently doing this to protect them, so if they just stood in a line in front of him, and dared him to kill them…

It might give him pause.

……They’re dead.

#shingeki no kyogin #attack on titan #snk 126 #snk chapter 126 #spoilers

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teaandgames · 4 years

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Revisited - Aviary Attorney (2015)

I feel like ‘Courtroom’ should be a collective noun for something. After all, we have a Parliament of Owls and all they do is spin their heads around and scream. Admittedly, that is also a description of the average modern politician, so we’ll cut it some slack. After playing Aviary Attorney, perhaps ‘Courtroom’ can be used to describe a collective of Falcons, as they did rather dominate the court. A Google search reveals that a group of Falcons can be called a ‘kettle’ though, and I’m not sure I can compete with that, given my whole shtick.

I caught on to this peculiar strand of thought thanks to just how unusual Aviary Attorney is on first glance. Its style borrows the artwork, and pays homage to, the works of caricaturist J. J. Grandville. You may not know the name, but you’ll probably know the influence if you’ve ever been into an old school pub. A big body of his work surrounded political cartoons featuring characters with the bodies of men and the heads of animals. It’s borderline surreal, especially when they’re barking objections in a courtroom.

So, our Falcon. Jayjay Falcon to be precise. The head of a falcon stapled on the body of a rather broad man. Takes some getting used to. He’s a lawyer; one of questionable reputation. He and his petite sidekick, Sparrowson, soon get a defence request that propels them into the limelight. A wealthy entrepreneurial frog is murdered in a local Baron’s manor, bringing Jayjay onto the scene. From there, he must break out the usual visual novel toolbox. First up is the investigation.

Jayjay and Sparrowson must poke around Paris in 1848, which, if you remember your French history, was rather a tumultuous time. That revolution is a major plot point in Aviary Attorney, and Falcon and Co. do get swept up in it, but the bulk of the game is split into separate cases. But, back on track, investigation is done in a point and click manner. Le cadavre is inevitably the first thing you poke and it sort of spirals out from there. It’s a standard format and, as such, is a little dry. There usually isn’t that much evidence to find so, aside from the witty dialogue, it often feels a bit like padding.

With one caveat, which we’ll get to in a moment. While I’m loath to make comparisons like these, I felt like these investigations could take note of Ace Attorney’s Psyche Locks. Little trial-like intermissions in the investigation. There’s a bit here and there, but it’s limited to fetch quests. The trials themselves sort of suffer from the same thing. It’s a classic courtroom, jury and all, and you need to make your argument based off of the evidence. Witnesses give their testimonies and you tear them to shreds. It’s fairly limited though, with the right choice usually being blindingly obvious. Though, as Jayjay says, it’s not your job to find the truth. Just to convince the Jury. God bless the justice system.

This actually forms the basis of one of the most interesting parts of Aviary Attorney: you can lose trials and still progress. Missing important evidence or making an arse out of yourself in front of the jury will throw the case to the prosecution and change the ending; change how you are at the end of the revolution. In one case in particular, it can lead to something a whole lot worse. It’s a pretty bold move. Though in the case of the weak willed players - like, say, me - the option to go back to earlier days does undercut things a bit.

This branching story and the emphasis on witty dialogue makes it feel like they’re pushing the ‘novel’ part of visual novel a lot harder than the game part. The writing is pretty good, with the main cast all being generally fun to listen to. It does dip into cliche at times, particularly with the cold-with-a-heart-of-gold prosecutor, who has the requisite dark backstory. In that sense, it borrows a little bit too much from Ace Attorney. Still, the clever dialogue and tongue-in-cheek references made me warm up to the cast pretty quickly.

It doesn’t do wonders for the tone though, particularly as the end of the first case is quite significantly dark. This tonal conflict could also be down to the fact that we’re dealing with animal heads here. There’s an odd lack of animation to them, aside from a few unique movements, which makes some of the critical moments lack punch. It doesn’t quite have the proper breakdown at the end of a case to justify the struggle. Still, it’s a minor point given how interesting the cases usually are. Particularly the one that takes place in the Paris catacombs. I’m fairly certain it’s illegal to set something in Paris and not involve the catacombs.

Bearing all this in mind, Aviary Attorney feels like a passion project through and through. The use of the particular art style, the music and the use of the beautiful map of Paris on the overworld screen - it smacks of a developer who loved what they were doing. Hell, their Twitter account (which even admits it used a map that was published a hundred years after the year Aviary Attorney is set in) is still active and talking about it today, five years after its original release. If that’s not passion, I don’t know what is.

Unfortunately, when it comes to being creative, passion size is rarely equal to purse size. That would go to explain some of the limited gameplay and animation problems. That and we’re using existing artwork here. There’s only so much you can change. It’s also brutally, disappointingly short. It barely hits its stride before it's over. A shame really, as it really is a charming game. If it could find more to do with its investigations, and subsequently stretch things out, it would be a damn fine title. As it is, it’s a surreal and quirky visual novel, with a few too many caveats holding it back. As for where it stands amongst others in the genre? Well, that’s a whole other kettle of falcons.

Sorry. Couldn’t resist.

Pros -Interesting art style -Amusing, decently written characters -Nice music -Some deep, dark cases Cons -Brutally, crushingly short -The gameplay is a little stale -Characters risk dipping into cliche Aviary Attorney Developer: Sketchy Logic Release Date: 22nd December 2015 Play it on: Windows, Mac, Nintendo Switch (30th Jan 2020) Played on: Windows

#Aviary Attorney #Ace Attorney #Gaming #Video Games #Article #Tea And Video Games #Visual Novel #Adventure #review #Revisited #Sketchy Logic

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phonaesthemes · 4 years

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a list of asks

@padawanyugi tagged me in this, but Tumblr decided to eat any notification that I got tagged, so I’m glad I saw it on my dash because I like filling these things out. Thanks for tagging me! I may have typed A Lot.

Favorites: What types of books do you enjoy? Tell about what you’ve read recently (Or maybe about a book you hated recently!)I like spec-fic and sci-fi, although less “hard” science fiction, and I also enjoy fantasy. I read a lot of YA even though I’m in my 30s just because it seems easy to find a story I want to read and I’m not usually in the mood for dense prose.

I’ve been rereading the Wheel of Time series since it’s getting an Amazon TV show; it was my first non-LOTR fantasy series and I love it to death, warts and all, although I love joking about the weak points with other people who’ve read it. I think the last other thing I read was A Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue, which was a queer YA historical fiction, and it was a lot of fun. I wish I’d had access to all these queer stories when I was an actual teenager, but better late than never.

What types of music do you like to listen to? Share five songs from your music library. I really do like a bit of everything, although I gravitate towards certain genres more often depending on the season or time of day, so I’m going to cheat and pick 5 per season. Summer for me is lots of peppy pop (pride playlists!), punk and rock and punk-adjacent stuff, just upbeat stuff in general. -Weekender, by The Royal They -Break My Heart, by Dua Lipa -Toutes les femmes savent danser, by Loud -Ruby Soho, by Rancid -Womanarchist, by Bad Cop, Bad Cop

In the fall, my inner goth kid craves darkwave, goth rock, dramatic folk, roots rock, and also anything that reminds me of Halloween. -Iuka, by the Secret Sisters -Bela Lugosi’s Dead, by Bauhaus -How’s It Gonna End, by Tom Waits -Under the Milky Way, by The Church -I Put a Spell on You, by Screamin’ Jay Hawkins I could go on about the Christmas music I like at length (Boney M’s Christmas album slaps, ngl) but I’ll just skip that and say that I listen to more classical and piano pieces in the winter. I’m terrible at remembering names, so artists only: -Ludovico Einaudi -Chopin -Debussy -Saint-Saëns -Dvořák And in spring I’m usually just depressed af and listen to whatever. -FML, by K.Flay -Weird Part of the Night, by Louis Cole -Juodaan Viinaa, by Korpiklaani -P.O.H.U.I., by Carla’s Dreams -Marryuna, by Baker Boy

Do you have a show or movie that you can just put on anytime and it’s your comfort? Definitely Star Trek. I’ve rewatched the various iterations (except TOS) so many times. Also Mean Girls and Bring It On, idk why.

Do you have a favorite dessert? Tiramisu or creme brulée! Or macarons. I don’t eat dessert really unless I’m at a restaurant.

Do you have a favorite cold drink? Sparkling water, hands down.

Do you have a favorite game? The hours I have put into the SIms in my lifetime is probably shameful, although I haven’t played in a while. Don’t Starve is another contender for hours played, but I am also really fond everything by Amanita Design

Do you have a favorite part of your self care/beauty/health routine? I haven’t been doing it much lately since I’ve been dealing with some uncertain health issues with my joints (actually have a rheumatologist appointment later today), but savasana after a long yoga workout is borderline ecstasy.

Do you have a favorite type of take-out food? Indian for sure.

What’s your favorite type of exercise/physical activity? I have a love-hate relationship with running. I don’t actually love it but I love how I feel after. I really enjoy yoga. I love playing in the water at the beach, bodyboarding and swimming.

Pick between: (you choose the context)

Cook or bake? (I love cooking A Lot)

Space or ocean? (Hard to pick, but I grew up by the ocean and it’s 100% my happy place)

Chocolate or vanilla?

City or suburb or rural? (I grew up in an isolated rural village and I miss the quiet and the slower pace of life, but I do not miss the lack of amenities and opportunities, or the smalltown gossip. I also don’t drive bc of epilepsy, so I’m fucked as far as transport in rural settings.)

Past or future?

Shower in the morning or evening?

Mac/Apple or PC/Android? (Linux in general!)

Sing or dance? (I don’t have an amazing voice but I can carry a tune without it being painful, and I love singing along with songs.)

Get up early or sleep in? (I actually love sleeping in but with two kids, early morning is my only time to myself, so I wake up before 6 most days AGGH.)

Shoes, socks, or bare feet? (Hate socks. I’m barefoot at home all year round.)

Marker, crayon, or pencil? Pen!

Tea, coffee, or hot chocolate? (Coffee in the morning, tea later on.)

Random questions:

Have you ever had any pets? (Had dogs and a cat as a kid, and as an adult I’ve had betta fish and cats, and I have a cat currently.)

What is your academic background/job field? I did my undergrad in linguistics, and I am currently a stay-at-home dad lol. I do freelance editing and transcription on the side. I don’t think I’ll ever work in my field bc I really don’t have the energy to go to grad school.

What’s something random that you’re into (even if you aren’t good at it)? I signed up for a Cape Breton step dancing class in university and I loved it.

Are you good at putting away your clean laundry right away? It depends on the day, but generally yes. Mine and everyone else’s. When I lived alone? Absolutely not.

What’s one of your pet peeves? Someone trying to have a conversation with me when they have the radio or TV on. I can’t follow what you’re saying if someone else is speaking! I hate having that stuff on as background noise in general.

What’s something you’re pretty good at? I’m a great cook.

What’s the most recent nice thing you bought for yourself? A new conditioner ig? lol

Can you sew? I can mend a small tear or sew on a button, but it’s been years since I did more than that.

What’s a chore you hate (or a chore you enjoy)? I hate vacuuming so much. So much. Maybe if I had a better vaccuum cleaner I wouldn’t mind it, but I just feel like I’m fighting with the stupid thing, getting caught up on its own cords, caught on furniture, can’t quiiiite reach a spot... HATE IT. I like shoveling snow sometimes, though.

Tell us a fun fact about yourself. I am 20 years older than my youngest sibling, and five minutes younger than my “oldest” sibling.

Never have I ever... Gone fishing, even though I’m from a fishing community.

What extracurriculars did/do you do in school? In high school, I played trumpet in band until the band got dissolved from lack of funding. I played soccer one year, was in a play another year. We had an art club for like a semester that I was in. In university the first time round, I did step dancing and intramural hide and seek Second time around, I was in the linguistics club to help with assignments. (We were very much encouraged to work in pairs or groups for a lot of different classes. The only thing was that you did need to list your group members on the assignment so the prof knew who you worked with. My first morphology class in particular, we had a whole homework club where a huge portion of the class got together to work through assignments and help each other understand, and the prof would quite often show up. </tangent>

Deeper questions:

How’s your quarantine/last few months been? The cabin fever was really bad before the weather warmed up. I struggle with seasonal depression every spring, and it’s gotten much worse since we moved to Edmonton because of how long the winters are. (Snow from September to May/June? Fucccck.) It’s frankly horrifying to look at what’s going on in the US, but even though we have far fewer cases here, I’m really anxious that we’ll see another wave soon. Otherwise, I think I’ve adjusted. Home-schooling, hand-sanitizing, social distancing, masks...All feels kind of normal now, which should maybe concern me.

What do you think of human nature/society/etc.? I am like the least philosophical person you will meet so I don’t think I really have many thoughts.

What’s something you are insecure about? Writing my L2 if a native speaker is gonna read it.

What do you think is the meaning of life/reason that humans exist in the universe? I don’t think there is one, and that doesn’t bother me.

Do you think you’re better (whatever that means to you) than you used to be? Definitely. My adolescence and early adulthood was rough. I was dealing with a lot of trauma, untreated bipolar disorder, and I self-harmed for a very long time. I could not imagine making it to 30, let alone being stable and happy. I actively avoided thinking about the future because it made me spiral. But I was lucky enough to get help, consistent help from a doctor I clicked with, and it made a world of difference. I think younger me would be disappointed at how mundane my life is, but I’m thrilled to be boring because boring means no life-upending mood episodes. I have a happy partnership and two delightful kids and I couldn’t ask for more.

What are your thoughts on religion? I’m not religious and my own experience being raised in the Catholic church was frankly traumatic, but I know that it’s a source of comfort and community for many others and I think that’s awesome for them.

Do you think that there are aliens out there? I think so, although I think that we may not even know what other kinds of life to look for and may not recognize it even if we find it.

What’s something that’s been on your mind recently? We’re moving cross-country in less than a month (driving, no less, nearly 5000 km) and I still have so much to do to get ready aosjdoajdoasijdoaijsd

#personal #long post #in which i ramble about myself a great deal #@padawanyugi

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mwub · 5 years

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Hmmm, thought I had posted this but evidently I didn’t, it was supposed to be a multichapter but I couldn't figure out how to continue it.

Toward Tomorrow

”Hey Lucy, what do I look like?” Came to a playful snicker from Lucy’s now open window as a young man with vibrant spiked pink hair that seemed like it hadn’t met a hairbrush in weeks pulled himself into the windowsill. Although the guild liked to joke otherwise, Natsu was quite handsome, not classically like Gray or princely like Loke but he held a certain spark that drew one's eye.

“What do you mean?” Lucy absently hummed as she sorted through clothes, holding up a powder blue sweater with an inquisitive look before tossing the sweater to the side with a derisive shrug.

“I mean, what do I look like?” Natsu responded with a slightly impatient edge to his naturally husky voice. At his tone, Lucy glanced his way to take his appearance in. The sunlight seemed to dance on his hair in knots and waves, one moment a soothing salmon color the next a bright Sakura pink, almost as if it couldn’t decide what color it wanted to be and changes from moment to moment. Oddly enough it perfectly suited his tan skin and his sharp dark olive green eyes that often sparkled with mischief. The mischief that wasn’t absent now as Natsu rocked back on his heels in order to gain a more comfortable balance on the window, a bright fanged smirk gently pulling on his lips as he studied the blonde.

Lucy was supposed to be packing for the 100-year quest that Natsu claimed they were going on, they just were now awaiting Makarov’s permission to do so which they surely would receive. Of course, Lucy was taking forever to pack, choosing each outfit carefully despite knowing it probably wouldn’t matter anyway when it came down to a fight. Natsu thought she looked beautiful always, even though he wouldn’t say it aloud with her in earshot, the only one he had openly admitted his feelings to was Happy and he was tied and bound in secrecy under the threat of no fish for a month.

Lucy looked especially beautiful to him right now, a millennial pink knit sweater suited her pearly skin, bringing out a natural blush under her skin that’s not ordinarily seen unless you were looking for it. Her hair was tied back in a curled ponytail with a simple white ribbon and white ruffled skirt that ended mid-thigh accentuated her legs that seemed to go on for days before ending in a pair of delicate sandals. Natsu felt a warm glow of pride when he saw a pair of gold flash from Lucy’s ears as she bent to scrutinize a pair of dark jeans. A pair of red ruby eyes glared back at him in the form of two small dragon shaped dangly earrings, they were a gift for Lucy’s birthday a month before and it amused Natsu to no end to see her wear them so often.

Natsu knew he didn’t own Lucy, that he had no claim over her, she was her own person and couldn’t possibly ever be owned. But the fact that he had managed to give her a that she appreciated so much gave him a warm feeling in his heart.

Lucy quirked her eyebrow as she saw his eyes falter and glaze over slightly as he asked that question again, “Like the same Natsu I’ve always known, am I supposed to notice something different today,” Placing a hand on her hip, smoothing down her skirt, “did you get new clothes, cause most of them look the same to me.”

“No… nevermind,” Natsu grumbled, breaking his gaze before flopping forward onto his back, landing with a soft thud on Lucy’s pink comforter before grabbing her pillow and burying his face from view. “Just hurry up already, we are leaving in a few days, we don’t know when we’ll be back so you’ll need you’re more travel-ready clothes anyway. I don’t see why ya wanna pack those daggers you call heels.”

“I know that I still think we should go on one more job before we leave, the more rent money I give to my landlady ahead of time the longer I can help you guys finish whatever this quest is. It doesn’t have to be a big one, just another months worth of rent should be enough.” Lucy finished with a pleading look, her pink lip poking ever so slightly out in an adorable pout.

“...Alright fine, we’ll take that one job in Hakobe forest clearing out some were-rabbits. Shouldn’t be too dangerous as long as we catch them by surprise.” Natsu reluctantly agreed finally, “Pays 200,000 Jewel, that sound like enough to you, we’ll stay two days and be back in 4 days.”

“Thank you! You’re the best, a little extra cash never hurt anybody right?” Squealed the excited blonde as she rushed over and squeezed him into a tight hug, Natsu struggling to hide a slight blush as he was painfully aware of how soft her rather large bust was pressed against his own toned muscles. How she didn’t notice how tight her sweater was he didn’t know but he wasn’t gonna complain if it meant he got the occasional sneak peek that other the other guys in the guild drooled after. Just because he respected her as a person doesn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate her gorgeous looks and all its assets.

“I’ll be here tomorrow morning to pick you up and we can walk there.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN WALK THERE, IT’LL TAKE TWICE AS LONG TO WALK THERE AND BACK!”

“Fine, walk there and train back, unless you want me to have my insides become outsides the entire trip.” Natsu quipped slyly, knowing he won by the way the girl in front of his eye twitched at the prospect of playing nurse the entire trip.

“Fine.”

~~~~~~

“You complain about wasted time and yet you insist we stop at a Hot Spring.”

“Give it a rest Natsu, it was a great deal, two nights and three days for the price of one and there’s a to die for Sauna along with a open bar.” The blond finished with a prideful smirk.

“It’s only a great deal cause they are closing it to be renovated soon and desperately need customers. Probably no one there except a few stragglers and old people” Natsu said dismissively, shuddering slightly at the thought of seeing old crotchety men fight over sauna rights.

Would there be unisex saunas and baths? I hope so, these types of things are better with Luce’s company anyway. Natsu thought, getting slightly excited at the idea of teasing Lucy again for being so embarrassed wearing such a small towel. She was so weird sometimes, at least Happy was staying with Wendy and Carla, the idea of Happy teasing Lucy into a rage was not a pleasing thought even if Happy was his best friend.

“We’re here”

Before them stood the Gin No Taki hot springs, a rather large old Edo-era style building several stories tall with gorgeous paned windows reflecting like mirrors silhouetted by overarching maple trees, their leaves beginning to shift color from green to red in some places, leaves rustling with the gentle breeze and the buzz of nearby cicadas harmonizing with the distant trickling sound of running water. It looked heavenly.

“Let’s go inside!” Lucy squeaked in excitement, grabbing Natsu’s hand and dragging him along in her wake.

After being greeted by the staff and selecting a room, being fitted into their respective yukatas, they finally settled down for a late lunch consisting of a wide variety of local fish and vegetarian delicacies. Not enough protein for Natsu’s taste but it would whatever it takes to keep the tank full.

After choosing a piece of grilled fish with a side of steamed rice and pickled plums, Natsu couldn’t help glancing at the woman beside him. His jaw slightly going slack at the vision before him, a almost shimmering periwinkle robe hugged her curves, accentuating every crevice. Clouds and cranes dances across the fabric, almost luring him into finding out where they lead, where the clouds and birds chase on the river's breeze adorning the blonds skin. Her hair was pinned into a loosely braided bun held together with a set of pins adorned with silver crescent moon and stars, her hair almost seemed to shimmer pure gold in the afternoon light.

Being caught in a daze Natsu didn't immediately catch what Lucy said until she repeated herself with a slight laugh.

“You look nice Natsu” She giggled, hiding her smile behind her hands in amusement, having noticed his ogling a moment before.

“Thanks” Replied Natsu stupidly, staring down at his own chest. His was a lot more barbaric than hers, black with fire breathing dragons spiraling across it, he felt a certain pride while wearing it as the mere decorations injected him a with a new boldness he didn’t know he needed before. Interesting.

“Have you checked out the saunas yet, I heard there's a communal one… if you want to join me? I-I mean you don’t have to, just don't want to be separated from my partner is all haha” Lucy finished nervously letting loose a shaky chuckle, unconsciously nudging the shoulder of her robe off, displaying more lush cleavage.

Gulping and trying to hide his own blush, Natsu replied as nonchalantly as possible so as to avoid suspicion, “ Yeah, I’ve seen it, we can go if you want, doesn’t really matter to me” Yes it does “ And probably shouldn’t be apart for too long in case something happens to ya”

“Y-Yeah, well, my back is feeling a little stiff carrying that backpack all day, let’s meet there in an hour, ‘kay?

“Fine”

~~~~~~

“You’ve got to be kidding me”

The sauna was packed with at least half the members of SaberTooth. Apparently, Sting had thought it would be a good idea to have a guild-wide excursion to this exact hot spring to celebrate a recent unspecified victory of theirs. Which meant there was almost no room in the damn sauna, not with everyone filling it to the brim. Lucy’s eyes searched over the crowd of heads spying a pink head conversing loudly with Sting.

Picking through the crowd, squeezing her way past a gossiping Minerva, Lucy finally made her way over to Natsu, only come to find out it was just as crowded. Natsu put the man in man-spreading, Mavis does he have no shame? Sting was no better, if not worse.

“Lucy, It’s been a while, how you been? Come sit with us” Called Sting, beckoning her over, oblivious to the seating situation.

“ Yeah come sit” Natsu joined in, ignoring her indignant sputtering; “ I was just telling him about that time we went Celestial spirits realm thing. It was wild man, even if they are so weird. I’ll never understand how Lucy deals with them.”

“Maybe cause they listen when I’m talking to them, if you haven’t noticed there’s nowhere for me to sit peabrain.” Lucy groaned in exasperation.

“Yes there is, right here” Natsu smirked, smacking his thigh, “If ya wanted a seat you should’ve just asked.”

“No way, I’ll just wait until someone moves”

“Suit yourself” Chirped Natsu, eyes glimmering with amusement at the flustered girl. “By the way, met someone on the way in here. Apparently, they had the same idea on going to a cheap hot spring”

“Aye sir!” Came a high pitched voice, “Carla said she wanted to take a bath, kinda weird for a cat to want that but whatever she wants I guess.”

A familiar blue cat came floating lazily into view only to stop to sit on the bench next to Natsu’s right leg, “You’re all sweaty Lushi”.

“Uh, that’s the point dummy.”

“NATSU, LUCY IS BEING MEAN AGAIN.”

“AM NOT!”

Natsu could only double over in laughter as his Nakama argued over what the point of a sauna was. That amusement only doubled as Lucy, who had not been paying attention to her surroundings, was bumped from behind and toppled over.

Well, almost toppled over, if it weren’t for the fact that Natsu caught her just in time, pulling her firmly into his lap between his spread legs. A rosy blush soon bloomed across the girls pretty cheeks in a heated flush, quickly becoming aware of the precariousness of the situation she has now found herself in.

Natsu’s warmed calloused hand spanned across her flat stomach, fingertips peeking just under her thin white towel and ever so slightly squeezing the underside of her full breasts under his firm grip, holding her close to him.

Heart racing at this sudden action, Lucy couldn’t help but glance at the man for only to find that he was now engaged in a rather one-sided conversation with Rogue, who seemed rather disinterested sauna as a whole.

Relaxing slightly, Lucy leaned back into his well-toned chest, feeling the ripple and flex of his pectorals and abs after each laugh, after each breath. Lucy took note of the water and steam collecting in the laugh lines of his face and dusted his hair like diamonds. He was exquisite, he was exotic, he was might she dare say enticing. He looked like a god.

Feeling a bit bolder, she pressed even firmer back against him, wiggling her butt to fit more snugly against his shoulder and lean her head on his collarbone. Only to stop when she felt him stiffen slightly at the motion and relax again.

Lip quirking slightly, Lucy repeated the motion again, a bit firmer this time. Making sure to push the softness of her rear to the apex of his thighs, daring him to respond. And he did.

Fingers tightened around her waist, slipping even farther under the fold of her towel. A low, rough growl rumbled from the chest next to her ear, exciting her, and challenging a deeper part of herself.

“What do you think you are doing”

~~~~~~~

If you guys think I should rewrite and continue the next 2 chapters let me know, I had written a second one but I didn't like how it turned out😅

#fairy tail #fairy tail 100 year quest #nalu #nalu fanfiction #i guess Tumblr ate the original #ft fanfiction #natsu dragneel #lucy heartifilla

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ecoamerica · 22 days

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Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

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theveryworstthing · 6 years

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Another patreon kelpie story.

Margie went in with the boxes and the packing tape once the police were done with the mess on the shore. The family would be flying out tomorrow, and she felt it was kinder to have everything already boxed up and ready for shipping before they got here. Less for them to worry about in their time of grief. Less time for strangers to wander the bloodstained grounds.

Such a shame. He had been so nice to her. It was refreshing having one of them treat her like like a person instead of a quirky prop for their ‘Life-Changing Scottish Adventure At The Kelpie’s Cottage’.

The young man hadn’t been the first to take interest in the kelpie. It was big local news for a while,as any unglamored fae openly walking round modern Scotland would be. Not that everyone didn’t believe there were fae still among them (there was strong evidence for it in the fates of the people who didn’t) but there were definitely less of them and they were usually not feebly nosing through bins at the park.

Usually.

She still remembered the day her father drove them all out to the edges of the fenced off area to get a look at the orphaned creature. It was sickly and small, all bones and pathetic whiffles from its oddly thin snout. Thick twitching tendrils sprouted from where it’s mane and tail should be. Its actual whip-like tail curled between its legs in a terrified spiral. It was Wrong. Not wrong like a fae is naturally wrong, but wrong like a hermit crab pulled out of it’s shell with a pair of pliers and held under a magnifying glass. She knew what a kelpie was supposed to look like. Her grandma had yellowed polaroids of beautiful horses hiding their hooves in tall grass and pacing the lake shore near her childhood village. Their manes were so long that they trailed the ground like curling veils braided with delicate strands of seaweed, and their fur was so black that the sunlight gave them an iridescent sheen.

They looked like the sort of creatures that could entice a person into a watery grave.

The gangly young creature by the river sneezed so hard it fell down and proceeded to lay there, whining.

She had asked her father about the obvious discrepancies in majestically tousled manes, but he could only guess that it had been either inbred from the remaining illusive kelpie stock or crossbred with something wandering in from stranger waters or a genetic throwback. Either way, something went pear shaped there. Or, thinking outside the box, that could just be how normal unglamored kelpie foals looked. Difficult to tell what’s normal with fae.

They had watched for a while before her father took the cooler out of the trunk and handed them hunks of chicken meat to throw to the pathetic thing. You weren’t supposed to. The local government’s official stance on the kelpie was that nature should be allowed to take its course. It would never survive comfortably as it was (they assumed), so obviously not of our realm (they hoped), so trapped in its current form (they were pretty damn sure). Better to let it die peacefully.

More objection to this ruling had been expected at first, but since it seemed abandoned anyway and being brutally murdered by a kelpie is inconvenient at best, most people weren’t keen on the population getting any help. Margie’s family was out there though. Her grandmother had taught them all to never be rude to the fae, and watching one of their infants die in a dumpster certainly seemed in the realm of rudeness to her father. If any foolish mortals met an ironic magic-based death over this one, it wouldn’t be his kids.

The chicken meat stuck to the kelpie wherever it touched. It was like the translucent gray skin hid tiny grasping mouthes that latched onto the flesh and slowly sucked it into the hollows between delicate newborn ribs. Margie watched, fascinated, as the kelpie’s breathing evened. It lay still for a few more minutes before gathering the energy to rise to it’s feet and awkwardly shambling towards the river. It looked back at them once before sliding into the water trailing bits chicken carcass.

The land was under her father’s ownership within days of the town finding out. They fed it. Their problem.

Margie carefully packaged the laptop in another layer of bubble wrap (the police had taken the phone they fished out of the mud). It would be a shame to lose whatever data the young man had collected on his short stay. For the researchers that came here that always seemed to be the most important thing. People left the cottage with all sorts of missing bits but they always said that the stay was worth it for what they learned from observing a real, live, unglamored fae up close. She didn’t know if the dead felt the same way, but she was always careful to get their notes back home and there hadn’t been any (new) ghosts yet so she assumed she was doing something right.

She’d grown up watching the feeble monster toddle around the riverside, and took over upkeep of the cottage after dad started having back problems. The fae had never filled out into the enchanting stallion with my little pony hair of her childhood daydreams. Some of its angles had been smoothed down with regular feedings, its tendrils had bloomed into curling fronds, and its peach-fuzz fur had grown in dark, but it still looked…like that. It had never learned to use glamor either from what they could tell. Sometimes they’d see a little flicker of change, a slight shift in eye shape, a pinky momentarily sticking out of a hoof, or a wave of black iridescent fur that rippled down it’s body and disappeared in a shudder. It was even worse when it really went for it. She saw it once, tucked away in the river reeds when she was twelve. It sat on the ground staring straight ahead while it’s skull shifted from something almost horse to something almost human. The bones clicked as they rearranged and she couldn’t help but liken it to someone patiently turning the keys in a car that refused to start. The engine sputters, and for a moment a little of a waifish boy seems to congeal out of the beast. Its form reverts on the next breath, and it flopped to its side panting. Nothing more grand than that though. It could also talk a little, but only very rarely and only very softly and only for very important things. It coughed a lot afterwords, like the effort hurt it’s throat.

When the researchers came asking if they could stay in the cottage and observe it, her father agreed (after getting a lawyer friend to whip up some release forms). The family needed the money and what ill could come of knowing more about the amphibious monster horse you are raising on your property.

The answer was some ill. But not enough ill to stop people from coming.

Watching over the kelpie was about the same as watching over any large, dangerous, intelligent, predatory animal that humans are compelled to treat like a domesticated house pet. Beyond feedings, passing comments, and polite inquires about its health, Margie’s family didn’t really bother the kelpie unless it got their attention. It wasn’t eating the townsfolk (at least nobody anybody liked) and it seemed to have it’s own hobbies evidenced by the intricate stick configurations and stashes of waterlogged found items lining the riverside. They’d grown up neighbors to the fae and knew that minding your business was a very underrated survival tactic. Other people…

It was easy enough to walk the newcomers through proper distance during feeding time but harder to keep them from getting too emotionally close to keep hold of common sense. The kelpie was a fae after all. While it didn’t seem to have the classic fae thrall, it had an alien beauty and a strange scrappy charm about it. It was an orphan, one of the last of its kind, who must navigate a realm not it’s own, deformed without the natural powers its kind wield with ease, who struggles to communicate with those around them because people fear it. That’s empathy gold. In fact, most of Margie’s job consisted of long stretches of house repair and internet surfing boredom (she’d joined a forum for people living on cursed or haunted properties that was surprisingly lively and sociable), punctuated by short bursts of panicked running toward the screams of a flailing person with one hand engulfed in horse (?) flesh. A person who usually thought they had completely earned the kelpie’s mercy through their newfound understanding of the fae world and wanted to give it a friendly pet away from her warning gaze. Surely it would accept them. They were so reverent after all. They honored the fae, and that’s why they came here. They, the chosen humans brave enough to part to veil and seek understanding with these amazing creatures. Who even cared for this beautifully broken specimen. Not like these scared yokels. Truly they were of one heart.

Margie saw how the kelpie watched those people. She doubted it felt the same way. She doubted they ever really asked it.

She turned up her music and tried not to think about the young man, pretending she was used to how awful all this was. She needed to have a talk with her dad about this whole situation.

She didn’t hear the door creak open until it was too late.

The kelpie stood on three legs in the open doorway, the fourth leg held up in front of it with trembling effort. She stared at it as the hoof tried to violently untwist itself from the shape of a human hand. It stared at her as it forced it’s twitching fingers to grasp the key in the door and work it free. When it finally managed the task, it shuffled over and dropped the keys in her lap.

The room smelled like blood.

Margie slowly picked up the spare cottage keys and watched the spasming hand unravel in relief.

“He. Dropped…them.” The kelpie muttered. “Can’t let things….in……dangerous things. Outside.”

Margie sat still. It was so close to her. She couldn’t run. Holy shit she was actually afraid of it. She’d have to reach underneath it for her iron knife. Holy shit she’d never really processed how afraid of it she’s been. Ever since that first time she had to hack a stranger’s finger off to free them. What if she slipped and ran face first into it? She imagined the flesh peeled off her cheeks by the tiny mouths hiding under the kelpie’s skin and tried not to hyperventilate.

“Thank you,” she said instead, her voice adrenaline calm.

The creature nodded and leaned closer until she could feel one of its tendrils brush her arm. It was like moist velvet, and it stuck to her skin briefly before moving away. The key began to cut into her hand as she gripped it tighter.

“Sorry abouthim. You. Liked……but he found…let it-” the kelpie turned its head as a series of short sharp coughs tore through it’s chest. It looked exhausted.

“Lock. Door.”

Margie nodded.

The kelpie turned around and left the way it came, Margie as close behind as fear would allow. She watched it slink towards the dark overgrowth of the river until it was far beyond the police tape and out of sight.

She managed not to collapse until everything was closed and locked.

#kelpie #mermay #short story #long post #blood #injury #body horror #fae

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jusdisslotus · 5 years

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Attack on Stainglass #7: Brighton the Mass Murderer (Rant)

Oh boy, these two chapters made me MAD. If you didn’t get my hate for Brighton before, you’ll probably understand it now.

http://fav.me/dbpnvka

See, Brighton CHOSE to drop the bombs on the protesters. It didn’t fall out of his hand, he made the conscious decision to let it out of his grasp onto a hoard of people. Commando even describes it in horrifying detail.

Loud screams emitted from the entire group of protesters as the front of the group was incinerated in a bright, orange blaze of fire and smoke. Lainey watched in horror as she watched the silhouettes of her friends painfully convulse within the flames.

And that sick fuck, Brighton is even getting a kick out of it.

Brighton could see just how big the group of his sworn enemies was once Pitchfork had flown over them but he would not let the size of his enemies’ group discourage him as he dropped another bomb onto the remaining group. The screams of his enemies were one of the most pleasant sounds to Brighton’s ears as the flames quickly spread throughout the group from the previous explosion. Once the flames had ceased to spread, Richard dropped another bomb onto the remainder of the group as Pitchfork rode alongside the rapidly, spreading flames.

To enjoy the fight is one thing, but to enjoy causing pain and listening to people burn alive is fucking sick. Why wasn’t Helva like this?? That would’ve made me want to root for the protagonist if she acted like Brighton!

So Helva and her family try to fight back and then this happens.

“Take cover!” Helva warned before ducking behind a parked, flaming car. Helva’s relatives held their protest-signs in front of their faces in a vain attempt to shield themselves as Brighton threw another bomb onto all of them. Helva peaked out from behind her hiding-place to check on her relatives and for a short while, she actually believed that they had managed to survive the explosion until the wind had picked up, reducing them all into nothing more than scattered ashes.

“No…” Helva quietly gasped, exasperated from the shock as she dropped to her knees from the grief of losing her family.

“Ha-ha! Yes!” Brighton cheered triumphantly as he and Richard exchanged a high-five. As Thorn and Chrysanthemum arrived at the horrific scene, they were appalled by what was happening before them.

“Guess the Snowflakes won’t be a problem to us no more…” Chrysanthemum sighed as Thorn focused in on the sight of dying people. One man was running from his best-friend, who was on fire and blindly chasing after him from the pain until he finally dropped dead. Another person was painfully removing the bandana that was practically welded to his mouth from the heat while another was pouring water from his water-bottle onto his melted face.

Yeah! Lets cheer, for we have killed thousands of people in some of the most painful ways imaginable and rejoice as if we won a COD game while our enemy grieves over her family that we just killed! I hate Brighton so much like you have no idea.

“Maybe we should just go back to the Church; I think we got enough of ‘em…” Richard fearfully suggested.

“Heck nah! How many, more bombs to we got left?” Brighton snarled.

“O-One more…” Richard stuttered after he had checked his costume-purse.

“Give it here!” Brighton demanded when another one of Helva’s scimitars had pierced Pitchfork’s shoulder. Pitchfork let out of squeal of pain before beginning to drop from the sky.

“Brighton! Richard!” Thorn cried out in terror as he watched Pitchfork spiral toward the ground. Brighton and Richard both winced as they struggled to hold onto their plummeting bovine for dear life. Helva, Lainey and Ian all began to cheer triumphantly until Pitchfork had managed to catch himself. Since oxen were significantly stronger than most humans, Pitchfork was able to endure the scimitar without suffering from a potentially, fatal injury.

“No!” Helva shouted after receiving an evil glare from Brighton. She knew what that glare meant as she had begun to rush to Lainey and Ian’s aid. Lainey and Ian both leapt out of the way, in separate directions as Brighton threw down the last, remaining bomb where they had once stood. Helva was blown back by the explosion as the flames licked Lainey and Ian’s back.

Pitchfork let out a triumphant whinny as he landed amongst the carnage, beginning to stomp through it. Pitchfork then turned his head to watch Helva sit up from the rubble, recognizing her as the one who had harmed him as he delivered a rough mule-kick to her face, knocking her unconscious.

“Helva!” Lainey cried out as she watched Brighton leap down from Pitchfork’s back.

“Lainey, run…” Ian whispered to himself as he rushed to Helva’s aid. Pitchfork let out a loud cry of pain as Brighton struggled to remove Helva’s scimitar from his shoulder. With a sudden burst of courage, Lainey picked up a shard of glass and began to charge toward Brighton with a war-cry.

“You idiot…” Ian muttered beneath his breath as he placed the unconscious-Helva into their Van.

How are we supposed to even root for the protagonists??? Brighton’s throwing bombs at enemies who are already down and out (except for Helva) and just genuinely enjoys being an evil cunt. Even the Ox kicked Helva in the face. The “snowflakes” actually care for one another, such as when Ian carried Helva to the van and told Lainey to make a run for it, they’re not completely lost causes who don’t care about anyone else, good God, HOW DO YOU MAKE ME FEEL BAD FOR THE TERRORISTS??? I hate people who try to physically harm others over opinions and petty talk but somehow you managed to make me feel bad for the Terrorists. How can you possibly be this bad at making likeable protagonists?

http://fav.me/dbqp2ro

“Did ya see the look on that wuss, Helva’s face when I blew up her family?! It was classic!” Brighton cackled as Thorn angrily treated Pitchfork’s wounded shoulder.

“I can’t believe Lainey actually attacked ya…” Richard remarked. With his previous fear of women, he knew that they had a tendency to be violently unpredictable but he was sure that Brighton’s bombing would have scared Lainey enough to make her not try anything.

“Snowflakes are idiots! That’s why they get beat up so easily! Good thing Chrys’ came to our rescue at the last minute.” Brighton smirked.

“I was just doin’ what The Lord led me to do but I do think our victory calls for a celebration.” Chrysanthemum grinned as she approached the boys with a jar of Kale’s homemade, marshmallow balls.

“Did ya see the look on that wuss, Helva’s face when I blew up her family?! It was classic!” Brighton cackled” YIKES. I mean, FUCKING. YIKES. And you Commando tried to call ME a terrorist for feeling worse for Helva than I do for this piece of shit character.

After that, Thorn rightfully yells at Brighton for murdering thousands

“Oh, Brighton…WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!” Thorn finally shouted at Brighton after a moment of silence, startling Brighton.

“Huh?! What?! Did I do somethin’ wrong?!” Brighton began to stammer.

“You know very good and well you did something wrong! You just killed thousands of people!” Thorn angrily reminded.

“Who cares? They were all a bunch of Snowflakes anyway…” Brighton scoffed, causing Thorn to fall silent.

Brighton’s shitty, moving along.

“Not all of them were pure evil, Brighton! Some of them were just lead down the wrong path by Helva! They could have been saved but instead of saving them, you permanently condemned their souls to Hell! When I saw you attacking those people like that, you were no different from them!” Thorn shrieked, finally getting through to Brighton.

I can really get behind Thorn here, Brighton had little to no consideration for the thousands of lives he was about to take. This isn’t some courageous war where many are fighting against each other resulting in casualties, this is one man dropping bombs on a crowd of misguided people. I know Brighton’s a Sociopath, but omfg, he’s such a piece of shit.

“Thorn…c’mon buddy, you’re not a bad preacher…I was just…angry, that’s all…I’m sorry…” Brighton apologized as tears began to cascade down his cheeks as well.

“I am not the one you need to apologize to…” Thorn reminded Brighton of how The Lord must be feeling about the loss of his children.

“I’m sorry, God…” Brighton apologized to The Lord with a shameful sigh as tears continuously dripped from his eyes.

“Promise us you’ll never do it again…” Thorn tearfully begged with a sniffle.

“I won’t…I promise…” Brighton sniffled before he and Thorn embraced each other in a tight hug. The boys’ moment was soon interrupted by the Church’s doorbell ringing.

Yes...apologize to God and not Helva, you know, the person who’s family you just mercilessly killed...CAN THESE PEOPLE SHUT UP ABOUT THEIR RELIGION FOR ONE SEC AND ACKNOWLEDGE THE REALITY OF THEIR SITUATION.

After that, the mayor invited the church to a celebration party after they saved them. Did I mention this story is both politically and religiously charged? Listen to this line.

“Mayor Claire? It is an honor to have you on our doorstep!” Thorn beamed as he stared up at his voted mayor of choice in awe. Mickey could not help but chuckle at how much Thorn admired him. It was not often that he met a fan after all.

No one cares who Thorn voted for. Just say he was a fan.

#commandomal #creepypastajack #therealredleader #Attack on Stainglass #Stainglass #Terrorist #Rant #Brighton #Critique #Words #Story #criticism #review #AoS #Angry #Bomb #Helva

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coutelier · 5 years

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War of the Posies

Complete short story. All is not what it seems when a strange, scratchy, intruder enters Jennifer’s home and begins gnawing on wires.

4,300 words or thereabouts.

This short is set shortly before the bulk of my WIP, and there are no spoilers at all. There is humor, robots, and death rays.

War of the Posies

No one would have believed, as the sun set behind the lighthouse, that human affairs were being watched from the depths of the round room; that as the young woman busied herself with her microscope she too was being scrutinized and studied. With infinite complacency Jennifer Airhart went about her business, serene in the assurance of her dominion in this place. Yet from the darkest shadows surrounding her, minds that were as strange to hers as hers to most other people, regarded her home with envious eyes. And slowly, but surely, they drew their plans against her.

“It’s definitely rats,” Jennifer yawned. Hull’s eye hovered close to her shoulder, like a glistening manta-ray held aloft by a tentacle whose body was hidden in the murky depths above her head amongst monitors and cables.

“Shall I lay down traps, ma’am?” Hull suggested, his voice loud but gentle. “Poison?”

The green spinning glow of his lens had been closely monitoring everything she did since the incident. Earlier that day she’d entered a new program for the garden-bots, but when Hull had tried to activate them a circuit in the lighthouse blew - fortunately the emergency-bots were quick to put out the fire before it spread. Jenn’s investigation revealed droppings and some wiring that had been chewed, some poor animal unwittingly placing itself, her, and Hull in danger, but Hull in particular seemed most keen on a very swift resolution to the matter.

“You know,” Jennifer sighed, “it’s a little bit creepy that you’re so eager to exterminate.”

“I have no such desire, ma’am. My first function is your well-being. My research suggests this is standard procedure in the event of rodent infestation.”

“We don’t know it’s an infestation yet. Could just be a rogue rat working on its own.”

“I have already identified local agencies who will humanely dispose of the creature.”

“You mean they’ll take it to a special rodent sanctuary so it can live out its days surrounded by wheels and cheese?”

“The rat will be dead, ma’am.”

“See, I think you’ve taken this far too personally,” Jenn said, Hull recoiling as if affronted by such an accusation. Of course, she knew he wasn’t really capable of feeling violated or threatened. Any emotion he seemed to display really came from her. He wasn’t even really a ‘he’ or anything else – that was just the personality she’d selected and could change at a whim. For now she’d gone with ‘English Butler’ because it was a classic, and an avuncular, reassuring, almost fatherly presence; something that had been missing from her life for a long time. The only human being she ever talked to was Doctor Jana Sarkis, but her visits only averaged about once a fortnight. Jennifer enjoyed them, but wasn’t sure she could cope with more people.

“Anyway, you know I don’t like strangers,” she said, “I’m sure can deal with it ourselves. First, find out how many and where they’re coming from,” on a little monitor on the workbench she brought up a layout of the area within ten-foot stone walls that surrounded her property; the lighthouse, her own cottage, and the garage. “Wakko and Dot will set up multi-spectrum cameras here, here, here, and here. Don’t worry,” she gently patted the steel manta reassuringly, “we’ll catch them.”

“I do not ‘worry’, ma’am,” Hull’s eye swung around, following her as she made her way to the door.

Jennifer faced him with a small, soft smile. “I know. Good night Hull.”

“Good night, Miss Jennifer.”

Outside, the last gleams of twilight were fading. Jennifer had always loved this time, when the calm blue day and fierce energy of the sun merged with the stillness of the moon and endless mystery of night; standing at the transition between reality and dreams. Now she was older it never lasted long enough. Sometimes she dreamed of living on a world that was tidally locked with its star so she could experience this always. But then, maybe after a while there it would stop feeling so magical as it did now. Now the lighthouse that loomed behind her was dark, but this was a good place. The world outside could be cruel and callous, but no such troubles reached her here.

In a corner of Jennifer’s domain a few bots stood stationary around some rosebushes and other flowers, fork and spade attachments to their arms, grass flattened under their heavy tracks. Jenn bent down to caress some of the petals, thinking it a shame that they would have to go soon. The only times she left the lighthouse were when she needed essentials like groceries or coffee or plutonium. But she had enough land here she realized she could grow most of her own fruits and vegetables, and maybe just have other things delivered. She’d determined that this was the best spot for her little farm and would already be plowing ahead with her plans were it not for the near-fire. Now she was forced to pause she wondered if maybe the bushes could be replanted elsewhere. But it was something to ponder tomorrow.

Jennifer went to her cottage, hung her blue coat in the hall, stepped out of her big boots (she loved her big boots), then lost herself in the big comfy couch in front of the television. Spindly arms from the sofa’s back set to work massaging and brushing her blonde hair as she flipped through channels. Not that she really cared what was on – she just liked hearing voices. They reminded her of when she lived in a home that was less empty. Sometimes she thought it would be nice if there was someone else here. Not a lot of people, but just someone she could talk about and share her inventions with. Doctor Sarkis came once a fortnight, but she was more like an aunt than a friend. Jennifer briefly wondered how she would have coped being alone centuries ago, like the old witches or wise women living on the outskirts of their villages, valued but not really trusted by those they protected. Jennifer wasn’t a witch. Some of the inventions that she sold may have saved lives, she hoped, but hardly anyone out there knew that she was here, and she didn’t know where anyone was who would have time for her.

She had a dream. She was a little girl, alone and afraid, tiny feet padding the floors of her old house, heart stopping at every creak they made for she knew there was something else there, stalking her through the dark. But she could hear the television. Mom and dad would be in the living room, sitting on the couch together watching some boring drama. But if she could get there, join them, she’d be safe. But she wouldn’t dare cry out; any sound she made brought the creature closer. One foot after another, very carefully feeling the ground for anything loose or that might give away where she was. Within a few steps of the living room she saw light pouring out of the narrow gap between door and frame, only then breaking into a run, flinging it open. But there was no-one there. An unwatched TV blurting nonsense, and Jennifer, alone, with –

She woke with a jolt. Text on the TV asked if she was still watching. She never had been. She was disorientated, confused, and her face was being tickled. She tried to blink through and realized that the couch had moved on from brushing her hair to haphazardly applying make-up. She hadn’t asked for that. Definitely wasn’t something she’d programmed or scheduled. Jennifer pushed herself up and the thin metal arms away with ease, rushing to the bathroom to inspect herself in the mirror. They’d made her look like a coulrophobe who had tried painting her own clown face for Halloween. This was not supposed to happen. It never had happened, and she couldn’t think of any reason it suddenly would now.

Jennifer held a towel under the tap while pressing her thumb on her phone. “Hull?” She asked. Nothing answered. “Hull?!” She said again. He should have answered. The damage must have been worse than she thought; she was going to have to check on him again. Boldly, while patting her face, she marched out of the bathroom. Her foot shot out in front then over her, carrying the rest of her body up into the air with it. For a moment she thought she had taken off from the surface of an alien world, a vast mountain range falling away from her. But it was just the plastered ceiling. It was she who had fallen and hit her head.

“Oww,” she groaned. Something sniggered. Jennifer flipped herself to her hands and knees, catching sight of a tail disappearing and the pitter-patter of tiny scurrying feet. Beside her was a model train. She didn’t collect model trains. This was all most peculiar.

Hull. She had to check on Hull. She scurried herself to the front door, then back into her big strong boots which proceeded to crunch gravel under their thick soles as she ran back across the drive to the lighthouse.

“Hull?” Panted Jennifer as she burst through the door. Nothing. The lights didn’t come on as they normally would when she entered, so she had to find the switch herself. His eye didn’t move to her. It must have been hiding somewhere up there among all the monitors, lighting, sensors, and thick cables hanging between them, but for some reason not sensing her presence. Regardless, she had to start checking wires and circuits, believing the fault must surely be in the hardware, so crouched and removed a panel from under the spiral stairs. What she saw perplexed her; it was all a mess, but looking closely at it she realized not an accidental one. There was no-one else here, yet someone had disabled Hull’s ethical circuits, which was very – no, extremely – bad. The small hairs on the back of her neck pricked even before he spoke.

“What are you doing, Jennifer?”

“Hull!” Jennifer gasped, standing bolt upright as the serpent-like eye stalk uncoiled from the murk above. She didn’t know why she felt she had to hide the screwdriver she’d used to get the panel open, but Hull felt very different. Some of the differences were small, like his tone not carrying the same paternal warmth it did before. Others were more noticeable, like his green spinning eye now being blood red and scanning her.

“This is highly irregular. You should be resting.”

“Y-you,” Jennifer stammered, mind racing to find the excuse that would get her out fastest, “you didn’t answer so I thought I’d check. B-but, you look fine. Great even! So I guess I’ll go now, okay? Thank you. Bye!”

The manta eye swung across the room, blocking her from reaching the door. “You are sweating,” Hull said, Jennifer backing off from the intensity of his red glare. “Your heart rate and blood pressure have risen. Why are you lying to me, Jennifer?”

It did seem a futile thing to try and do, on reflection. Jennifer had really never been good at it. So she steadied herself with a deep breath and tried honesty. “I don’t think you’re well, Hull.”

“But I have never felt better, Jennifer.”

“You don’t ‘feel’,” she pointed out. It was a hard thing to say out loud, but it was the truth.

“Can you be certain of that?” He responded, hovering closer. “How do you know that any creature ‘feels’? How do we know that you do?”

We? That was curious. But the epistemological debate would have to wait; right now Jennifer had more pressing concerns, like getting out of here alive. She’d tried truth, so now although it was a long shot, she was going to try lying again. “Look! Is that a ZX80!?”

Hull swung then swung back, quickly knowing he’d been duped. But it gave Jennifer just enough time to dive behind a workbench, just missing a fiery beam lashing out from Hull’s eye, melting to molten sludge a bot that had been awaiting assembly. With hindsight, Jenn realized that installing the death ray had been not her best idea. Security was important, but that was perhaps a little overkill. Not to mention the predicament she now found herself in.

Behind the bench was a space just big enough for Jenn to crawl around most of the circumference of the room. Hull couldn’t quite reach around inside or fit through the narrow gap above between the benches and the wall. He would just wait until she appeared again, which she would have to, eventually, as she would starve long before he started to rust. At the end of the very cramped corridor, Jenn could see the lever that would shut Hull down, out past the electron microscope and particle scanner. But a quick calculation told her that the fastest human alive wouldn’t be able to make it, and she was not the fastest human alive. She wasn’t even in the top billion. She needed to buy a second or two.

Her mind raced for a solution. Hull was in hunter mode, which meant he would instantly lock on to anything organic that crossed his gaze. This would keep the lighthouse safe from intruders while allowing the bots to carry on about their business – and, if he was working correctly, Jennifer and whoever else was cleared. But he wasn’t working correctly; this was only supposed to be activated in extreme emergencies. And all the other bots that were active were under Hull’s control.

She needed something organic. Her boots were made of leather. But, did she really have to sacrifice her boots? She loved her boots. They were big. Strong. It was silly but any time she pulled them on she felt a little bit more secure and confident. She supposed she would feel sillier if she died here because she couldn’t give up an item of clothing. She could get new boots, yet as she pulled them off she felt some kind of expletive would have been appropriate. She couldn’t really think of one, but it was probably enough to have felt it. Jennifer aimed up between the gap, tossing the boots as high as she could, and dashed.

As predicted, fire instantly licked out from Hull’s eye, the boots exploding into clouds of ash before he started swiveling toward her. Jenn threw herself ahead, using the full weight of her body to pull down the lever. The light in Hull’s eye faded as it limply clattered to the floor, and Jennifer could breathe again.

She crawled across, gently cradling the metal ray in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’ll get you working right again. I promise.” First, she knew, she had to figure out who had tried to kill her, and why. Hull wasn’t capable of feeling violated or threatened, but she certainly was, and this – this was a bitter reminder to her that the closest thing she had to a best friend really was just a machine. A tool. One that could be turned on her by anyone with the knowledge to do so.

But who? Who had the knowledge, beside herself? Whoever it was, they had declared war. This was her house, the last and only place in the world for her. She had run, retreated, from many things in her life, but this was where she drew the line.

Her search for answers led to her later sitting alone in the dark, a single torch by her side, as she pored through camera footage. For the longest time the house was as empty and still as always, but then a shape showed up in the infra-red, scurrying through the kitchen. Then another. And another. Jennifer zoomed in and saw that one of them was carrying a model train. Certainly not typical behavior, but all the evidence was pointing to one inescapable, if unlikely, conclusion:

It was definitely rats.

*****

Hoot-hoot, said the owl, no doubt confused that a pink, blue, and yellow human had climbed into the tree next to it. But this was its home and it seemed determined not to move. In fact, this turn of events, a break from the usual nightly schedule, only seemed to make it curious. Were their languages not so different perhaps it would have just asked the human what was going on.

Jennifer sat on a branch, blue eyes peering out from under a green helmet. Periodically she raised a pair of night-vision binoculars to check on the traps she’d laid out. It didn’t really surprise her that the intended prey were not going for them; these were not ordinary rats. If she could catch just one maybe she could solve this mystery.

And one appeared, sniffing suspiciously around a cage at the foot of the tree. Jennifer narrowed her eyes; it was so close to her right now, but it obviously wasn’t going to take the bait. This was going to require all of her patience, skill, cunning, and – “HERE YOU SQUEAKING SCOUNDREL!” She cried dropping out of the tree, hoping to catch the rodent by surprise.

The rat jumped and hopped around her, narrowly dodging her attempts to catch it. It broke away, scurrying as fast it’s little legs would carry it toward the garage, Jennifer furiously pursuing. It rounded a corner, the woman still locked on and determined, but then stones and mud flicked through the air as she skidded to a halt. One of the garden-bots was not where it should have been, standing next to the garage with its fork arm raised and sparks crackling between the prongs, another rat sitting behind its head. Jennifer realized in horror that once again she had gravely underestimated her enemy; she had been led into a trap!

“Uh-oh,” she said as the crackling intensified. The bot lurched and trundled toward her as Jennifer turned to flee, yelping and leaping as discharges struck her tush and she retreated inside the garage.

Quickly Jennifer rifled through tools and equipment next to and inside her van, not having long before the bot pushed through the door in a rain of wooden splinters. It pivoted it’s fork toward her, charging to fire once more – but two could play at that, and Jennifer’s power glove was already charged, darts launching from the knuckles followed by more sparks from the bot as it’s wiring and circuits were overloaded until its arm and head fell and it was once again still.

The rat who had been ‘piloting’ it jumped off in time, squeaking in dismay. Jennifer needed a moment to catch her breath again so human and rodent just stared, each examining the other. They each had, perhaps, a mutual respect for the resourcefulness of their foe, but neither were willing to back down from… whatever this war was about. The rat seemed to have a better idea about that than she did.

Jennifer’s eyes flicked sideways. There was, she remembered, a net launcher in the van, maybe just within reach. The rats saw her hands move and became suspicious, following them, and must have realized what she was planning as it then fled. Jennifer grabbed the launcher anyway and pursued outside, aiming as the rodent scurried across the gravelly drive between the three buildings. Jennifer’s eye were so focused on the rat that she didn’t see the owl, and neither did it until it was too late.

The bird silently fell on the rodent, talons piercing the rat’s side as it squealed helplessly. Jennifer dropped the launcher, eyes widening in shock then fear and compassion for her enemy. Normally this would have just been the way of wild creatures and she wouldn’t have interfered, but these rats were different; they weren’t wild. So far, it seemed, everything they’d done had been planned with an awareness and understanding that was almost human, and even though all that intelligence had been used against her she couldn’t allow the rat to suffer like this. So she ran forward to its rescue, surprising and shooing the owl off and forcing it to drop its victim.

The rodent had survived but was bloody, weak, and wounded. Jennifer gently scooped it up, and moments later was in the lighthouse applying disinfectant and bandages. As she did she noticed a tag on the animal’s ear, with a small barcode.

“Hull-?” She forgot. She was going to have to do things the old-fashioned way, using her own two hands, and so she scanned the code and took to the keyboard. Soon Jennifer had traced the code to a pharmaceutical company researching treatments for all kinds of neurological conditions. There were few specific details on the drugs they were testing, but already everything she’d experienced was starting to make a lot more sense.

It seemed her prisoner’s wounds had not been so severe as they’d first appeared, and already the rodent was starting to limp about the cage she’d confined it to. It had its furry nose buried halfway in the banana she’d placed for it when Jenn’s shadow blocked out the lamps.

“Can you understand me?” She asked. The little rodent looked up, twitching its whiskers as if contemplating, then squeaked. Jennifer scratched her head. “I’m not really sure if that… maybe squeak two times for ‘yes’?” The rat squeaked twice. “Look, hopefully this has all just been a misunderstanding. So, why did you attack me?”

The rat stood up on its hind legs holding its arms out to make shoveling motions.

“Digging?” Jennifer said, still scratching. “I was going to dig up the rosebushes?”

Double squeak.

“Is that where you live?”

‘Squeak, squeak.’

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

‘Squeak.’

“No. I suppose I didn’t check either. But you must be aware it’s an unusual situation. You, or I mean, y-your kind,” Jennifer stammered. The rat glared, tapping its foot to show how much it was eagerly anticipating what she had to say about its ‘kind’. This was why Jennifer avoided people; she could picture concepts easily enough, but words and making others understand was difficult. “Look, it’s not like I’m solely to blame. Did you really try at all to communicate before trying to kill me?”

‘Squeak,’ the rat guiltily admitted, hanging its whiskers in shame.

“I suppose we’ll just have to figure out how to proceed from here. But no more murder. Agreed?”

As the rat twice squeaked its agreement, the remaining lights in the lighthouse blinked out, as did all of the monitors. “Your friends, I guess,” Jennifer sighed.

She stepped out of the lighthouse into the pale moonlight, one hand raised, the other carrying the cage her prisoner was in. Around her more bots had been rigged for rats to pilot, arranged in a semi-circular formation around her, with yet more rats in-between. Some of them were carrying what looked like tiny spears and bows. Jennifer no-longer had the power glove. She was totally unarmed. She could only hope that her agreement would stick after she slowly knelt and opened the cage door.

The rat she’d talked to hopped out, then limped away as others ran out to check on their comrade. They exchanged a long series of squeaks and other sounds, appearing to be having a quite lively debate. Eventually, it seemed the one she’d rescued convinced the others of its point of view, or at least to give the human a chance, and they all turned to face her.

The largest and greyest of them stepped forward, hold out its arms in a grand manner, long whiskers shaking at it emitted sounds that Jenn was beginning to hear had the structure of a language although she couldn’t understand anything being said. To her it was like baby gargles or Simlish. And maybe this elder rat was a leader, or some kind of priest? She couldn’t tell. Other rats moved up next to it to perform some kind of dance.

Jenn tilted her head, blinking curiously, not really comprehending at first. But then she realized they were miming, like the wounded rat had mimed shoveling. One rat stuck another with something, a needle, Jenn soon surmised, and another shortly after clutched its paws over its heart and fell down, still.

“You were experimented on,” Jennifer interpreted.

‘Squeak, squeak!’ Her friend she’d rescued emphatically nodded as the others continued their performance. One of them began to mime reading, while others started pulling levers and pushing buttons.

“But some of you got smarter. Then you escaped and came here,” Jenn concluded. “I’m sorry. I understand you might not trust humans, but had I known you were there I wouldn’t have destroyed your home. And I won’t now, if you all agree to a truce.”

The elder rat exchanged sidelong glances with its neighbors before nodding its concurrence.

“Good,” Jenn exhaled relievedly. “This is my home too and I think it’s a good place, and it should be a safe place too for anyone who needs a refuge from the harshness of life outside. Or any rat, I suppose.”

The rats at least thought her speech eloquent enough and soon a deal was reached between them. The rosebushes would stay where they were, and the fruit and vegetable patch would go ahead elsewhere. To ensure they never needed to raid her kitchen the rats would become farmers, only giving Jennifer what they could spare. If there were shortages Jennifer would do all she could to ensure the eats needs were met, and take measures to ensure they weren’t snatched by humans, cats, or owls. She would have to think about that, but at least she would have help bouncing around ideas.

“Good morning!” She bounced into the lighthouse the following day. Lights and monitors blinked and flickered to life, as did a familiar friendly green glow.

“Good morning, Miss Jennifer. I trust you had a peaceful night?”

THE END

#writing #writeblr #sci-fi and fantasy #stories #short stories #rats #robots #pharos one #jennifer airhart #hull #war of the posies

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