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#if i were joe i would simply let her stab me
marithlizard · 2 years
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Ace Attorney: Rise From the Ashes (Day Three, Investigation) (part 8)
Last episode, my client confessed to a terrible crime on the witness stand.   Thankfully it's not the one she was on trial for.  The near-riot in court gives us a few more precious hours to investigate.  Whodunit is not a question in my mind, but I have many others including:
What did happen in the parking garage?
Why won't Lana tell us anything or act in her own defense?
What evidence did Mystery Sevens and Goodman remove from the locker?  At least the knife (which was later found in the tailpipe of Edgeworth's car, wrapped in Lana's scarf) but anything else?
(Huh. Could Mystery Sevens have been Lana?  seems unlikely, but)
How did an additional bloody, gloved handprint get on Gumshoe's locker?
Why so much blood on Goodman's trenchcoat?
Why has Gant been so determined to force Edgeworth out of his position?
Why were the evidence room shenanigans simultaneous with the  claimed parking garage murder?
That last one actually seems obvious enough - they weren't.  One of the times is wrong. But why would someone want to lie about that? Or even know enough to be able to?
Puzzled, we return to the office. Ema, you don't have to apologize for your sister.  Or for not explaining something you clearly didn't know.  
"That's why she used me...what happened to me"  - wha?  This sounds bad.
Ema says Joe Darke tried to kill her, and Marshall's brother got killed defending her.   But then why the need for falsified evidence?   Even with a melodramatic lightning storm and power outage,  she saw Darke grabbing Marshall and holding a knife poised to stab.   Seconds later Marshall was there bleeding to death, no one else around....open and shut, surely.
Oh. Oh, poor kid. She couldn't manage to talk on the witness stand, and the picture she drew wasn't considered good enough.   Still....the case against Lana today is full of logic holes and no one but us appears to care in the slightest.  Why did the case against Darke have to meet much more rigorous standards?
Phoenix and I are united in respect for Ema.   She's still frequently an airhead, but she's a barely-trained sixteen-year-old turning trauma into motivation.  Also she saved our butts in court this morning.
(Ema  thinks (understandably if incorrectly) that her failure to testify is what made Lana turn cold. I've been assuming it was blackmail or other coercion. But perhaps it was simply guilt. )
I was going to say something snide about the prosecutors' offices having terrible security, but Phoenix is a  step ahead of me for once and has legitimate questions about how Darke was running amok there with a knife.  He wasn't!  He was running amok in the police station, where Lana was a detective. She was promoted to Chief Prosecutor after the case.
Is  it just me or is that a very strange career move?  Don't you have to be, y'know, an attorney to be chief prosecutor?   Why would an attorney have been a police detective?  Let's go ask her.
Lana: Guilt? What guilt?  Professional ethics are for wimps who aren't dedicated enough.  Like my role model Gant, I feel nothing. Please ignore the bit when I look into the distance and mutter about having sold my soul.  
Huh.  I guess she was an attorney as a police detective, since she says she was only on the force to gain experience to use later as a prosecutor.  A leap straight into Chief position still  seems a bit much, but Phoenix doesn't ask further.
Ema FINALLY directly asks her sister if she  murdered Goodman...and gets no answer other than "this doesn't involve just me" and some more SL-9 details.
She was the one to discover the scene:  Joe Darke on the floor unconscious, Marshall lying on top of him with a knife in his back, and the passed-out Ema.   Hmm.  The image is striking, and not conclusive  in itself, though I still think Ema's incomplete testimony ought to have cinched it.  Maybe they had a less gullible judge than our usual one.
The crime occurred in what used to be Lana and Gant's office - he stayed put after being promoted to Police Chief, it seems.  I can tell where we're going next. First I try showing her the broken, bloody vase from the crime scene, but she says she's not allowed to comment - quite flexible ethics there, madam.  Also that's one of the stupidest rules I've ever heard.
We trudge off to the police station. Marshall  greets us out front in full costume,  philosophical about his disaster in court.  He's on his way to a no doubt final interrogation.  Let's  pre-season him for the grilling, shall we?
Wow,  Marshall's brother got the "king of prosecutors" trophy only hours before he was murdered. It's  like the Hope Diamond only much uglier.  
Marshall finally explains what was fishy with the evidence.  The claimed murder weapon (the knife! Belonged to Darke, switchblade, broken tip,  note to self) didn't match the wound according to the autopsy report.  So...what would that mean?  That Marshall was killed with something else, and someone-by-which-I-mean-Gant stuck Darke's  knife in the corpse's back to make it seem more blatantly obvious for the judge?    That is the kind of thing that would upset the corpse's brother, certainly, but  does it change the central fact of who killed who?
Does it?  
Don't  tell me that Gant killed Marshall's brother and framed Darke for it.  That would be a big enough crime to necessitate a mountain of coverup.  It would explain getting rid of Marshall and Starr back then, and now murdering Goodman and framing Lana when they got close to the truth.  New working theory: established.
Marshall thinks Goodman was left alone only because it would've been too obvious if every single detective on the case was  removed.  And  he thinks Lana and Gant are equally to blame - though he does mention her drastic  personality change.
Aw. Marshall says he now realizes "that boy Edgeworth" isn't the enemy after all, just an unknowing tool of Gant.   That's decent of him. He wishes Baby Cow Ema luck in her career and moseys off. Farewell, Marshall: as they say, he a little confused but he got the spirit.
Where *is* the police chief's  office, anyway?  The Criminal Affairs department  was so quiet when we stopped by earlier that I didn't even write it down. But we don't seem to have any option but to go back there - no, actually, let's go see how Edgeworth is handling this morning's revelations.
He's not in his office. Oh dear, is he being interrofired like Marshall?  I know there's tons more of the Ace Attorney saga to unfold, but I like the ruffly dork and he's been as much an ally as an enemy recently. I don't want to lose him.
Back at the police station, the "Chief" tells us everyone else is in the conference room deciding what to do about Lana, Edgeworth, and the massive scandal that exploded in court this morning.  I have to wonder what this guy is the Chief of, if he's sitting here in the empty office instead.
Ema, when the nice man tells you where Gant's office  is, we say "thanks!" and go there at speed. We do not hang around helpfully telling him reasons to say no.
Chief:  Hey, you're right!  No!
Sigh.
We go anyway.  Why did no one tell us the police chief moonlights as the Phantom of the Opera??  
This "office” is the size of the entire criminal affairs department downstairs.  To the left of the enormous pipe organ is a nice office setup that looks pristine and unused.  On the wall is a large group photo that must have been taken on That Day:  Marshall's brother holding the trophy, Gant, Lana, and two others I can't make out. Bit of a grisly memorial given the circumstances.
Ema - no, Ema, we do not play with the pipe organ, that is what we call "loud" and attracts attention. For example, there Gant is behind us, right on cue. Sigh.   He tucks an interesting-looking sheet of paper into his desk which I expect we will come back to later.
Gant:  Have you been swimming lately, my boy? ....I'm just going to blink affably and wait to see if you hear the unspoken "because you're way out of your depth".   You didn't, which proves my point.  Gosh what a firecracker that little Lana is with her provocative statements!
Have I mentioned that I hate him?
He points to the picture.  Phoenix thinks there's something not right beyond its tactlessness, so I squint at it.  The broken vase from the evidence room is there, and what looks like a golden suit of armor with a sword at the right edge, but otherwise nothing stands out.  Lana isn't smiling but is she ever? We save a copy for later.
Gant shoos us out with a hint of teeth behind his folksy charm,  which Phoenix correctly interprets as a sign that getting back in is now top priority.  Downstairs we meet Gumshoe, who has been fretting on Edgeworth's behalf and reviewing the SL-9 files.  He shares some  more details.  Darke killed several people in a panic, then turned himself in, then bolted in the middle of questioning and attacked Ema.   It seems more and more absurd that faked evidence would have been needed. But no one is questioning it, so I guess we're supposed to accept it as part of the story.
We show Gumshoe the switchblade knife with the broken tip.  Proven to be Darke's, and the broken-off tip was found in the fatal stab wound.   Connect that with what Marshall told us about the evidence-faking and you get an ugly and deliberate picture - Gant(or possibly Lana) not just carefully sticking the knife inside the fatal wound on his coworker's still-warm corpse, but poking the broken-off tip deep inside the wound.  Ew.  
Perhaps fortunately, it's a picture that doesn't seem to have occurred to Phoenix or Ema yet. Instead they try to wheedle Gumshoe into letting us back into Gant's office.  No dice - now what? Is Edgeworth back yet?
He is!  Drafting a noble letter of resignation.  And, typically for him, trying to tough everything out and have pride in the organization that's screwed him over. He does mention something odd - the list of evidence he was given for SL-9 was unusually short,  though he was too focused on vengeance to question it at the time.  (Is there a missing second page?  With, perhaps, the actual murder weapon on it?)
We revisit the suspicious screwdriver from last episode.  On the day of Goodman's death,  Gant ordered Edgeworth to retrieve it from the evidence room and bring it back to his office. Obviously a setup, but to achieve what?  Working theory:  to ensure Edgeworth's car was in the underground parking lot, so that Lana could be caught "murdering" Goodman and putting his body in the trunk.
We also look at the copy of that memorial photo, and Ema finally points out what seemed odd to Phoenix. The big ugly trophy is different - it's now a K on a shield, but in the photo it had a sword too.  Why is it gone?  Surprise surprise, Gant had it removed two years ago.
Could the *trophy sword* be the actual murder weapon? I guess it wouldn't be the weirdest plot twist we've dealt with.
We take our leave, but not before Phoenix cold-bloodedly pockets the draft resignation letter.  Desperate measures, I get it - perhaps it'll be enough to panic Gumshoe into helping us - but I have a bad feeling.
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napoleon-usher · 2 years
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LOVE QUINN | 3.10 “What Is Love?”
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Their Doll 8
Let me in
B.Barnes x Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader
series synopsis:  y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.
Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing
Chapter Summary: y/n gets emotional
Warnings: swearing, feelings
A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)
Masterlist | Series Masterlist
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Life at the tower was...tiring, to say the least. During my free time I often found myself in the gym, lobbing knives at a target and trying my hardest not to biting one in Steve's chest every time he would correct my technique. When I wasn't trying to murder the avenger in cold blood, I was usually dragged into things by the other: briefings and debriefing for missions I'd never go on, my dad's parties, group training sessions and study periods with Bruce in his labs to name a few.
But for now, I was huddled in my rooms - fresh out of a hot shower after a brutal two hour training session and four mile run with Natasha - curled up on my bed and attempting to catch up on a few of the films I'd missed. But the exhaustion and drowsiness clouded my eyes, the noise from the TV merely in the background as I felt my eyes growing heavier by the second.
A sharp knock at the door snapped my out of my lowsey state, the people movie across the screen simple a blur of colour as my eyes darted past the tv and over to the door.
"Mr Stark is waiting at your door. Would you like me to let him in?" FRIDAY's evenly calm voice chimed, making me groan and mumble a 'no' into my pillows. The last person I wanted to see right now was my dad.
"Come on kid, let me in." My dad called from the other side of the door, and I could practically hear him roll his eyes and shake his head when I stayed silent. When he spoke again, it wasn't directed at me. "FRIDAY, override command and open the door."
"Wait! That's hardly fair!" I whined like a five year old, groaning again when the door swung open and my dad stood on the other side, quite clearly just as exhausted as I was.
"Get used to it, kiddo. Life isn't fair." Tony chided, walking over to my bed. I tried to shuffle away slightly when I felt the bed dip, my dad perching on the edge as his eyes scanned over the room. "I see you haven't decorated yet." He commented casually, as if nothing had ever happened between us.
"Yeah, well, I thought It'd be a shame to spend so much time on something when you're probably waiting to kick me out anyway." I mumbled, refusing to look at him.
"What the hell is wrong with you, y/n? Ever since you got back you've been-"
"Acting different?" I cut in, and when Tony simply swallowed thickly I nodded. "Funny that, seeing as I was kidnapped and tortured for three years. Not to mention made to kill people for another year after that."
"Y/n I'm sorry..."
"But you're not! You can't be, otherwise you'd actually have tried to save me, rather than leaving me to rot!" My voice cracked, tears pricked at my eyes and I now sat up straight in my bed, facing my dad but not looking him in the eye. "And you can't change that, you can't go back in the past and fix your mistake. And trying to fix it now sure as hell won't work, so I suggest you leave before I'm tempted to use you as my target for my training session tomorrow." I raised my voice, eyes now keeping his captive as the tears rolled freely down my cheeks.
"Oh, kid, they broke you." Tony murmured, cupping my cheek with his hand, eyes swimming with sorrow. Sorrow that I didn't want.
"You can't fix me either, because I'm not broken!" I said harsher now, voice only getting louder. "I don't need to be fixed..." I trailed off, voice barely above a whisper Joe as my eyes broke the contact, averting to my lap as the tears dropped onto the bed sheets.
That's how I found myself in my fathers arms, face pressed against his shoulder as the sobs made my body shake, hiccups escaping me as I tried to speak.
"A-all I needed W-was my D-dad, and yo- you took him f-from me!" I wailed, hands clutching my dad's shirt and his arms wrapped protectively around my shoulder, hands rubbing circles over my back soothingly.
"I know, kiddo. I'm sorry."
...
"Who is that?" Clint frowned, staring at the pictures scattered over the table in front of Natasha and Steve as they studied them deeply,  brows creased in thought.
"Our newest pain in the ass." Tony answered for them, slapping a thick folder down in front of Clint as he said so. The marksman was quick to pick it up, flicking through the documents, news stories and information sheets greedily.
"The...winter soldier?" He asked, looking at the three superheroes in front of him as if they'd gone mad. "But he's a ghost story!"
"I've seen him. Been shot by him, actually." Nat said, an sadistically proud smirk forming on her lips with her last words, almost as if it were an achievement.
"We're trying to find out more about him, maybe that way we can beat him." Steve explained, sitting back in his chair with crossed arms as he huffed in defeat, sick to death with staring at the same five pictures all morning.
Y/n walked in, a skip in her step as she crossed the room to Tony.
"Morning, dad." She greeted, placing a quick kiss to his cheek and heading over to the cupboard to grab a mug. Clint and Natasha frowned in confusion, looking between the two as if they'd witnessed pigs fly.
Tony shrugged, y/n too preoccupied with making herself a coffee to notice the avengers' reactions. When her coffee was done, y/n swiped her mug from under the machine and sipped happily, letting out a content sigh before wandering over to stand behind Natasha.
"What are you working on?" She asked, peering over the spy's shoulder to get a glimpse of the pictures.
A loud smash crashed through the room, Tony's eyes widening in shock and Natasha jumping from her seat in order to not get covered in spilt coffee. Y/n stood paralysed, eyes never leaving the photo in front of her as she started at the Soldier. Steve frowned deeply, studying the girl as her eyes glossed over with with what seemed to be...sadness.
Clint was already at her side, a comforting hand on her shoulder as they all asked y/n what had happened and if she was alright. It was like a constant ringing in her ear interrupted their words before they reached her ears, and y/n suddenly felt nauseous as she starred at the bright red star on the soldier's arm, his long and messy dark hair shrouding his face and his leather clad, muscular body. Only his cerulean blue eyes could be seen, the rest of his face covered in a black mask she didn't usually see him in.
"I-I need some air." She stuttered, stumbling blindly out of the room and down the stairs, tipping over a few steps from the bottom and tumbling down the last few. She quickly pulled herself to her feet, hearing still ringing and vision offset, hazy, as she scrambled for the double glass doors. Luckily they already stood open, so she flew through them and out into the busy streets of New York.
Y/n found herself colliding will someone almost instantly, angry shouts of 'hey, watch it!' And 'look where the fuck you're going, kid!' Being called after her like a chorus as she pushed through the bustling people.
She finally stopped, dropping to her knees and simply staring straight ahead, no intended subject in her line of vision as she tried to comprehend the-the grief, at seeing the a soldier's face again.
It had only been two weeks, and yet two weeks without him, his touch, his scent - it felt like an eternity to y/n now. She hasn't registered what her feeling meant for him before, liking him beyond a source of comfort had just felt...wrong, after all he'd done, and yet y/n couldn't deny it.
She was in love with the Winter Soldier, and she didn't even know his name.
...
I wasn't aware of when someone had found me, nor of how they got me back to the tower or even how I was now stood staring blankly out of the window that stood next to my bed. I gazed longingly, almost as if I stared long enough, hard enough, he'd appear.
But of course he wouldn't, he was probably half way across the world, knowing HYDRA. A soft knock on my door and my head was turning, facing my visitor with a look of pure grief and want. Desperate, unhinged want that could eat you up from inside out and you'd still feel it.
"Hey, y/n. Can I talk to you for a moment?" Nat asked tentatively, clearing trying to to disturb my shaken up state. I nodded, offering a small smile which she returned as I now faced her. She walked up to me, talking my hands him hers and playing with the as she spoke, eyes kind and full of understanding.
"There's a mission, and we want you to go." She said calmly, almost as if the mere thought of it would send me into some kind of heart attack.
"Okay," I begun, eyes flitting down to the floor before back up again. "What is it? Aren't you scared that I'm still HYDRA and all I'd do is stab someone in the back?"
"Not exactly." Nat informed me with a smile, amusement glinting in her eyes at my assumption. "For starters, we all trust you, well maybe not steve - but everyone else does." Nat and I both laughed slightly. "And I think you wouldn't have it any other way it to go on the mission yourself." Nat finished.
"How come?" I asked, brow raised.
"There's been a lead..." she started. "On the winter soldier. We thought you might want to help check it out, possibly capture him. Your powers may be the best chance we have a detaining someone as strong as him." Nat spoke. "And if we can detain him.."
"We can save him." I finished.
"Exactly."
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VISIONS IN THE SNOW
Good Evening All! I have a new one-shot that was inspired by the horrific weather that recently swept across the U.S. It caused so much grief, suffering to so many people. I hope this would bring a smile to some faces. This was written with one particular person in mind (and you know who you are) and I’m glad you like it.
Thanks as always to @scubalass for the read through. Your suggestions were, as always, spot on. It made the final story so much better.
Status of Edinburgh to Boston: There is progress but it is painfully slow. There are two characters that are essential to this chapter whose voice I do not hear as well as I do Jamie and Claire. I write something, then I delete it and I do the same thing over and over. We will come to an understanding at some point so dinna fash. There will be A/N at the end to explain words or terms.
Without further delay I give you Visions in the Snow.
Here goes nothing:
VISIONS IN THE SNOW
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February 1968  - Boston
The responsibility for hosting this week’s poker game fell to Joe Abernathy.  He took his duties in this regard very seriously. It was the way the surgeons decompressed after a week of stressful surgical procedures and this week was no exception. 
“It must have been a full moon,” he thought. Motor vehicle accidents, stabbings, gunshot wounds, volvulus, a ruptured esophagus, the works. It was during these times that he dearly missed his friend. Claire. He cast his glance over to the card table set with one extra place, Claire’s place. On the seat was her green visor that she wore when she played poker with the boys. It sat in repose like a memorial to a fallen comrade.
Silly thing! She believed wearing it masked her glass face.  Nothing could be further from the truth, but none of her colleagues had the heart to tell her. They all knew what Claire Randall was thinking. So much so, they often let her win which caused her to think she was good at playing poker.
He glanced around the room and saw that everything was in readiness for the evening. The sideboard groaned beneath the bounty of food, snacks, and brews.  
Outside, the wind blew fiercely rattling the windows drawing his attention. Joe looked out the window watching the two front trees bowing to the brute force of nature. Their skeletal fingers scraped at the roof almost as if trying to gain entry. It had been snowing for the last six hours with no sign of it letting up. He had considered canceling the game but a majority of his colleagues soundly vetoed that idea. Only Callahan and Peterson dissented. Callahan’s wife would kill him if he left her alone to deal with their six small ones while he went to play poker. Peterson lived thirty miles away. The remaining players all lived a short walking distance from his home, on Doctors Row. It was so-called because many of the physicians who worked at the hospital lived on the same street.  These surgeons were gambling men betting they had enough time for some comradery, hands, and beers before the brunt of the storm arrived.   
For a Boston snowstorm, it hadn’t accumulated very much. Yet. Regardless, it would not hamper these hardened surgeons accustomed to driving through Boston’s worst to get to the hospital. Without warning, the storm picked up intensity driving the snow hard enough to erase the landscape before him. Amid the squall, a hazy light glowed like the high beams of headlights in the snow. A wraithlike figure emerged from its center. Joe wasn’t able to make out any of its features. Man? Woman? He wasn’t sure. But one thing was for sure, it was headed directly toward his house. 
Joe leaned closer trying to see if the person was in distress as they were caught out in the snow. Maybe they had abandoned their car and were seeking help.  His warm breath met the cold pane fogging it, wholly obscuring his view.  Using his shirt sleeve, he wiped away the condensation hoping to improve his ability to see. As the person drew closer, it became apparent that it was a young woman and her attire was totally inappropriate for the weather. She wore a long dress whose hem floated across the snow. It looked like a green and black plaid and a white scarf crossed her neck to cover her bosom. Her hair was dark, curly, piled high on her head, and tendrils framing her face. She looked a lot like… It couldn’t be, could it? She came closer. So close that he could see her eyes. Eyes the color of a fine whisky. Claire? Claire! How? She had left for Scotland, disappearing into the past, to find her true love.
Anxiety flowed through him. He needed to speak with the woman. He needed to know if it truly was Claire. Joe tried to open the window, but it wouldn’t budge. The frame had swollen from the moisture, he thought. He rapped on the window calling her name, but she paid no heed.
Claire was running and laughing bright and merry. Stopping suddenly, she turned and extended a hand into the haze. A man appeared laughing and chased after her. He was a big son of a bitch standing at least six feet four inches and as big as a brick…Well, he was big. He had a mop of red hair, but to simply say red would deny the richness of the color. It was a curly thick mosaic of cinnamon, auburn, gold, and cinnabar.  And his eyes were the deepest blue Joe had ever seen. The man was kitted out in traditional highland garb right down to the sword strapped to his side. Reaching her, the young man made a courtly bow. He straightened, then took her hand to bestow a kiss. A moment later, he lifted and spun her around. She tossed her head back and peals of joyous laughter rang through the air. He set her down gently settling his hands on the swell of her hips. His eyes danced with love as he lowered his head to kiss her most thoroughly. Joe felt his cheeks burn as he watched such intimacy. 
Time advanced in front of him. He became witness to a lifetime, to a marriage, to the bonds of love that could not be broken. The vision changed from the blush of first love through to a life fully lived.  He wept at their trials, tribulations, and heartbreak. And he reveled in their accomplishments, triumphs, and joys. But through all their hardships, and there were many, their love for each other never wavered, never changed. 
The final event showed the couple had aged. The woman, Claire, had streaks of grey in her hair while the man’s hair had lightened. They stood atop a ridge overlooking some land. The man had his arm securely around her waist pulling her protectively close to him. Claire stood on her tiptoes wrapping her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a fiery kiss. She nodded her head and started to pull him toward a cabin. He scooped her up and carried her across the threshold kicking the door shut. 
As the vision faded back into the vapor as a voice called out, “I am happy Joe. I found my Jamie.”
Resting his head against the cold pane of glass provided a sense of comfort to his unsettled mind and spirit. Uncertainty gripped him as he grappled to understand what happened. Had this been a dream? Or a hallucination? Or had the fabric of time somehow been rent apart? He shook himself, much like a dog dispelling the rain from its coat, hoping to lift his state of bewilderment. 
Psssst, pssst, ssssssss! The homely sound of the radiator hissing brought him back to himself and away from his ruminations.
Mercilessly, the wind blew about the house ferociously shaking the windowpanes in their frames then suddenly died away. Out of curiosity, Joe tried to open the window. This time it slid open with ease. The blinding snow stopped returning to light flurries. As he turned to walk away from the window, he noticed the clock on the mantel. It was one minute later than when he last looked at it. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” he muttered.
Joe walked over to Claire’s chair and picked up the visor cradling it to his chest,  “Wherever you are Claire, I’m glad you’re happy and you found your Jamie. Jamie, if you can hear me, take good care of our girl.”
With that, the doorbell rang and Joe went to greet his guests.
                                                        *************
Claire woke with a start bringing Jamie to instant alertness. He grabbed the pistol he kept by his bedside in preparation for any threat. Seeing none, he turned to look at Claire. She looked like she had seen a ghost.
“Sassenach, what’s amiss? Are ye alright?”
“I dreamt...I dreamt I was back in Boston going to play poker with the other surgeons. It was our regular night to play. The game was at Joe’s house and there was this blizzard.”
“Poker? What kind of game do ye play with a poker?” he was afraid to ask. Claire had told him so many peculiar stories about her time that he thought this would be another one. The only poker he knew about was the kind used in a fireplace.
“It’s a card game. I was rather good at it too. Someday I’ll have to teach you.” Claire snuggled up against Jamie seeking his heat, his comfort. She yawned greatly, “Except I will miss my green visor.”
 “A vi-zor?” All he could envision was a knight’s helmet with a visor covering the eyes and face.
“It’s a sort of hat with a green brim. It shades your eyes and some of your face. People use it to hide their facial expressions when they bluff at cards.”
Jamie looked at her as if she were a bit daft. He knew nothing could hide her thoughts on that glass face. He tucked her head under his chin, “Come, Sassenach, rest yer head, aye? I think ye had a bit of the nightmare. I’ll keep ye warm and safe.” He lowered his head placing a kiss on the top of her head.
Jamie closed his eyes and thought about the black man he had seen in his dreams too. “Aye, dinna fash, Joe. I’ll care for her with my life,” he whispered just before lapsing into sleep.
A/N:
VOLVULUS: A volvulus occurs when part of the colon or intestine twists. The twisting causes bowel obstructions that may cut off the blood supply to areas of the bowels. This can cause the bowel to die or left untreated the person can die.
RENT: This involves a story. When I was in catechism class the teacher was telling the story of Christ’s trial before the Pharisees. When Jesus was condemned one of the Pharisees was said to have rent his garment. You say that to a bunch of kids and they start to giggle. They wanted to know who he rented his clothes to and for how much. So the teacher explained that to rent something meant to tear it apart violently. I fell in love with the word’s usage and I never thought I would get to use it in this way. But I did!
And poor Jamie, Claire’s stories always leave his surprised, confused, shocked among other feelings.
The truth behind this story was that it was supposed to be smutty. Instead, it evolved into this. It was supposed to happen that the Ridge was also snowed-in. Claire was bored with playing chess with Jamie and wanted to play something else. She wanted to teach him strip poker. So I left myself an opening if I chose to do a second chapter. But I have to finish E2B first.
I hope you liked this and it brought a smile to your face.
You can find me on AO3. There I am LadyJane518.
Thanks for reading!
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rotzaprachim · 4 years
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May I humbly submit for the prompt: That was the first time Joe drew Nicky’s face, but the second time was much more interesting.
there are fics i am obsessive about historical accuracy on and then there is the 20k anachronistic comedy universe and i think it’s pretty obvious which one this falls into. hope you enjoy <3 
That was the first time Joe drew Nicky’s face- fast-fading evening light and the first flickers of a campfire, and the shadows against the lines of his nose and cheekbones stretching and lengthing even in the fast movement of Yusuf’s charcoal against the back of a map, the sudden twitching in his fingers, feeling that he had to do this, here, but this man on paper, know his face by the lines of it the same way he had known all that were dear to him. Something stabbing in his heart that he both did and did not know the name of, new and hard edged, but washed in an easy and growing affection- that he could admit to. That was the first time he drew Nicolo’s fact, and Nicolo looked at the sketch for a long, long time before he rolled it and put it in the saddle bag. 
“So that is how I look,” he said simply. “In your eyes.” A conditional. Yusuf didn’t question him further. 
THe secone time was far more interesting. 
Wanted. FILTHY FRANK- VENETIAN, Yusuf scribbles, purposefully making a few spelling errors for authenticity sake. A LARGE NUMBER OF DIRHAMS FOR THE MAN, DEAD OR ALIVE. 
Nicolo is critical of the work. 
“I think I should look more evil. What is the crime i am to be convicted of?” 
“Cabbage theft.” 
“And the constabulary will bring me in for that?” 
“It was a lot of cabbages.” 
Yusuf gives the drawing some x-d out eyes and a more murderous expression. It’s hard making Nicolo look like this. Nicolo will never look like this, but, well- the portrait artists doing WANTED signs usually don’t have too much formal education. 
“I like this.” 
Yusuf puts on the stolen city watch uniform and tacks it in the heard of the souq the next morning with all the other WANTED posters, where, the next morning, said FILTHY FRANK - VENETIAN will wander into the heart of city, and find himself arrested. 
“You’re sure about this? About how to do it?” 
Nicolo nods. 
“Get arrested, break out, kill mininum of guards- preferably, none at all. Second floor is women’s holdings, and that’s where there’s a woman who’s been accused by her husband of a crime she didn’t commit. Break her out and take her back to her sister’s house.” 
“Good.” Yusuf nodds. This is simple. This is fine. This is what they DO, or are good at doing, at least, or, more like, TRYING to be good at doing. Helping people out. Being swords for justice. Doing better. They’ve got one particularly unusual talent apiece for not dying, and they better be good at it. They haven’t even died the last couple projects. He’s kind of forgotten what it felt like, and worse- what if felt like to watch Nico die, which isn’t something he should worry about, really, because he kind of has a grudging respect for the bastard, and wants him to be happy, or at least not dead, even though he still hates him a lot, and that feeling sure is mutual. “I’ll be waiting outside the prison with the horses.” 
These are some talents that the scrabbling street kid will always be better at than the merchant’s son: climbing walls, breaking out of places, and looking over his shoulder. Just like there are the things that Yusuf is consistently better at, like dealing with people, bartering, dealing with people, arguing out of scrapes, dealing with people, fine calligraphy in three traditions, and also, dealing with poeple. It’s good. They’re very smart and are working out a way to Deal With Each other by a means effective for the good of all. 
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Yusuf suddenly blurts out. “What if the capture you for real and you can’t get out alive and something happens to you?” 
“Mhmm.” Nico says. He’s focused on toasting some bread over the fire, very pointedly not looking at him. “We’ve done this before. Baghdad. Basra.” 
“You got stabbed in Basra, and the Lepeord disaster in Baghdad-”
“Also we’ve got better at this since The Leapord Disaster. Dealt with the corrupt cistern owner and neither of us even died once.” Nico passes him some bread and white cheese and olives, the bread, of course, perfectly toasted, which is annoying, because he still toasts the bread perfectly even when they’re fighting, which is even more irritating somehow. “If I die, I’ll come back for you. I promise I won’t leave you alone.” 
Something stabs inside Yusuf’s heart. Oh, there’s a name for it, but he won’t be thinking about it now. 
“Just-” he lets it hang in the heir. “I can’t stop you from being a martyr.” I can’t, because I’d so the same in your situation. I would and I have and I will, and do it all in good faith, because that’s the life we’ve been given. But it doesn’t stop it from hurting, every fucking time. 
Nico looks at him suddenly. All deep eyes. “No. You can’t. And I can’t stop you from walking in a court of snakes and backstabber and poisoners because you think you might be able to do some good somewhere, and we’ve had enough deaths to know that we’ll come back again. But God is gracious. It is not yet your time or mind.” He reaches out to unbuckle the saddle bags and pull out an extra blanket. “It’s going to be cold tonight and your shivering teeth are very distracting to my sleep.” 
There’s only a few feet of space between them that night. Nico sleeps with a knife under his head, which started out as some kind of threat but now feels more ritualistic as he noticably twirls it between his fingers in the night, letting the the firelight glint off. Now there’s some showmanship, a joke. A promise, against what may lie in the night. 
“Goodnight, my hated enemy. I will not let anyone kill you before I get the chance.” 
“If that’s your idea of a joke, your humour is more awful than your swordsmanship. My most abhorred foe, i will be angry if you do not survive the night so as to destroy swordsmanship in the morning. 
The night is large and the silence is loud. 
“Yusuf,” Nico says suddenly. “I will always come back to you. And what’s the worst they can do to me? Kill me?” 
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shimmershae · 2 years
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My thoughts on Episode 8--For Blood
As always, placed behind a cut for those of you that would rather escape my babbling, lol.  You’re welcome.  
Sadly, I don’t think this is anticipation I feel.  I’m pretty sure it’s dread but okay.  Here we go.  
This episode has to go up from the rock bottom boredom of last week, right?  
Let me preface what I’m about to say with the truth that I in no way hate Maggie.  She’s been with us since Season 2 and I have an emotional attachment to her, mostly due to my love of Glenn and the way he loved her.  She’s not my favorite by any means, but the fact of the matter is, I do like and appreciate her and don’t mind that she is back because it’s nice to have old familiar faces with us to take us into the final season.  That said?  Forcing Maggie front and center after her long absence ultimately, IMHO, has not worked in these first 8 episodes.  I can’t help but feel if ASZ had been the A story with Maggie/Negan and Daryl/Leah/the Reapers the B1 and B2 story?  These episodes would have been better received overall and not feel so much like they’re trying so hard.  Maybe lead me toward the water instead of shoving my head in it next time, Angela?  Hmm?  
Oh goodie.  They’re opening at Meridian.  Should I get my bathroom break out of the way now or give myself an out for later?  Call it Shae’s choice, lol.  
That flicker of a smirk Leah gave to Carver after their mini walk down memory lane had more spark to it than the entirety of her and Daryl’s toxic relationship.  In the future, maybe Angela will lean all in on them instead of Leah and Daryl.  Something tells me Leah knows this “brother” biblically.  
Daryl recognizes Whisperer moves when he sees ‘em.  Somehow, he realizes Maggie and Negan have banded together however reluctantly.  
Pope doing it “Dixon’s” way but not allowing Dixon to do the actual thing shows the level of distrust and paranoia the man still haves for outsiders. 
Look at Daryl chewing his lips with worry for his people.  If he and Leah know each other even a little bit, she has to recognize that as one of his tells.  
Ooohhhh.  Who took the first stab at Wells?  Maggie?  Negan?  Father G?  I swear.  I took my eyes off the “ball” one second and the whole damn play is halfway down the field.  Sorry.  If you cannot tell, I watched football with the fam yesterday, lol.  
The Walking Dead logo didn’t crumble this time.  Interesting.  Parts of it looked like it had been rebuilt.  With brick.  Wood.  Other parts of it looked reclaimed by nature.  Call me crazy, but that almost looks like an eye/part of a face on the first D.  
Okay then.  Babbling nonsense about the logo over, lol.  Tell me.  Please.  Anybody.  How do the events at ASZ line up with the events at Meridian?  Because it’s night and full-blown storming in ASZ and still daylight at Meridian.  But hey.  Thank fuck we’re in ASZ.  
All the babies huddled together giving me feels.  Sorry.  I know some feel they have no place on the show, but I personally enjoy their inclusion from time to time.  It usually plucks hard at my heartstrings.  
Connie tenderly comforting an injured Virgil is sweet, not gonna lie.  
Aww.  Is that Hershel petting a scared RJ’s hair?  Unless it’s a case of me not being able to pick out and place all the little hands, which it most certainly could be, I’m thinking Judith’s got her hand on her knee and that’s Hershel’s hand in RJ’s hair.  Regardless of whose hand is where, it was a sweet little scene.  What can I say?  I’m easy because Baby Glenn and Baby Rick, ya’ll.  
Oh snap.  The windmill’s on fire and pieces of the wall are blowing down main street ASZ like steel tumbleweeds, lol.  
Anybody else having flashbacks to the barn from Season 5?  Good times.  We still had most of Team Family with us then.  They were in a bad place, hurting and lost and just trying to survive--when are they not just trying to survive?--but they were together.  I miss them.  
Carol and Lydia holding each other.  These two, lovelies, have my whole heart.  
Wells is Walker Jerky, Shaw.  Stop wasting your breath.  
“She did.  My enemy.”  I mean, are we supposed to get the impression Maggie’s been a formidable adversary to Pope?  Because she feels more like a roach that simply knows the best rocks to hide under.  Granted, roaches are hard to kill but still.  I’m gonna need them to give us something better than Maggie being Pope’s enemy simply because she didn’t want to give up her home without a fight because this is frankly unbelievable and bordering on stupid.  
Alright.  So they’ve obviously been sowing the seeds of distrust and defiance between Leah and Pope because she doesn’t like losing family but Daryl?  Man?  You and Leah have differing opinions about how family operates.  Trust me on this.  
So.  Three teams, huh?  Aaron fighting the windmill fire, Carol repairing the breach in the wall, Rosita protecting the babies that represent their future.  Choose your fighters, lol.  Seriously, though.  Why do I have the sinking feeling only one group is going to be shown actually doing their thing?  
Listen.  Am I pissed we haven’t gotten the scene we deserve yet between Carol and Connie after all that’s happened and we’re getting crumbs mainly because Angela wrongly feels the Reapers/Maggie & Negan/Daryl & Leah need more focus?  Absolutely.  You bet your sweet asses.  But Melissa fucking McBride just took the crumbs allotted her and made a magnificent, work of art cake out of it trying all on her lonesome to feed us starving Carol fans.  
Bless Connie wanting wanting to go with Carol.  What a show of trust and sister-like solidarity that must have some hate-rotted guts about to turn themselves out.  
I love Kelly and Connie’s sister bond.  No ill will intended, but It takes the good parts of Maggie and Beth and elevates it beyond anything those two ever showed us.  I really feel like that’s a testament to Angel and Lauren’s real life ease with each other.  
Magna choosing to go with Aaron makes me wonder if it’s possible she feels some kind of residual guilt over Connie.  Not guilt for anything she’s actually done, but simply guilt over making it out.  
Virgil volunteering to help.  Okay.  Damn.  I’m honestly starting to like the guy.  
Judith offering to go with her aunt Carol had me all up in my feels.  I mean, granted.  It was a blink and you miss it scene.  We really deserved a longer heart to heart between that little girl and the woman that’s sacrificed so much to keep her safe and loved her for so long, but you know I’ll gobble any and all Judith/Aunt Carol content up.  Seems to me, Little Ass Kicker is just as afraid of letting Aunt Carol out of her sight as Uncle Daryl.  My heart.  
Gracie and Aaron are sweet.  And honestly?  I find them more realistic and true to what normal parents and children would be like in a ZA than Judith and Michonne no matter how much I love that bond.  I mean no disrespect, but I really do.  
“Why am I keeping you around?”  Pope asking the question we’re all wondering.  
Not Apocalypse Popeye comparing Daryl to a stray dog.  Joe from the Claimers already declared Daryl an outside cat that thought he was an indoor cat.  I did have to internally cheer when Daryl was like “I’m ain’t gonna lick it” talking about the helping hand Pope had extended him.  
“Somehow she has turned the dead against the living.  Oh, that’s impressive.”  The thing about Pope respecting Maggie so much as an enemy is I just find it hard to buy, lol.  Like if this had been Carol, yeah.  But Maggie?  Nope.  They’ve mostly shown her (with Gage being the bewildering exception) to be all bark and no bite.  
Has the house in ASZ really become that dilapidated that they can see through its walls?  Because its original owners dodged a bullet if so.  
Look at Grace hero-worshipping Judith.  It’s sweet.  
Virgil telling Judith Michonne would be proud of her is nice but doesn’t feel as earned as if someone like Daryl or Carol that actually knew Michonne well said it.  But maybe that’s the whole point--Judith needs to hear it from someone she knows isn’t going to just say what she wants to hear.  
Call me jaded, it was a touching scene, but also?  It felt designed to allow Judith to move beyond her very normal and realistic feelings of being abandoned by Michonne, even though she gave her the “okay” herself.  Like she’s still a kid.  Wants don’t always line up with feelings.  Anyway.  Cailey continues to be a bright, shining little star and I love how she’s managed to make Judith a true amalgamation of all the people she’s loved who have loved her in return.  Not just Michonne.  I know people like to overlook and cheapen the fact, but it’s taken a village and entire family to raise her from infancy.  
Gracie really should have known better than play in front of the windows during a storm period, but oh well.  Plot point, lol.  
Seriously, though.  I feel like they’ve teased poor Gracie’s demise in a multitude of ways since the beginning of the season.  I hope nothing ultimately comes of it but I fear it will.  All I can say if the worst comes to happen is poor Aaron.  
Where are Negan and Elijah though?  Ouch.  There they are, taking on shrapnel for the cause.  
Ready the what now?  
There’s ASZ’s Baby Sitter Extraordinaire!  Barbara, is it?  That lady’s been putting in the work since Season 5 at least.  
I’ve honestly grown to love Rosita.  More of her and less of Maggie, please and thank you.  
“Let’s stay away from the windows.”  I’m sorry but I had to LMAO at that.  Still a badass moment though.  
Gabe hobbling toward his assigned sentinel.  At least they haven’t forgotten he’s injured like they seemed to forget Daryl was near death last season before the attack on Hilltop, lol.  
“It’s hard to watch something you care about change.”  Listen, Leah.  Chick.  You and Daryl obviously never really knew each other.  It’s always been obvious but I have a feeling “DIxon” is finally going to show you, spoilers or no spoilers.  
WTF are they calling that thing?  Sorry.  I have just as hard a time understanding Pope’s accent as I do Maggie’s sometimes.  
That’s not love that has Daryl telling Leah she can come with him.  That’s care for somebody he used to know.  There is a distinct difference that’s obviously lost on so many.  How can you really and truly love someone you cannot trust?  Especially in Daryl Dixon’s case?
Why does Angela hate us so much?  Giving us all these Reaper scenes and leaving us to simply imagine Carol and Connie and Kelly working side by side to save the wall?  
I think I honestly could have enjoyed this whole Reaper storyline more, at least a little bit anyway, had they not retrofitted a half-assed romance between Daryl and the story’s weakest link and if only they’d made it the B storyline and given earned deference to the goings-on in ASZ instead.  
I wonder if Glenn taught Maggie how to hot write a car?  I miss my baby Glenn.
Apocalypse Popeye is several fries short of a Happy Meal.  What else is new on this show, lol?  
I care for Maggie.  Mostly for nostalgia’s sake and Glenn and Baby Hershel but damn, man.  She’s not actually proven herself got be worth killing your entire “family” for.  But are too far gone, so.  We’ll make allowances.  
I will say at least this episode is not as abysmally biring as last week’s episode.  
Leah finally giving Pope the throat punch he’s been asking for but I’m not fooled she’s on Daryl’s side here.  She’s always been on her own side.  
Look at Father G returning the favor for Maggie saving him in the tower.  Taking Deaver down!  Poor Deaver barely saw the light of day.  
Here comes that woman scorned part.  I can feel it.  
“Pope is dead.  Dixon murdered him.  He’s with the enemy.”  
Please, Angela.  I’m begging you.  Bring Carol into this story and ramp it the fuck up.  You been idling too damn long and the car is fast running outta gas.  
Bitch really has to die to framing Carol’s Pookie.  
Rosita and Lydia and Carol and Connie and Kelly and Magna have literally been holding up this damn show while Angela farts around with the Reapers bullshit.  Honorable mention goes to Aaron but these lovely, badass ladies been putting in the real work and not getting any of the glory.  You just know they’re tired AF.  
Not my babies Lydia and Judith being the cliffhanger!  Oh and Gracie.  Angela?!  A word.  
Listen.  Carol’s already done that fireworks trick.  That Reaper dude owes her royalties.  Granted, it was on a smaller scale but much more impressive for it because she was left to be the sharpshooter.  
Angela has a point.  It is kind of cool how Team Family have learned from their enemies and assimilated their useful points into their own cache of knowledge.  
I truly feel like the Leah/Reaper storyline would have benefitted from a much stronger actress.  Just saying.  
I know Judith annoys some with her precociousness but Cailey just keeps teeing off on what they give her and personally?  I feel she’s so very talented and light years beyond her little acting counterparts so it still works.  
“They’re never gonna choose each other over the people that they’ve loved and fought for because they simply cannot really trust each other.  There’s sort of, like a toxicity at the base of that relationship.”  Straight from Angela’s mouth.  
“At the end of the day, Daryl chose his family.”  Yeah, he did.  That “I belong with you” shit only happened when he felt they were all gone, including the one he loved above all others--Carol.  Fight me.  
Overall impression of the episode?  
On its own, disregarding how much I can’t help resenting how much time I feel has been “wasted” setting this story up, it was much more entertaining than Episode 7 which was only epic in that it was an epic bore.  There was still too much focus on the Reapers when I just just kept wanting to see what was happening at ASZ.  I mean, they cheated us out of Carol and Connie and Kelly working together. Of Aaron and Magna.  Call it personal preference coloring my opinions if you want, but the characters I care about feel like they’ve been shown the backseat for this self-indulgent exploration of Angela’s OC and her version of self-insert FF with Daryl Dixon.  If we can return to Team Family?  The whole Team Family and not just Maggie and Co. against the world?  You’ve got me.  If not?  Well.  You’ll keep losing me by degrees and you don’t want to do that on the final season.  
Anyway.  The ASZ parts were my favorites per usual.  The episode could have used a lot more of those.  
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thequiver · 3 years
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i need that bruce and arkham essay plz
I’ll answer this tomorrow I told you almost two and a half hours ago and yet here I am. At almost 4 am so bear with me folks.
WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS DISCUSSION OF TROUBLING ACTIONS, SERIOUS MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES, AND VIOLENCE
So, what really starts me in on discussions around Bruce and Arkham, and something I feel like a lot of people either don’t know, conveniently ignore, or forget is that Bruce was in his youth, an Arkham patient. Specifically Alfred sent Bruce to an Arkham boy’s’ rehabilitation facility upstate. Against his will. Because he was obsessed with the idea of shooting and killing his parent’s murderer and had almost attempted suicide. This rehabilitation facility is where Bruce meets and befriends Harvey Dent. But this is just the tip of the iceberg.
Following his stint at the rehabilitation facility- Bruce exhibits even more troubling behavior, which suggests that his time at an Arkham facility did not teach him healthy coping mechanisms or do much to help him learn to process his emotions. While still a young man (18 or under) Bruce:
Responded to a question a teacher asked in class by burning it into their front yard
Hired a homeless man to pretend to be Alfred to sign paperwork that would authorize the erasure of his memories via electroshock therapy (he ultimately did not go through with the procedure)
Used the Irish mob to track the location of Joe Chill and then interrogated him
Now I understand that despite having a certification in mental health first aid, and having PTSD, that I am by no means an expert in human psychology. But I feel comfortable saying that the Arkham system failed Bruce Wayne and that Bruce Wayne does not have healthy coping mechanisms.
Bruce ultimately did not commit suicide because he believed it would not be what his parents wanted for him, and vowed instead to dedicate his life to stopping crime - from that moment until he finds Joe Chill and learns that the motivation behind his parents death was simply that Chill needed a quick buck and that his parents death, to quote the fandom wiki had “no deeper meaning,” Bruce’s quest for vengeance and stopping crime is based around a conspiracy surrounding his parent’s murder that he has concocted in his own mind. One might think that after learning that the motivation behind the murder of his parents was money, and Bruce Wayne being a billionaire that he might have stopped to consider that perhaps crime is motivated by poverty, but alas, world’s greatest detective my ass.
Bruce, now fueled by the loss of his parents and the anger that his parents death has been reduced to the need for a quick buck begins his multi- year training montage. During this montage, while he’s ignoring Alfred’s attempts to contact him, Bruce let’s an assassin into the home of one of the men training him, and the man’s dying breath warns him that death would come of fostering close personal relationships, and Bruce sure didn’t listen to therapy, but he does take that message to heart. As a way to formally end his training, Bruce then climbed to the top of Wayne Tower and jumped off.
These are not the decisions of a man who is mentally healthy.
From pretty much the get go we see Bruce go from a child who was powerless in a situation where his parents were taken from him, into a damaged young man who was failed by a mental health facility and then spent seven years training to beat the absolute shit out of criminals after finding out that his parents were killed for a quick buck. The Joker at one point has to stop Bruce from stabbing the Riddler in the face. And of course we’ve all seen Bruce almost beating criminals to death and beating the shit out of his kids, and forming plans on how to take down other superheroes. These are not healthy behaviors.
But how does Arkham tie into this beyond Bruce being a former patient? What I’ve tried to do is establish a few things.
Bruce Wayne was failed by the Arkham system (a system that, at the time of her death, his mother was desperately trying to reform)
Bruce Wayne has control issues (both in that he has issues regulating his emotional responses and those responses lean towards extreme and violent behavior, and that he wants to be in control and he wants to be right all the time)
Bruce has not made an attempt to seek professional help since Alfred sent him to the rehabilitation facility (or as I said in another post of mine “Bruce refuses to get therapy and make that everyone else’s problem.”)
Bruce has self destructive tendencies
Arkham is a system that Bruce cannot control. He couldn’t control it when he was a patient, and he wouldn’t be able to control it as a major donor seeking to fix the broken system that failed him and carry on his mother’s legacy. What medical professionals in a mental health facility do are outside of his control.
Furthermore while punching a criminal to the point of near death or disfigurement, or dropping an unconscious goon at the police station will typically stop a run of the mill mugger, thief, etc, from committing more crimes at least for a while (assuming of course that they can even make an arrest when the chain of custody on any evidence has been broken), more high profile criminals the ones we see as recurring members of the Rogues Gallery who seem to be motivated by something other than poverty are typically found unsuited for trial and would thus be sent to a rehabilitation facility, like Arkham.
These high profile villains offer more of a fight than a mugger who hasn’t had a proper meal in the last two days, and as such they can usually injure Bruce while he’s in the Batsuit. This feeds into two of Bruce’s things- his self destructive behavior, and his history of violent behavior. But- is Arkham worked, if the rogues really were to be rehabilitated the opportunity for the catharsis brought on by the violence both towards and from them would be gone, Bruce would not be in control of their recovery, and as we’ve seen, Arkham has failed Bruce, and imo it’s unclear if he thinks Arkham can actually help people.
Bruce doesnt fix Arkham because that would mean admitting that it failed him, that it needs fixing because he is not mentally well, he does not want to admit that he is not in control of himself or that he is in some way “damaged.” Fixing Arkham would also stop the revolving door of break ins/outs that provide him with the catharsis brought on by violence- if it ceases to be real life monopoly jail the frequency of these encounters would dwindle and as many of us know, bad coping mechanisms often become a habit and Bruce would become twitchier.
Furthermore, handling all of the Arkham break outs gives Bruce a sense of accomplishment on his self assigned mission to squash crime- he’s handling all of these big name villains, on a rotating basis means that he is busy with at least one of the rogues pretty much all the time. This sense of accomplishment is important, after all, it’s not like he’s doing anything to stop crime at the source, and without a sense of accomplishment how could he ever hope to moralize at other heroes and hold them to an impossible standard that he himself is not even meeting?
Bruce’s time in the Arkham system is something that is often overlooked but does quite a bit in shaping Bruce’s perspective and decision making. And they’re not good decisions or good perspectives.
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papermoonloveslucy · 3 years
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TIME: A CLOWN WITH GLAMOUR
May 26, 1952
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TIME: The Weekly News Magazine ~ Lucille Ball: Prescription for TV; a clown with glamour.  May 26, 1952.  
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On Monday evenings, more than 30 million Americans do the same thing at the same time: they tune in ‘I Love Lucy’ (9 p.m. E.D.T., CBS-TV), to get a look at a round-eyed, pink-haired comedienne named Lucille Ball.
An ex-model and longtime movie star (54 films in the past 20 years), Lucille Ball is currently the biggest success in television. In six months her low-comedy antics, ranging from mild mugging to baggy-pants clowning, have dethroned such veteran TV headliners as Milton Berle and Arthur Godfrey. One of the first to see the handwriting on the TV screen was funnyman Red Skelton, himself risen to TV's top ten. Last February, when he got the award from the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences as the top comic of the year, Skelton walked to the microphone and said flatly: "I don't deserve this. It should go to Lucille Ball."
By this week, the four national TV rating services (Nielsen, Trendex, American Research Bureau and Videodex) were in unaccustomed agreement: each of them rated ‘I Love Lucy’ as the nation's No. 1 TV show.
Lumps & Pratfalls. The television industry is not quite sure how it happened. When Lucy went on the air last October, it seemed to be just another series devoted to family comedy, not much better or much worse than ‘Burns and Allen’, ‘The Goldbergs’, ‘The Aldrich Family’ or ‘Mama’. Like its competitors, Lucy holds a somewhat grotesque mirror up to middle-class life, and finds its humor in exaggerating the commonplace incidents of marriage, business and the home. Lucille's Cuba-born husband, Desi Arnaz, is cast as the vain, easily flattered leader of an obscure rumba band. Lucille plays his ambitious wife, bubbling with elaborate and mostly ineffectual schemes to advance his career.
But what televiewers see on their screens is the sort of cheerful rowdiness that has been rare in the U.S. since the days of the silent movies' Keystone Comedies. Lucille submits enthusiastically to being hit with pies; she falls over furniture, gets locked in home freezers, is chased by knife-wielding fanatics. Tricked out as a ballerina or a Hindu maharanee or a toothless hillbilly, she takes her assorted lumps and pratfalls with unflagging zest and good humor. Her mobile, rubbery face reflects a limitless variety of emotions, from maniacal pleasure to sepulchral gloom. Even on a flickering, pallid TV screen, her wide-set saucer eyes beam with the massed candlepower of a lighthouse on a dark night.
What is her special talent? TV men credit Lucille with an unfailing instinct for timing. Producer-Writer Jess Oppenheimer says: "For every word you write in this business, you figure you're lucky to get back 70-80% from a performer. With Lucille, you get back 140%." Broadway's Oscar (’South Pacific’) Hammerstein II, hailing Lucille's control, calls her a "broad comedienne, but one who never goes over the line." To her manager, Don Sharpe, Lucille is "close to the Chaplin school of comedy—she's got warmth and sympathy, and people believe in her, even while they're laughing at her."
Western Mirage. Lucille explains that the TV show is important because "I'm a real ham and so is Desi. We like to have an audience. We like being up on our toes." But the show also allows her some time with her ten-month-old daughter, Lucie Desirée, and for the first time in eleven years of trouping, gives her a home life with husband Desi. Says she: "I look like everybody's idea of an actress, but I feel like a housewife. I think that's what my trouble was in movies."
Actress Ball was a long time arriving at the calm waters of motherhood and housewifery. The daughter of Henry and Desirée Hunt Ball, she was born in Jamestown, N.Y. (near Buffalo) at what she calls "an early age." Pressed, she will concede that it was quite a while ago: she admits to being 40. Her father was an electrician whose job of stringing telephone wires carried him around the country. When Lucille was four, he died of typhoid in Wyandotte, Mich.
Lucille spent her childhood in Jamestown (1920 pop. 38,917), but managed to see very little of it. Mostly, she inhabited a dream world peopled by glamorous alter egos. Sometimes she imagined herself to be a young lady of great poise named Sassafrassa, who combined the best features of Pearl White, Mabel Normand and Pola Negri. Another make-believe identity was Madeline, a beauteous cowgirl who emerged from the pages of Zane Grey's melodramatic novel, ‘The Light of Western Stars’. To get authentic background for Madeline, young Lucille corresponded with the chambers of commerce of Butte and Anaconda, Mont. She read and reread their publicity handouts until she felt she knew more about Montana than the people who lived there. It was the powerful spirit of Madeline that caused her for many years to claim Butte, Mont., as her birthplace. Only in the most recent edition of Who's Who did she finally, grudgingly admit to being born in Jamestown, N.Y.
Horrses to Warter. While she lived there, Lucille did her best to rid Jamestown of dullness. Sometimes she gilded reality by imagining that the family chicken coop was her palace ("The chickens would become my armies"). She remembers that she was always unmanageable in the spring. "I'd leave the classroom for a drink of water and never come back. I'd start walking toward what I thought was New York City and keep going until someone brought me home."
By the time she left high school at 14, she had staged virtually a one-man performance of ‘Charley's Aunt’ ("I played the lead, directed it, cast it, sold the tickets, printed the posters, and hauled furniture to the school for scenery and props"). In a Masonic musical revue, she put so much passion into an Apache dance that she threw one arm out of its socket. Jamestown citizens still remember her explosive personality with wonder: it took quite a while for the dust to settle in Jamestown when Lucille finally left for Manhattan at the age of 15.
Probably because of the dreamy mental state induced by Sassafrassa and Madeline, Lucille is not too clear about dates, events and people. In New York,
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she headed straight for John Murray Anderson's dramatic school. At the sound of her voice ("I used to say 'horrses' and 'warter' "), her teacher clapped hands to his forehead. Anderson tactfully told Lucille's mother that her daughter should try another line of work. Lucille made a stab at being a secretary and a drugstore soda jerk, but found both occupations dull. She answered chorus calls for Broadway musicals with a marked lack of success. When she even lost a job in the chorus of the third road company of ‘Rio Rita’, a Ziegfeld aide told her: "It's no use, Montana. You're not meant for show business. Go home."
Periodically, Lucille did go home to Jamestown. But she returned again and again to the assault on New York. She managed to get into the chorus of ‘Stepping Stones’, and held on until the choreographer announced that she wanted only girls who could do toe work ("I couldn't even do heel work"). Lucille turned to modeling, progressed from the wholesale garment houses through department stores to the comparative eminence of Hattie Carnegie. She still has a warm feeling for people in the garment trade, because "they're the nearest thing to show business in the outside world. They're temperamental and jealous. I like them." She had a great many admirers. One of them, Britain's actor Hugh Sinclair, says: "She disarmed you. You saw this wonderful, glamorous creature, and in five minutes she had you roaring with laughter. She was gay, warmhearted and absolutely genuine."
As a model, Lucille called herself Diane Belmont, choosing her name in honor of Belmont Park Race Track, where fashion shows are sometimes staged. But it was another few years before Lucille finally got her break. She was walking up Broadway past the Palace Theater when she met agent Sylvia Hahlo coming down from the Goldwyn office. Sylvia grabbed her and cried breathlessly: "How would you like to go to California? They're sending a bunch of poster girls there for six weeks for a picture. One of the girls' mothers has refused to let her go."
$50 to $ 1,500. The movie was ‘Roman Scandals’, starring Eddie Cantor, and it was six months instead of six weeks in the making. Lucille was grimly determined to keep her foot in the Hollywood door. She got a succession of bit parts in such movies as ‘Moulin Rouge’ and ‘The Affairs of Cellini’, worked for three months with the roughhouse comics known as The Three Stooges ("It was one continuous bath of Vichy water and lemon meringue pie").
When RKO picked up her contract, she gradually emerged as a queen of B pictures, then began making program movies with comics Jack Oakie, Joe Penner and the Marx Brothers (’Room Service’). Her salary rose from $50 a week to $1,500 and her hair, already turned blonde from its original brown, now became a brilliant but indescribable shade that has been variously called ‘shocking pink' and 'strawberry orange.' While she was in ‘Dance, Girl, Dance’, and being hailed by Director Erich Pommer as a new 'find' (by then,
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she had been playing in movies for six years), she met a brash, boyish young Cuban named Desi Arnaz.
Gold Initials. Desi had come to Hollywood to make the movie version of the Broadway hit, Too Many Girls. Taking one look at luscious (5 ft. 7 in., 130 Ibs.) Lucille, who was wearing a sweater and skirt, he cried: "Thass a honk o' woman!" and asked: "How would you like to learn the rumba, baby?" He took her for a ride in his blue convertible, with the gold initials on the door, and she shudderingly recalls that the only time the speedometer dipped below 100 m.p.h. was when he rounded a curve. On the way home, Desi hit a bump and, as Lucille tells it, a fender flew off. He simply flicked the ash from his Cuban cigarillo and sped on.
Lucille was as dazzled by his full name (Desiderio Alberto Arnaz y De Acha III) as by his history. The only child of a prosperous Cuban politician who had been mayor of Santiago and a member of the Cuban Senate, Desi had fled to Miami with his mother during the revolution of 1933. His father, a supporter of President Machado, was put in jail, and the Arnaz possessions disappeared in the revolution.
After six months, Desi's father was released from jail and rejoined his family in Miami, where he went into the export-import business. Desi, who was 16, enrolled in St. Patrick's High School (his closest friend was Al Capone's son Albert), and got a part-time job cleaning canary cages for a firm which sold birds to local drugstores. He soon found steadier work as a guitarist in a four-piece band incongruously called the Siboney Sextette. The critics agreed on Desi's meager musical gifts. "He was always off-beat," says theater owner Carlos Montalban. "But he's an awfully nice guy—a clean-cut Latin."
Conga Line. Whatever Desi had, it was something the public liked. He began beating a conga drum in Miami and soon nightclub audiences, from Florida to New York, were forming conga lines behind him. His good looks and unquenchable good humor interested producer George Abbott, who was searching for a Latin type to play a leading role in ‘Too Many Girls’. "Can you act?" asked Abbott. "Act?" answered Desi, expansively. "All my life, I act."
The courtship of Desi and Lucille was predictably stormy. Says a friend: "He's very jealous. She's very jealous—they're both very jealous." They were married in 1940, while Desi was leading his orchestra at the Roxy in New York and Lucille was between pictures in Hollywood. She flew in from the coast; they got up at 5 a.m. and drove to Connecticut, where they were married by a justice of the peace. Since they had no apartment, Desi compromised by carrying his bride across the threshold of his dressing room at the Roxy. Hollywood offered odds that the marriage would not last six weeks.
The marriage lasted better than six weeks, but after four years trouble blew. Desi kept moving about the country with his band, and Lucille, when not making pictures, mostly sat home alone. Their marriage was drifting on the rocks, and only World War II averted immediate shipwreck. Desi refused a commission in the Cuban army and was drafted into the U.S. infantry. He was moved on to Special Services, and spent much of the war shepherding USO troupes from one base to another.
In 1944, Lucille filed suit for divorce. She won an interlocutory decree but never got around to filing for her final papers. The reason: she and Desi were in the midst of a new reconciliation. But all the old difficulties remained. Lucille would sit night after night at the clubs where Desi's band was playing, but that resulted in rings under her eyes rather than a new intimacy. She tried cutting down on her movie work by starring in a CBS radio show called ‘My Favorite Husband’, and Desi also took a flyer at radio. They worked out a vaudeville act and toured U.S. theaters with their new routines.
Lucille credits Desi with being the one who was willing to take a chance on TV. "He's a Cuban," she says, "and all Cubans gamble. They'll bet you which way the tide is going and give you first pick." But it was a real gamble. Movie exhibitors do not look kindly upon movie stars who desert to the enemy. If the show flopped, Lucille would have no place to crawl back to. They told CBS that they would give television a try only if both of them could be on the same show. At first, they wanted to play themselves. They compromised by turning Desi into Ricky Ricardo, a struggling young bandleader, and letting Lucille fulfill her lifelong ambition of playing a housewife.
The decision to film the show also made CBS bigwigs uneasy. It would cost four times as much as a live show, and the only interested sponsor, Philip Morris, wasn't prepared to go that high. Again there was a compromise. Desi and Lucille agreed to take a smaller salary in return for producing the show and keeping title to the films.
Real Plumbing. Long years in the practical business of orchestra leading had given Desi considerable organizing ability and business sense. He set up Desilu Productions (Desi president, Lucille vice president), and leased a sound stage from an independent Los Angeles studio. Because Lucille was ‘dead' without an audience, a side wall of the studio was knocked out to make a street entrance, and seats installed for an audience of 300. When a show is ready for the cameras, the audience laughter is picked up on overhead microphones and used in the final print.
Though ‘I Love Lucy’ is filmed, it is more like a play than a movie. All of the lines and action are memorized and, whenever possible, the show is played straight through from beginning to end, and not shot in a number of unrelated scenes. The action takes place on four sets; two of them represent the Ricardos' Manhattan apartment, a third shows the nightclub where Ricky's band plays and the fourth is used for any other scenes called for by the script. Says Desi proudly: "We have real furniture, real plumbing, and a real kitchen where we serve real food. Even the plants are really growing; they're not phony."
Desilu Productions hired a pair of veteran troupers, William Frawley and Vivian Vance, to play the family next door and serve as foils and friends for Desi and Lucille. Academy Award-winning Karl (’The Good Earth’) Freund supervises the three cameras, and Director Marc Daniels (soon to be replaced by Bill Asher) gives Lucy its rattling pace. The writers—Jess Oppenheimer, Bill Carroll and Madalyn Pugh—turn out scripts that do not impose too much on the audience's credulity and are reasonably free of clichés. The writers are held in an esteem not common in TV. Lucille bombards Jess Oppenheimer with photographs flatteringly inscribed to "the Boss Man," and Desi has presented him with a statuette of a baseball player and a punning tribute, "To the man behind the ball."
"Wanta Play Cards?" Desi and Lucille live an unpretentious life on a five-acre ranch in the San Fernando Valley. The only Hollywood note is a kidney-shaped swimming pool, and the most recent addition to the house (a wing devoted to daughter Lucie and her nurse) cost $22,000—more than the house and land cost originally. Neither Desi nor Lucille has ever been socially ambitious, and their friends are the same ones they have known for years. Both Desi's mother (now divorced from Arnaz Sr., who still lives in Miami) and Lucille's Mom live nearby.
At home, Lucille, who collects stray cats and dogs, is an amateur painter ("I use oils because it's easier to correct mistakes than with water colors"), and generally considers herself a lazy, lounging homebody. She is fascinated by Desi's boundless energy.' He spends weekends fishing on his 34-foot cabin cruiser, Desilu; plays violent tennis; likes to cook elaborate dishes. Says Lucille: "Everything is fine with him all the time. Wanta play cards? Fine. Play games? Fine. go for a swim? Great." There's only one problem: "Desi is a great thermostat sneaker-upper and I'm a thermostat sneaker-downer. Cold is the one thing that isn't great with him."
Sex & Chic. Though life has grown noticeably more placid for Desi and Lucille, it promises more money than they ever made before. Desilu Productions has already branched out beyond ‘I Love Lucy’. It is filming TV commercials for Red Skelton, and is at work on a new TV series, ‘Our Miss Brooks’, starring Eve Arden. Three of the best 30-minute Lucy shows are being put together in a package and will be experimentally released to movie theaters in the U.S. and Latin America. This year, ‘I Love Lucy’ has grossed about $1,000,000, and sponsor Philip Morris has signed a contract for 39 more shows beginning this fall. All of the old Lucy films can be sold again as new TV stations go on the air (eventually there will be 2,053 TV transmitters in the U.S., compared to today's 108).
In reaching the TV top, Lucille's telegenic good looks may be almost as important as her talent for comedy. She is sultry-voiced, sexy, and wears chic clothes with all the aplomb of a trained model and showgirl. Letters from her feminine fans show as much interest in Lucille's fashions as in her slapstick. Most successful comediennes (e.g., Imogene Coca, Fanny Brice, Beatrice Lillie) have made comic capital out of their physical appearance. Lucille belongs to a rare comic aristocracy: the clown with glamour.
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victoria-daydreams · 4 years
Text
Till Kingdom Come
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Chapter Four: Resurrection
AN: I was really inspired to write this chapter by repeatedly listening to Satan, We’re Gonna Tear Your Kingdom Down by Shirley Caesar. Which if you couldn’t tell by that song alone, I’ve been watching Lovecraft Country and *that* scene in the third episode had me feeling powerful and wanting to call on the ancestors. Also, there’s a line in here that you may recognize from a popular TV show, I hope you catch onto it.
Word Count: 4.7k
Trigger Warnings: racism, racial slurs, microaggressions, violence
Chapter Five: Oh Freedom!
Arkansas, that's where the men were taking Sabine.
Apparently, there was encampment up there for the Union Army which the men were apart of the detachment. Joe told her it was going to be long journey and encouraged Sabine to rest up, he didn't have to tell her twice, she was exhausted. The bursts of energy she had earlier had vanished into thin air and the fatigue of everything that had transpired within the past twenty-four hours crashed down upon her body.
Sleep came easy for Sabine.
For once in her miserable life, nightmares did not pervade her mind, it was an uninterrupted slumber without any episodes of abruptly waking up in a cold sweat, it was just peace. When Sabine awakened from her sleep, the morning sun shone brightly in the slightly cloudy sky. That was an hour ago, according to Nicky they were about an hour away from their destination, Sabine was anxious to get off the wagon and stretch her legs out.
Sabine began playing with a loose thread on her jacket in an attempt to keep herself busy, it wasn't working. She was stuck in the back with Booker who always seemed to be ill-tempered and constantly drank from his flask. Honestly, she was surprised that he hadn't ran out of whatever he was drinking. Sabine wished that it was Joe or Nicky sitting with her, she barely knew them, but it was obvious they were far more agreeable and friendlier than Booker. Unfortunately for her, it looked as though they were always attached to each other's hip.
"You speak very well for a slave,"
Booker's raspy voice snapped Sabine out of her musing and she felt the vein in her temple throb at Booker's comment.
"Yous want me ta speak like dis ta makes ya comfortable?" Sabine asked mockingly.
He narrowed his eyes at her, "That's not what I meant and you know it," Booker argued.
Sabine lifted her brow, "Do I?" she questioned, folding her arms against her chest. "I can't count the times on my fingers on how many times I heard people echo that same sentiment," Sabine explained, mirroring Booker's expression.
"I wasn't being condescending," Booker protested, the muscle in his jaw clenching.
"I think what Booker meant to say," Nicky cut in, sensing both of their tempers flaring. "Is that slaves are prohibited from receiving an education and he's curious who taught you," Nicky clarified, turning around and flashing Sabine a quick smile. "Right, Booker?" he asked, glancing over at him.
"Yes,"
Sabine's eyes traveled from Nicky to Booker, "My mistres-," Sabine cut herself off, exhaling softly. "My ex-mistress taught me," she continued, after correcting herself.
"How kind of her," Booker commented.
"Genevieve, was anything but kind!" Sabine snapped. She turned her head back in Nicky's and Joe's direction. "Is he always this mindless?" she questioned, pointing her finger at Booker.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Booker slightly throw his hand up, "You expected me to know that?" he replied fustratedly.
"I expect you to know that there's no such thing as a ‘kind’ slave owner," Sabine retorted, facing him again.
"Maybe you should stop speaking Booker," Joe suggested, looking over his shoulder briefly. "You keep saying the wrong things," he added, letting out a chuckle.
"I believe the quarreling between the two of you boils down to one simple fact," Nicky stated, speaking up again. "The two of you got off on the wrong foot," he explained simply, before looking back at Booker again. "You did choke out Sabine after all," he added.
"She stabbed me in the leg the moment she woke up!"
"And you shot me in the leg as I was running away!" Sabine countered angrily.
"I would've taken the time to run after you, but that's hard to do after a knife has been plunged into your thigh," Booker said, the corners of his lips twitching, masking a smirk.
"Bullshit!"
"Nicky, I think this is a start to a beautiful friendship," Joe laughed.
"Speaking of my knife, give me it," Sabine ordered, sticking her hand expectantly.
Booker scoffed, "Why, so you can stab me with it again?" he questioned, placing his hand on top of the blade.
"Oh, you don't know how tempting that suggestion is," Sabine replied, chuckling lowly as she shook her head. "I don't want to stab you with it Booker, at least not right now," she continued.
"How reassuring," Booker deadpanned.
"I want it back because it's...special to me," Sabine explained, glancing down to where the knife rested underneath Booker's palm.
"Special?" Booker questioned, raising a skeptical brow.
"Yes, special,"
Booker gripped the handle of the knife and picked it up, "What could be so special about a regular, old hunting knife?" he asked again, twirling the blade in his hand.
"It's what I used to slit the throat of each and every Martin," Sabine answered bluntfully, and the knife twirling in front of her ceased. "I slit the son's first, Marc," she informed, not showing an inch of remorse.
"So, that's how you did it," Booker stated, nodding his head slowly.
"Did what? Kill them?" Sabine asked.
"No, how you started the revolt," he clarified.
"The revolt began when I walked back into the slave cabin, alive," Sabine corrected. "Convincing them to revolt was very easy, they saw me as an angel sent back down from heaven," she explained, slightly shrugging her shoulders. "A saint," she added.
"They missed the mark on that one," he remarked, and Sabine just cut her eyes at him. "So that was it? You came back to life and just...revolted?"
"Not exactly, there was some planning that was done,"
~~~x~~~
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen," Reverend John finished.
The word 'amen' echoed in hushed voices throughout the cabin and Sabine reopened her eyes from the prayer.
"Everyone remember the plan?" Sabine asked, her eyes scanning the room to see her fellow slaves nodding. "Alright y'all, we won't get another chance like this. We must follow the plan to a 't' if we want to succeed," she continued, a determined stare on her face. She made her way to the door, wrapping her fingers around the door knob, but not twisting it. She turned back around to face everyone. "One last thing, if there's a slave against us, then their against us all. Those who want to stay with Master Martin or want to run off and tell the overseers or the next plantation over, have to die. End of story," Sabine stated, her tone serious and leaving no room for disagreement. "Understood?" she asked.
Everyone nodded their heads again as well audible agreements could be heard.
"Let's go,"
Sabine turned on her heel and opened the cabin door, walking out her former cabin and towards the Martin House. Behind her, she could hear the whispers of slaves giving out the orders they went over earlier. One group would head over to the overseer cabin and take care of them and their dogs. The second group was in charge of killing the four overseers that patrolled the grounds for runaway slaves. Finally, the last group would be following behind Sabine into the house to seize Genevieve and Master Martin.
This was a long time coming.
In a crouched position Sabine scurried to her destination, the dark night sky giving them the perfect cover. The only source of light came from the moon or the small orange glow of a lantern held by a passing patrolman. Sabine and the slaves that followed behind approached the entrance to the backdoor of the kitchen, she raised her fist, signaling everyone to stop. Over the lids of the barrels that concealed them, Sabine watched as an overseer passed by the outhouse, his lantern creaking with every step he took. Slowly, the ball of light receded from her view as the man walked further along the main path of the plantation.
"Okay, let's go," Sabine whispered, beckoning the slaves behind her to move forward.
They crept forward and made their way to the backdoor, Sabine placed her hand on the door knob and cautiously twisted it open. Pushing the door open with care, Sabine mentally braced herself for the hinges of the door to squeak loudly, but to her surprise, it was absolutely silent. Quickly, Sabine waved her hand to usher in everyone behind her before she quietly shut the door with a soft click. Stealthily, they made their way through the kitchen and out into the dining room before finally making it into the foyer and next to the bottom stair.
Sabine looked back, "Follow me," she mouthed.
She knew by heart which part of the stairs loudly creaked and which ones didn't, carefully Sabine stepped onto the left side of the bottom stair and then onto the right side for the next step. Sabine almost felt like she was dancing, one step to the middle another two steps to the left, now shift to the right side of the staircase. The only thing about this dance was that it was deadly, one wrong step would spell disaster for every single slave on the plantation. With each step Sabine climbed she held her breath until she finally skipped up onto the last stair with poise.
One by one, each slave followed Sabine's path perfectly and once the last man made it to the top they all stared at each other silently. Some of the men gripped their weapons a bit tighter in their hands, others shifted on their feet anxiously. Sabine drew her lips into a thin line before nodding her head towards the group that wordlessly conveyed the message of 'let's do this,'. With a nod in return, the slaves made their way to the master bedroom where Genevieve and Master Martin slept blissfully unaware about their impending fate. Sabine, on the other hand, walked in the opposite direction to Marc's bedroom practically skipping as she went.
She came to a stop at his door and rested her hand on the knob before twisting the knob and pushing the door open. Sabine did a small twirl as she entered the room, gently closing the door. Immediately, her eyes landed on Marc's sleeping form and she felt her blood begin to boil at how peaceful he looked. This man attempted to rape not even twelve hours ago and when she resisted him, he beat her within an inch of her life and then shot her for good measure.
And here is he now, just sleeping as if what he did was all in a day's work.
Sabine's hand squeezed the handle of her knife tighter as she unsheathed her blade. She walked around the bed to the right side before softly climbing on top of the mattress, sitting next to Marc's unconscious form. Sabine slid her free hand underneath the pillows, she knew Marc slept with a pistol by his side and the tips of her fingers had brushed against something that was wooden and curved. It was his pistol, Sabine smiled to herself as she shimmied out the gun from underneath Marc's pillow where his head rested, once the gun was free she placed it down beside, out of reach from Marc.
"Oh Marc," Sabine sang softly, placing her knife against his throat. He didn't move at the calling of his name, he just shifted himself in his blankets slightly. "Marc," she sung again, this time she took her thumb and index finger and used them to squeeze his bruised nostrils shut.
Sabine observed how his body went from the deep, calming breaths of his slumber to shifting into shallow, panicked breaths as his chest rose more rapidly than before. Marc's eyes snapped open and Sabine let go of her hold, Marc's eyes went as wide as saucers and let out a loud gasp as he came face to face with Sabine. He nearly scrambled himself into a sitting position on the bed, but Sabine let out a series of tsks as she shook her head, pressing the knife harder into the area of thin skin. Marc's face had drained itself of any color and she noticed that his nightshirt was beginning to cling to his chest from a nervous sweat.
"What's the matter Marc?" Sabine asked, with faux innocence. "Seen a ghost?" she asked again, this time a grin working its way on her face.
Marc visibly gulped, "H-H-How a-are y-you alive?" he stuttered.
Sabine tilted her head slightly, "Am I alive?" she questioned back. "Maybe I'm dead and now my spirit gets to haunt you for the rest of your pathetic life," she hypothesized.
Just before Marc had the chance to reply an earsplitting scream of horror reverberated the house, causing Marc to jump up and inadvertently dig the blade deeper into his skin. He cursed in pain as blood slowly dribbled down from the nick and Sabine just flashed him a grin.
"I wouldn't do that again if I were you," Sabine advised. "You almost slit your own throat their Marc,"
The fear in Marc's eyes flashed into anger, "What the hell is going on here?" he growled. "What are you doing to parents?"
"Marc, you are bearing witness to something truly historic," Sabine began. "A slave revolt on the Martin Plantation, something you said would never happen here because we slaves lack the brain capacity to organize ourselves," she continued, slowly lifting the knife from his throat. Sabine slid off the bed, slyly pulling the pistol along with her before she made her way to the large bedroom window. "Look at it," she requested softly, pulling the back heavy curtain and moonlight flooded the room. "Isn't it just beautiful?" she asked, her eyes reflecting the vibrant orange hue that was fanning over the fields.
Faintly, Sabine could hear the whoops or hollering of the slaves outside as they were experiencing their first taste of freedom. Dark clouds of smoke billowed all around the plantation, some came from the area where the slave cabins were, some came from the overseers' cabin, but the majority of the smoke came from the burning cotton. Behind her, she could hear Marc frantically rustling in his sheets, searching for his weapon that was supposed to be underneath his pillow. Sabine smiled to herself and gracefully spun on her feet.
"Looking for this?" Sabine asked curiously, dangling the pistol with her pinky finger. "What were you going to do with it?" she asked again, cocking her head to the side. "Shoot me?" she questioned mockingly, letting out a cackle.
Abruptly, Marc wrestled himself out of his sheets and jumped to his feet, clearly making a dash for the door.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you Marc," Sabine warned again, just as he placed his hand on the door knob. "You are much more better off with me," she continued, watching as his back stiffened. "That's what you wanted earlier, right?" she reminded, arching her brow. "Me, all to yourself," she stated, stepping away from the window.
Slowly, Marc turned around with his hands outstretched, "Listen, everything that happened this morning was a misund-"
"A misunderstanding?" Sabine finished, with a scoff. She couldn't believe the audacity of the man in front of her. "You tried to force yourself on me! And when that didn't go as planned, your fists repeatedly connected with my flesh!" she hissed.
Marc's nostrils flared slightly as he made his way back towards her, "If you would've just let-" he started, stabbing his finger in the air at Sabine.
Sabine shook her head, "I wasn't going to let you rape me," she interjected, chuckling lowly. "Matter of fact..." she trailed off, realizing that they were arms length apart. "You're never going to have the opportunity to inflict such pain on women again," she vowed, nodding to herself.
"Wha-"
Sabine's arm whipped out and all that slipped past his lips was a hoarse gasp as a warm substance sprayed across her face. Marc clasped his hand against his throat trying to stop the flow of blood that spurted from it and through his fingers.
"This is for Mary, Cora, Marie, Sarah, Hazel, Violet, Therese," Sabine listed, her voice growing stronger with each victim's name said. Marc fell to his knees, one hand reaching out to Sabine but she just smoothly leapt back. "And all of the women who names are unknown, but have suffered from your hands!" she exclaimed, as Marc swatted his hand wildly, trying to grab a hold of her.
"There was a quote that Alain read aloud to me once that said, 'life being what it is, one dreams of revenge'," Sabine quoted, as Marc let out a choking sound. "And I couldn't have dreamed up anything better than this in a million years," she admitted, a giggle bubbling from her.
A rattling gasp escaped his lips before he fell onto his stomach with a loud thud. Sabine stared down at him as if he was something she would find on the bottom of her shoe. A puddle of red gradually formed around Marc's face, the blood continuing to seep out from his neck. An eerie silence followed the tense moment as Hell claimed Marc's body. She approached his body and squatted down, the hemline of her dress dipping into the crimson liquid. Sabine lifted her knife up and flipped it from side to side, inspecting the blade in the moonlight before lowering it and wiping the knife free of Marc's blood using his night shirt. She sheathed the blade back into its cover and pushed herself up from her position and left Marc's room.
Stepping on top of his body as she went.
Sabine held her hands behind her back, prancing to the master bedroom before coming to a stop and pushing the door open. The sight that she was greeted with could only be described as a work of art, a masterpiece. There stood a snot-covered face of Genevieve and Master Martin on their knees, both shaking like leaves as the razor sharp edges of wood axes were held to their necks. Genevieve let out a whimper at the appearance of Sabine while Master Martin's eyes widened in shock.
"Surprise!" Sabine cheered, a wry expression on her face. "I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me," she said, crouching down with a sickly sweet smile on her face.
"C-Cecile my dear," Genevieve called, her voice shaking. "H-Help us," she pleaded, tears shedding from her eyes. "Tell them that this, this is all a mistake," she said, sniffling pitifully.
Sabine turned her head from side to side, "Is this a mistake y'all?" she asked, knowing the answer already. Sabine was met with silence and stony faces, turning her attention back to Genevieve she let a smirk grow on her lips. "I think everyone here is pretty resolute in their beliefs," she stated, and Genevieve let out another whimper. Lifting her gaze from her mistress, Sabine stared at the slaves surrounding them. "I need someone here to get Marc and take him outside," she stated, rising back up to her full height.
"M-Marc?" Master Martin stuttered, an uneasy expression on his face.
Sabine's eyes darted down to Master Martin before looking back out to the group, "He may or may not be dead," she went on, and a loud sob erupted from Genevieve. "You can drag his body down the stairs for good measure," Sabine suggested, with a slight shrug.
Master Martin lunged at her, "Why you-" he began angrily, but stopped once he felt the blade of the axe dig deeper into his skin.
"I'll do it," a slave volunteered.
"Great," Sabine smiled, as the slave approached her. "If he's still alive somehow, take this pistol and shoot him," she instructed, placing Marc's gun in his hand.
"Yes ma'am," the slave answered, smirking as he left the room.
"And for these two," Sabine started, glancing down at the soon to be former Mistress and Master of the plantation. "Go ahead and take them outside as well, I think there are some folks who would like to have a word with them," she finished, letting out a chuckle.
"Come on!"
"Get up"
Genevieve and Master Martin were forced onto their feet and shoved out the bedroom into the hallway. Sabine inspected her knife boredly, waiting for everyone to leave the room until she heard a high pitch shriek again. Rolling her eyes, she lifted her stare from the blade and walked out the bedroom. Sabine let her eyes drop down to the wooden floors and noticed a long red smear that began at Marc's bedroom and led down the stairs.
"Oh shut up Genevieve," Sabine ordered coldly, watching her be pulled down the stairs.
Sabine made her way to staircase and pulled herself up onto to the smooth railing. Giving herself a small push, Sabine felt her body began to slide down the railing and she lightly laughed from the rapid movement. Nimbly, she landed on her feet in the foyer just in time to see the figures of Genevieve and Master Martin be taken out the front door. She followed behind the group, hearing the loud yells of the slaves outside as she walked out the front door. Moving down the stairs, she observed a group of slaves jeering at the dead body of Marc, some spat on him, others pissed on his corpse, and some just bludgeoned his body even more.
"Miss Sabine,"
Sabine looked away from the scene and stared at the young man in front of her, "I don't see a bullet hole in his forehead," she commented, as the man held his hand out for her to take.
"Dead as a door nail by the time I reached him," he answered, leading her down the stairs. "So, I decided to save the bullet for someone else," he added, guiding her further from the house to see the nooses hanging from the balcony porch.
"Who?" Sabine asked curiously.
"Just wait and see," he replied, as they approached another small group of slaves.
The two of them walked forward and the slaves parted like the Red Sea, letting Sabine see who deserved the bullet more than Marc. She felt her nostrils flare and a sardonic laugh bubbled from Sabine at who she was facing.
It was Sydney.
"You're right," she agreed, looking over to the slave. "You couldn't have picked a more deserving target," she stated, scowling at the sellout.
"I thought so too," he nodded. "I'll let you do the honors," he stated, placing the pistol in her hands.
The light skinned man in front of her laughed, "Put that gun down girl," he ridiculed. "You're more likely to hurt yourself than you are me!" he jeered.
Sabine's grip on the gun tightened, "Judging from what happened this morning till now, I highly doubt that," she retorted, aiming the gun at Sydney's heart.
"I always told Mistress Genevieve that you was goin’ be trouble as you got older," Sydney stated, a scowl forming on his face. "You're an ungrateful negro Cecile! All of you are!" he shouted, looking at the slaves around him. "The Master and Mistress has been nothin’, but kinds to us," he claimed, his eyes landing back on Sabine.
"Well since you share the same beliefs of the Martin's, you should have no problem joining them in the after life," Sabine said, pulling back the hammer of the gun. "This is for Henry," she declared, before squeezing the trigger.
The kick from the gun sent Sabine stumbling backwards, but the slave behind her steadied her. The sound of wheezing could be heard and everyone slowly crept towards the fallen body of Sydney. He was still alive, Sabine had missed his heart. Sydney's eyes frantically bounced around his skull, staring at everyone who surrounded him. He opened his mouth to speak, but only coughed up blood instead.
"What should we do?" a female slave asked, her eyes darting from Sydney's struggling form to Sabine.
Sabine's lips quivered up into a brief smirk, "Whatever you please," she answered simply, staring at the slave. “Sydney here, doesn't deserve a quick death like I intended," she added, letting the pistol fall from her hand.
Slowly, she backed away from the group of slaves as they immediately converged on Sydney with their weapons. Sabine moved towards the direction of where Genevieve and Master Martin were being held. As she got closer she watched some men loop a noose around Marc's neck and tighten it before throwing his lifeless body off the balcony. A resounding crunch echoed in the air and a howl came from Genevieve.
"Don't worry Genevieve," Sabine said calmly, as she stopped in front of her. "You'll be joining him in Hell soon," she assured, nodding her head. She drew her knife from her jacket pocket, pacing back forth from Genevieve to Master Martin. "Any last words?" she asked, stopping in her tracks. "Genevieve?" she questioned, pointing the knife at her. Genevieve just flinched back so Sabine moved over to Master Martin. "Aaron?" she addressed, mimicking her movements from before.
"Why you nig-"
Sabine slashed her knife across Master Martin's throat with precision, stopping him mid-sentence.
"Ah, ah, ah," she said, shaking her head disapprovingly. "I was kind of enough to give your last words," she stated, staring at Master Martin attempting to keep his throat together. "And you looked a gift horse in the mouth, trying to say such uncivilized words," she continued, starting to tsk and shake her head again. "Shame," she commented, before letting out a loud whistle. "Aaron's all yours folks!" she announced, and cheering ensued as his body was dragged away from her and towards a group of slaves.
"C-C-Cecile," Genevieve called softly, and Sabine looked down at the woman on her knees. "W-Why are you doing this?" she questioned, sniffling loudly. "I treated you like my daughter," she claimed, her voice cracking.
Sabine's eyes widened in disbelief before she felt her shoulders begin bouncing up and down with laughter. She threw her head back, still laughing at Genevieve's comical claim, she felt a tear form in her eye and wiped it away as she brought her attention back towards the older woman in front of her.
"That is a lie, and we both know it," Sabine stated matter of factly.
"I taught you how to read, write, speak English and French-"
"As a source of derision!" Sabine interjected angrily, and Genevieve cowered in fear. "And as I got older, you abused me every, goddamn day!" she snapped, pointing the knife at Genevieve and she let out a another whimper. "If that is a mother's love, then I don't want it!" Sabine shouted, vigorously shaking her head.
"Cecile, you were a difficult-"
"More lies!" Sabine cut in, now circling around her mistress. "You're pathetic Genevieve! Even in your last moments, you cannot admit that what you did to me was wrong!" she exclaimed, before abruptly stopping and lowering her mouth to Genevieve's ear. "You were never my mother and I will never see you as one either," Sabine whispered menacingly. "Want to know why?" she asked, with a foreboding tone.
"W-Why?" Genevieve asked, her voice quivering.
"Because you stole me from my mama when I was five," Sabine reminded, placing the blade against Genevieve's neck.
"Oh God," she wailed, her body violently shaking.
"And one last thing Genevieve," Sabine began.
"W-W-What?"
"My name isn't Cecile," she pointed out. "It's Sabine," she corrected, before drawing the knife clean across Genevieve's throat.
Genevieve fell face forward into the ground, gargling sounds coming from her.
Sabine gave her body a kick and chuckled, "She's all yours fellas," she stated, and the men that were guarding Genevieve sent a grin at Sabine before dragging her body away to join her husband's.
Sabine made her way to the grand staircase of the porch and plopped down on the first step, watching the chaos all around her unfold. Fires were everywhere, bodies of overseers were littered about, and most importantly she could see and hear the cries of celebration of the recently freed slaves. Just as Sabine looked down to clean her knife with her dress, a strong breeze swept through the fields, releasing tufts of burning cotton. The breeze was so strong, that it made the bell in the yard swing back and forth, clanging loudly in the night air. It brought a smile to Sabine's tired face.
"That's right," Sabine thought. "Let freedom ring!"
"Sabine, we're here," Joe announced.
Sabine tore her gaze from the melancholic blues of Booker's and looked ahead of her, seeing rows upon rows of white tents.
"Home sweet home," Booker muttered, and took a swig of his flask.
Chapter Six: Introductions
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Lost Time: Ch. 7
Fandom: Time Warp Trio
Author: The_Bookkeeper_96
Rating: T
Summary: Another summer at Horae Manor begins, but before Joe and Tessa get the chance to train, they are sent out on a mission to explore the magic capital of the universe, Mancika. Rumors of illegal magic conversion spread throughout the city, and Joe and Tessa need to locate those responsible. But after the events of last summer, Joe isn't eager to work with his Aether partner, and the two are struggling more with each other than with their enemies.
A/N: Sorry for the delay. A lot of big life-changes have been happening for me lately. Anyway, enjoy! And as always, please let me know what you think by leaving a review!
Read on AO3
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"I simply cannot save the world on an empty stomach." - Dawne Lisle, Thirteenth Warp Wizard
When I wake up the next morning, I'm no longer physically exhausted. But I still feel drained, like my soul is exhausted. My magic definitely hasn't returned yet.
It's easy enough to get out of bed and get dressed for the day. I throw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, hoping that this will be acceptable enough for whatever Cassius and Rowena have in store for me and Tessa today. But just what did they have planned? They didn't give us any details last night. Hopefully, they’ll reveal a bit more at breakfast.
I mentally check the time. Even in a world between worlds, I can still pinpoint the exact time, seven forty-eight. Breakfast would be starting soon, so I make my way to the dining hall.
Surprisingly, and unfortunately, I'm not the first one there. Tessa sits at her usual spot, twirling her sabre, a far-off look in her eyes. She doesn't even notice me until I take my seat directly across from her.
"Oh!" She fumbles with her sword, quickly flipping it closed and putting it away. "S-sorry, I didn't hear you come in."
I sit back in my chair and say nothing. Something's off with her this morning, but why? I don't think I've ever heard her stutter before. Where is her normally cool and confident self? Did last night in the gym really throw her off that much?
Her eyes search mine. I don't know what she's hoping to find, but I do my best to not give her anything. "Did you, uh, sleep well last night?"
"Like a rock."
She nods and looks down. "That's good."
I take a closer look at her face. Dark circles hang under her eyes. Had she not been able to sleep last night? I shake my head and turn away. Whatever, it's not like I care about her sleeping habits. One restless night wouldn't kill her. And besides, it was probably some form of karma anyway.
I keep studying her face. She did seem genuinely upset last night. Devastated actually. Her reaction had been a little over the top given the situation. Is there something else bothering her? Besides the whole 'save the entire space-time continuum' thing. But I mean, that's practically nothing.
I press my lips together. We couldn't keep going like this. We were stuck together and who knows what Cas and Ro are planning for us today.
It's not easy, but I manage to say, "Listen, I don't blame you for what happened last night. You heard Cas. It was my fault."
She waves me off and rests her head on her hand. "No, it's fine. It's not the first time. I always mess things up."
Before I can ask her what she means by that, Sam hurries into the room. He crashes into the chair next to me, nearly pushing me out of mine. "Joe! Thank goodness you're here. I need to talk to you. Last night, in the library…" he stops, panting heavily.
Tessa and I both lean forward. "What?" we ask together.
"There- I saw- we saw," he continues to huff, "a ghost!"
"A ghost?" I ask. I can’t help the doubt that creeps into my voice. Okay, so Sam's not adjusting well…
"Who's we?" Tessa adds. Any traces of her earlier self-doubt or depression are gone. Her usual mask of over-confidence and sassy attitude reappears.
"Juniper and I." Sam rearranged himself to properly sit in his chair. "And yes a ghost." He glares pointedly at me.
"Are you sure?" I ask, at the same time Tessa says, "What did it look like?"
I raise an eyebrow at her. She didn't really believe him, right? But she ignored me, her full focus on Sam and his story.
He nods eagerly and starts talking a mile a minute, "Yes, ask Juniper. She was with me. She was reading these weird books and promised to teach me about magic. Oh! Speaking of weird books-"
"Wait, wait, wait." Tessa cuts him off. She places her hands on the table in front of her. "Did you say June was reading? But she-"
"Doesn't like books, I know." Sam finishes her sentence.
Between the two of them, I don't know if any sentence will be finished. We're definitely not going to get the whole story this way. Part of me wondered if we should even be talking about this right now. Wouldn't it be better to wait for everyone else to arrive? At the very least, Cas and Ro should hear this.
"Okay, Sam," I offer, "let's assume you did see a ghost. Why don't you take a second to breathe and calm down? Then, when everyone else gets here, you can tell us what happened."
He frowns at me, knowing I don't believe him. To be fair, it wasn't like Sam to just make up some wild story like this. Fred, sure, but not him. We had seen some crazy stuff over the years. I guess seeing a ghost inside a magic school isn't too out of the ordinary for us.
"That's not a bad idea. I have a few questions for June anyway." Tessa sits back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest.
I smile to myself. Maybe there's hope for our little motley group yet.
Of course, that thought gets ruined as soon as I think it.
"For the last time, no." Arwen growls and stomps into the room.
Fred trails in behind her, whining, "Oh, come on, why not?"
"Because I said no. I really can't simplify that any more." She plants herself in the chair next to Tessa with a huff.
"Please? Aren’t we friends now? Why can’t I-"
"Shut up!" Arwen stabs her knife into the table. It vibrates in place, barely an inch away from Fred's fingers.
I jump back, staring wide-eyed at the knife. Just how bad did Fred piss her off? It's only eight in the morning. Sure, Fred can be annoying, but that is excessive.
Fred recoils. "I just thought we really bonded last night."
"Sounds like you two had a lot of fun," Tessa says with a smirk. "I'd love to hear more about this bonding experience."
Arwen glares at her. "You can shut up too."
She rolls her eyes in response and offers Fred a pitiful smile. "Don't take it personally. Ari’s not a morning person, and she really struggles with anger management."
Juniper giggles as she enters the dining hall and joins us at the table. "I'll say. Remember that time she lost it on those kids in the park because they hit her with one of their water balloons?"
"That was completely justifiable."
"They were, like, eight."
Arwen groans and buries her head in her hands. "Okay, everyone can officially shut up. It's too early for this."
"Too early for what?" Our final two members finally walk into the room and take their seats at the head of the table. "I hope you're not ready to go back to bed. You kids have a big day ahead of you."
We all perk up at that. "We do?"
Cas nods. "Oh yes, but first, we must eat." He waves his hand. Green mist hovers over the table and vanishes just as quickly, leaving behind a full breakfast buffet.
Easily distracted by the food, I load my plate with a stack of pancakes and begin drowning them in syrup.
I distantly hear Sam cough next to me, and judging by the pointed look he's giving me, it's not the first time he's done it. He looks from me to Juniper, to Cas and Ro. I almost wish I didn't understand his hint.
Setting down my fork, I sigh. Why does he have to be so dramatic? "Can't we eat first? I'm starving."
"Not surprising considering the surge of magic you let out last night," Cas says, eyeing me closely. "We should look you over before we leave today."
I wave him off, hoping my exhaustion doesn't show too much. "I feel fine. Really."
Cas and Ro both give me a look letting me know they don't believe me for one second. Well, it was worth a shot. I don't want to have to go to the infirmary. I was hoping to avoid it this summer. My nose twinges at the memory of last year's injury.
"Anyway," I say, eager to change the subject. I point to Sam. "Sam claims he saw a ghost last night."
I can't help but notice Juniper tense up. Her hair is covering her face, so I can't read her expression. Sam had said she'd been there last night too. But she’s acting much too casual for someone who saw a ghost the night before.
Sam nods so hard, his glasses almost fall off. "It- he looked sort of like an old monk. He didn't feel nice."
Fred snorts. "He didn't feel nice?"
Sam throws his hands in the air. "I don't know how else to describe it. It felt like he wanted to hurt us. And he sort of did. Somehow, he pressurized the whole room. I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head." He stares at all of us. No one looks entertained by his story, let alone like we believe him. He rubs his hand down his face and glares at Juniper. "A little help here?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." Juniper says, joining the conversation for the first time. She pushes her hair out of her face. "It must have been some trick of the light combined with all that old dust in the library."
"The library?" Cas hums, stroking his chin. "Did this ghost have a really thick beard? And was it wearing heavy robes?"
"Yes!" Sam slams his hands down, practically jumping on the table.
Cas lets out a light laugh. "Oh, that's just old Flamel. He's harmless. In fact, he helped me find my way out of the library when I got lost in there as a kid. Good to know he's still floating around.
Sam's mouth drops open. "Good to know? You knew there were ghosts here and you didn't say anything?"
Rowena shrugs. "We really never had the time or need to tell you."
"Oh, that reminds me." Cas clasps his hands together. "There's a flock of pixies in one of the old classrooms. So, please don't enter any locked rooms. Those things are a pain to catch."
"It took us three weeks to find them all last time," Ro adds, as if this is a perfectly normal conversation to be having.
I blink, a thousand questions running through my mind. Mainly, what are pixies? But also, how often did they get out? Is that something Tessa and I would be doing every month? A heavy sigh escapes my lungs, and I stare at the ceiling. No, Tessa and I have much bigger things on our plate. The universe isn't going to save itself.
"I think we figured out mythic creatures were real last summer when we met the Drake," I point out to everyone. In hindsight, ghosts and pixies, whatever those are, don't seem so strange. Our lives were like a fairy tale, better to swallow that large pill now and move on. "Speaking of summer adventures, you mentioned we had a big day ahead of us?" I turn the conversation to my mentors, hoping they'll give us more information. And that they'll talk enough so I can finish my breakfast in peace. I shove some toast in my mouth before they even have a chance to deflect the conversation back to me.
Rowena frowns at my poor table manners. "Yes, well, today Cassius and I have to go to Mancika. An emergency council meeting has been called, and we can't miss it."
"I thought you two were in charge of the council." Tessa leans across the table to have a better view. "Can't you just reschedule?"
"That's the thing with emergency meetings, they tend to be time sensitive. So, no." Cas replies.
Rowena continues, "While we're gone, we can't simply leave you all to your own devices. So you'll be coming with us."
I nearly choke on my toast. Mancika? As in, the capital of the magic world? I'd seen in it pictures in some of the books Cas gave me to read last year. I probably should have done more than stare at the pictures, but it looked really cool. However, being there, sitting in on a meeting all day didn’t sound very fun. Even if it was for a magic council.
Like she's reading my thoughts, Tessa asks, "You're bringing us to Mancika so we can watch a council session?"
Rowena snorts. "Hardly. Even if you're potential future Great Wizards, council sessions are private, with very few exceptions. We have something else in mind for you."
"Going head to head with magical criminals?"
"Spying on your enemies?"
"Infiltrate an evil dark magic syndicate?"
"What? No," Rowena groans as Cassius chuckles at our responses. She elbows him in the side. "Don't encourage them." He merely rolls his eyes in response.
Their back and forth is kind of a shock. It's the first time I've seen them actually act like siblings. I didn't realize it when I first met them, but in hindsight, I was blind. The two are obviously twins. Other than their eyes, they’re identical. I wonder how that affects their work. I know I couldn't be stuck with Anna like that forever. We'd kill each other. I take a quick glimpse at Tessa out of the corner of my eye. Then again, we aren't exactly off to a great start either. I almost wish my sister was here instead, but she can't do magic.
With a sigh, Rowena explains what we're actually doing today. "We just need you to do some research for us."
A collective groan rises from everyone. They were sending us to the biggest magical city and making us do research? It seems almost cruel to send us there and then just stick us in a library all day. This is definitely busy work to keep us occupied while they get to do the important stuff.
"Now, hold on. We haven't told you what you'll be researching. I promise it's important, and it actually relates to our council meeting today. So it will be useful and valuable information." Cas's hands begin to glow and a cloud of green smoke appears above the table. Slowly a vision starts forming, becoming clearer and clearer until it reveals a news reporter standing in front of a museum. "No doubt you have heard about the recent artifact robberies occurring at several museums and private collections across the world."
Everyone nods. This had been all over the news recently, but it started over a year ago. It’s nothing new.
Tessa and I lock eyes across the table, and I'm sure we’re thinking the same thing. Are they about to tell everyone about the time decay and our role in it? I'm not sure I want that. And why would they pull us out yesterday to tell us about the doomsday countdown clock in private if they were just going to tell everyone about it today? Did they really think a day was long enough for us to adjust to that kind of news?
I chew on my bottom lip and let Cas continue. Tessa taps her fingers on the table, clearly just as anxious as me.
"We need you to sneak around Mancika and see what information you can find as to why this is happening." The vision he'd created changes to an eagle-eye view of a city, presumably Mancika.
The city is laid out in a circle, with clear roads (or are those walls?) that divide it into nine parts. The center of Mancika is an isolated smaller circle housing a few very large buildings. I didn't need to read anything about the place to understand that's the most important part, and no doubt where Cas and Ro are going for their meeting.
"So we are going on a secret mission!" Fred practically jumps up and down in his seat.
"Of a sort. If thinking that way helps you focus on the task at hand, then fine,” Ro says with a sigh. “Welcome to your first official secret mission debriefing."
We all sit up a little straighter at that. Saying it that way made this much more exciting.
Cas clears his throat in a very dramatic sort of way, making his sister roll her eyes. “Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to discover any and all information pertaining to the disappearance of these artifacts and the corruption of the time periods they come from.
“For some reason, certain periods of time have become unstable and thus parts of history are vanishing. This may be due to natural causes in the space-time continuum, but we have reason to believe that someone or a group of people is causing this chaos and destruction, but we don’t know who.”
Ro picks up where he left off. “That’s where you kids come in. Cas and I are far too well-known and recognizable in Mancika. No one will be willing to tell us any information without fear of getting in trouble themselves. But you all are strangers and will be able to blend in with the locals and listen to any rumors relating to this issue.
“For this to work, you must maintain a low-profile. So no showing off with magic.” She gives me a pointed look. I flinch away. Last night had been an accident. Besides, I don’t think I could summon up that much magic right now even if I wanted to.
“Time is of the essence. As soon as we can put a stop to this, the better. Any questions?”
Um, yeah. About a hundred. My mouth stays shut though, and we all shake our heads.
“Perfect. Joe and Tessa, we have a few more things for you. Everyone else is dismissed. Go pack any items you think you’ll need, but keep it light. If all goes well, we’ll all be back here tonight just in time for dinner.”
All our friends get up and leave the room, chatting excitedly with each other. All the previous tension between them seems to be gone for the moment. I wonder how long that will last.
“That was a very censored version of what’s actually happening.” Tessa leans back and kicks her feet up on the table.
“That’s the point.” Ro flicks her wrist and a gust of magic sweeps Tessa’s legs back to the floor. She frantically grabs for the table, trying not to fall over, and I have to suppress a laugh. “If you want to tell them the truth, that’s a decision you two need to make. Together.”
My laughter dies in my throat. “So this whole mission is just a team building exercise?
“It has multiple purposes. We do need information on the time decay, but you two need to work on your teamwork and leadership skills.”
“Excuse you, I am a great leader.” Tessa puffs out her chest. “You saw how smoothly the Egypt operation went with me, Ari, and June.”
“Yes, but now you have more people to lead and a co-leader to collaborate with.”
I resist the urge to look at Tessa. It figures she would already have more experience than me with magic missions. I don’t know what the “Egypt operation” is, but it sounds like it went smoother than the time Fred, Sam, and I warped there. And it wasn’t even our skills that got us out. It was a cat and some luck.
“So what do you want us to do?” I ask.
Cas’ lips move into a half-smile. “It’s entirely up to you two. We’ve given you a goal, now work together to figure out the best way to achieve it.”
Tessa frowns and looks back and forth between our mentors. “You’re not going to give us any tips or advise?”
“None at all. You have an hour to prepare. Use your time wisely.”
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Random Review #3: Sleepwalkers (1992) and “Sleep Walk” (1959)
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I. Sleepwalkers (1992) I couldn’t sleep last night so I started watching a trashy B-movie penned by Stephen King specifically for the screen called Sleepwalkers (1992). Simply put, the film is an unmitigated disaster. A piece of shit. But it didn’t need to be. That’s what’s so annoying about it. By 1992 King was a grizzled veteran of the silver screen, with more adaptations under his belt than any other author of his cohort. Puzo had the Godfather films (1972 and 1974, respectively), sure, but nothing else. Leonard Gardner had Fat City (1972), a movie I love, but Gardner got sucked into the Hollywood scene of cocaine and hot tub parties and never published another novel, focusing instead on screenplays for shitty TV shows like NYPD Blue. After Demon Seed (1977), a movie I have seen and disliked, nobody would touch Dean Koontz’s stuff with a ten foot pole, which is too bad because The Voice of the Night, a 1980 novel about two young pals, one of whom is a psychopath trying to convince the other to help him commit murder, would make a terrific movie. But Koontz’s adaptations have been uniformly awful. The made-for-TV film starring John C McGinley, 1997′s Intensity, is especially bad. There are exceptions, but Stephen King has been lucky enough to avoid the fate of his peers. Big name directors have tackled his work, from Stanley Kubrick to Brian De Palma. King even does a decent job of acting in Pet Semetary (1989), in his own Maximum Overdrive (1986) and in George Romero’s Creepshow (1982), where he plays a yokel named Jordy Verril who gets infected by a meteorite that causes green weeds to grow all over his body. Many have criticized King’s over-the-top performance in that flick, but for me King perfectly nails the campy and comical tone that Romero was going for. The dissolves in Creepshow literally come right off the pages of comics, so people expecting a subtle Ordinary People-style turn from King had clearly walked into the wrong theatre. Undoubtedly��Creepshow succeeds at what it set out to do. I’m not sure Sleepwalkers succeeds though, unless the film’s goal was to get me to like cats even more than I already do. But I already love cats a great deal. Here’s my cat Cookie watching me edit this very blog post. 
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And here’s one of my other cats, Church, named after the cat that reanimates and creeps out Louis and Ellie in Pet Sematary. Photo by @ScareAlex.
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SPOILER ALERT: Do not keep reading if you plan on watching Sleepwalkers and want to find out for yourself what happens.
Stephen King saw many of his novels get adapted in the late 1970s and 80s: Carrie, The Shining, Firestarter, Christine, Cujo, and the movie that spawned the 1950s nostalgia industrial complex, Stand By Me, but Sleepwalkers was the first time he wrote a script specifically for the screen rather than adapting a novel that already existed. Maybe that’s why it’s so fucking bad. Stephen King is a novelist, gifted with a novelist’s rich imagination. He’s prone to giving backstories to even the most peripheral characters - think of Joe Chamber’s alcoholic neighbour Gary Pervier in the novel Cujo, who King follows for an unbelievable number of pages as the man stumbles drunkenly around his house spouting his catch phrase “I don’t give a shit,” drills a hole through his phone book so he can hang it from a string beside his phone, complains about his hemorrhoids getting “as big as golfballs” (I’m not joking), and just generally acts like an asshole until a rabid Cujo bounds over, rips his throat out, and he bleeds to death. In the novel Pervier’s death takes more than a few pages, but it makes for fun reading. You hate the man so fucking much that watching him die feels oddly satisfying. In the movie, though, his death occurs pretty quickly, and in a darkened hallway, so it’s hard to see what’s going on aside from Gary’s foot trembling. And Pervier’s “I don’t give a shit” makes sense when he’s drilling a hole in the phone book, not when he’s about to be savagely attacked by a rabid St Bernard. There’s just less room for back story in movies. In a medium that demands pruning and chiseling and the “less is more” dictum, King’s writing takes a marked turn for the worse. King is a prose maximalist, who freely admits to “writing to outrageous lengths” in his novels, listing It, The Stand, and The Tommyknockers as particularly egregious examples of literary logorrhea. He is not especially equipped to write concisely. This weakness is most apparent in Sleepwalkers’ dialogue, which sounds like it was supposed to be snappy and smart, like something Aaron Sorkin would write, but instead comes off like an even worse Tango & Cash, all bad jokes and shitty puns. More on those bad jokes later. First, the plot.
Sleepwalkers is about a boy named Charles and his mother Mary who travel around the United States killing and feeding off the lifeforce of various unfortunate people (if this sounds a little like The True Knot in Doctor Sleep, you’re not wrong. But self-plagiarism is not a crime). Charles and Mary are shapeshifting werewolf-type creatures called werecats, a species with its very own Wikipedia page. Wikipedia confers legitimacy dont’cha know, so lets assume werecats are real beings. According to said page, a werecat, “also written in a hyphenated form as were-cat) is an analogy to ‘werewolf’ for a feline therianthropic creature.” I’m gonna spell it with the hyphen from now on because “werecats” just looks like a typo. Okay? Okay.
Oddly enough, the were-cats in Sleepwalkers are terrified of cats. Actual cats. For the were-cats, cute kittens = kryptonite. When they see a cat or cats plural, this happens to them:
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^ That is literally a scene from the movie. Charles is speeding when a cop pulls alongside him and bellows at him to pull over. Ever the rebel, Charles flips the cop the finger. But the cop has a cat named Clovis in his car, and when the cat pops up to have a look at the kid (see below), Charles shapeshifts first into a younger boy, then into whatever the fuck that is in the above screenshot.
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Now, the were-cats aversion to normal cats is confusing because one would assume a were-cat to be a more evolved (or perhaps devolved?) version of the typical house kitty. The fact that these were-cats are bipedal alone suggests an advantage over our furry four-legged friends, no? Kinda like if humans were afraid of fucking gorillas. Wait...we are scared of gorillas. And chimpanzees. And all apes really. Okay, maybe the conceit of the film isn’t so silly after all. The film itself, however, is about as silly as a bad horror movie can get. When the policeman gets back to precinct and describes the incident above (”his face turned into a blur”) he is roundly ridiculed because in movies involving the supernatural nobody believes in the supernatural until it confronts them. It’s the law, sorry. Things don’t end well for the cop. Or for the guy who gets murdered when the mom stabs him with...an ear of corn. Yes, an ear of corn. Somehow, the mother is able to jam corn on the cob through a man’s body, without crushing the vegetable or turning it into yellow mash. It’s pretty amazing. Here is a sample of dialog from that scene: Cop About To Die On The Phone to Precinct: There’s blood everywhere! *STAB* Murderous Mother: No vegetables, no dessert. That is actually a line in the movie. “No vegetables, no dessert.” It’s no “let off some steam, Bennett” but it’s close. Told ya I’d get back to the bad jokes. See, Mary and Charles are new in town and therefore seeking to ingratiate themselves by killing everyone who suspects them of being weird, all while avoiding cats as best they can. At one point Charles yanks a man’s hand off and tells him to "keep [his] hands to [him]self," giving the man back his severed bloody hand. Later on Charles starts dating a girl who will gradually - and I do mean gradually - come to realize her boyfriend is not a real person but in fact a were-cat. Eventually our spunky young protagonist - Madchen Amick, who fans of Twin Peaks will recognize as Shelly - and a team of cats led by the adorable Clovis- kill the were-cat shapeshifting things and the sleepy small town (which is named Travis for some reason) goes back to normal, albeit with a slightly diminished population. For those keeping score, that’s Human/Cat Alliance 1, Shapeshifting Were-cats 0. It is clear triumph for the felis catus/people team! Unless we’re going by kill count, in which case it is closer to Human/Cat Alliance 2, Were-cats 26. I arrived at this figure through my own notes but also through a helpful video that takes a comprehensive and complete “carnage count” of all kills in Sleepwalkers: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vmt-DroK6uA
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II. Santo & Johnny “Sleep Walk” (1959) Because Sleepwalkers is decidedly not known for its good acting or its well-written screenplay, it is perhaps best known for its liberal and sometimes contrapuntal use of Santo & Johnny’s classic steel guitar song “Sleep Walk,” possibly the most famous (and therefore best) instrumental of the 20th century. Some might say “Sleep Walk” is tied for the #1 spot with “Green Onions” by Booker T & the M.G.’s and/or “Wipe Out” by The Surfaris, but I disagree. The Santo & Johnny song is #1 because of its incalculable influence on all subsequent popular music. 
I’m not saying “Wipe Out” didn't inspire a million imitators, both contemporaneously and even decades later…for example here’s a surf rock instrumental from 1999 called “Giant Cow" by a Toronto band called The Urban Surf Kings. The video was one of the first to be animated using Flash (and it shows):
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So there are no shortage of surf rock bands, even now, decades after its emergence from the shores of California to the jukeboxes of Middle America. My old band Sleep for the Nightlife used to regularly play Rancho Relaxo with a surf rock band called the Dildonics, who I liked a great deal. There's even a Danish surf rock band called Baby Woodrose, whose debut album is a favourite of mine. They apparently compete for the title of Denmark’s biggest surf pop band with a group called The Setting Son. When a country that has no surfing culture and no beaches has multiple surf rock bands, it is safe to say the genre has attained international reach. As far as I can tell, there aren’t many bands out there playing Booker T & the M.G.’s inspired instrumental rock. Link Wray’s “Rumble” was released four years before “Green Onions.” But the influence of Santo and Johnny’s “Sleep Walk” is so ubiquitous as to be almost immeasurable. The reason for this is the sheer popularity of the song’s chord progression. If Santo and Johnny hadn’t written it first, somebody else would have, simply because the progression is so beautiful and easy on the ears and resolvable in a satisfying way. Have a listen to “Sleep Walk” first and then let’s check out some songs it directly inspired. 
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The chords are C, A minor, F and G. Minor variations sometimes reverse the last two chords, but if it begins with C to A minor, you can bet it’s following the “Sleep Walk” formula, almost as if musicians influenced by the song are in the titular trance. When it comes to playing guitar, Tom Waits once said “your hands are like dogs, going to the same places they’ve been. You have to be careful when playing is no longer in the mind but in the fingers, going to happy places. You have to break them of their habits or you don’t explore; you only play what is confident and pleasing.” Not only is it comforting to play and/or hear what we already know, studies have shown that our brains actively resist new music, because it takes work to understand the new information and assimilate it into a pattern we are cogent of. It isn’t until the brain recognizes the pattern that it gives us a dopamine rush. I’m not much for Pitchfork anymore, but a recent article they posted does a fine job of discussing this phenomenon in greater detail.
Led Zeppelin’s “D’Yer Maker” uses the “Sleep Walk” riff prominently, anchored by John Bonham and John Paul Jones’ white-boy reggae beat: 
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Here it is again with Del Shannon’s classic “Little Town Flirt.” I love Shannon’s falsetto at the end when he goes “you better run and hide now bo-o-oy.”
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The Beatles “Happiness is a Warm Gun” uses the Sleep Walk progression, though not for the whole song. It goes into the progression at the bridge at 1:34: 
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Tumblr won’t let me embed any more videos, so you’ll to travel to another tab to hear these songs, but Neil Young gets in on the act with his overlooked classic “Winterlong:” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RV6r66n3TFI On their 1996 EP Interstate 8 Modest Mouse pay direct homage by singing over their own rendition of the original Santo & Johnny version, right down to the weeping steel guitar part: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VT_PwXjCqqs The vocals are typical wispy whispered indie rock vocals, but I think they work, particularly the two different voices. They titled their version “Sleepwalking (Couples Only Dance Prom Night).”
Dwight Yoakam’s “Thousand Miles From Nowhere” makes cinematic use of it. This song plays over the credits of one of my all-time favourite movies, 1993′s Red Rock West feat. Nicolas Cage, Lara Flynn Boyle, Dennis Hopper, and J.T. Walsh https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tu3ypuKq8WE
“39″ is my favourite Queen song. I guess now I know why. It uses my fav chord progression: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kE8kGMfXaFU 
Blink 182 scored their first hit “Dammit” with a minor variation on the Sleep Walk chord progression: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sT0g16_LQaQ
Midwest beer drinkin bar rockers Connections scored a shoulda-been-a-hit with the fist-pumping “Beat the Sky:” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSNRq0n_WYA You’d be hard pressed to find a weaker lead singer than this guy (save for me, natch), but they make it work. This one’s an anthem.
Spoon, who have made a career out of deconstructing rock n’ roll, so that their songs sometimes sound needlessly sparse (especially “The Ghost of You Lingers,” which takes minimalism to its most extreme...just a piano being bashed on staccato-style for four minutes), so it should surprise nobody that they re-arrange the Sleep Walk chords on their classic from Gimme Fiction, “I Summon You:” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=teXA8N3aF9M I love that opening line: remember the weight of the world was a sound that we used to buy? I think songwriter Britt Daniel is talking about buying albums from the likes of Pearl Jam or Smashing Pumpkins, any of those grunge bands with pessimistic worldviews. There are a million more examples. I remember seeing some YouTube video where a trio of gross douchebros keep playing the same progression while singing a bunch of hits over it. I don’t like the smarmy way they do it, making it seem like artists are lazy and deliberately stealing. I don’t think it’s plagiarism to use this progression. And furthermore, tempo and production make all the difference. Take “This Magic Moment” for example. There's a version by Jay & the Americans and one by Ben E King & the Drifters. I’ve never been a fan of those shrieking violins or fiddles that open the latter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bacBKKgc4Uo The Jay & the Americans version puts the guitar riff way in the forefront, which I like a lot more. The guitar plays the entire progression once before the singing starts and the band joins in: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pKfASw6qoag
Each version has its own distinctive feel. They are pretty much two different songs. Perhaps the most famous use of the Sleep Walk progression is “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers, which is one of my favourite songs ever. The guy who chose to let Bobby Hatfield sing this one by himself must have kicked himself afterwards when it became a hit, much bigger than "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling."https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiiyq2xrSI0
What can you say about “Unchained Melody” that hasn’t already been said? God, that miraculously strong vocal, the way the strings (and later on, brass horns) are panned way over to the furthest reaches the left speaker while the drums and guitar are way over in the right, with the singing smack dab in the middle creates a kind of distance and sharp clarity that has never been reproduced in popular music, like seeing the skyscrapers of some distant city after an endless stretch of highway. After listening to “Unchained Melody,” one has to wonder: can that progression ever be improved upon? Can any artist write something more haunting, more beautiful, more uplifting than that? The “need your love” crescendo hits so fucking hard, as both the emotional and the sonic climax of the song, which of course is no accident...the strings descending and crashing like a waterfall of sound, it gets me every fucking time. Legend has it that King George II was so moved by the “Hallelujah” section of Handel’s “Messiah” that he stood up, he couldn't help himself, couldn't believe what he was hearing. I get that feeling with all my favourite songs. "1979." "Unchained Melody." "In The Still of the Night." "Digital Bath." "Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?" "Interstate." "Liar's Tale." “Gimme Shelter.” The list goes on and on. Music is supposed to move us.
King George II stood because he was moved to do so. Music may be our creation, but it isn't our subordinate. All those sci-fi stories warning about technology growing beyond our control aren’t that far-fetched. Music is our creation but its power lies beyond our control. We are subordinate to music, helpless against its power and might, its urgency and vitality and beauty. There have been many times in my life when I have been so obsessed with a particular song that I pretty much want to live inside of it forever. A house of sound. I remember detoxing from heroin and listening to Grimes “Realiti” on repeat for twelve hours. Detoxing from OxyContin and listening to The Beach Boys “Dont Worry Baby” over and over. Or just being young and listening to “Tonight Tonight” over and over and over, tears streaming from my eyes in that way you cry when you’re a kid because you just feel so much and you don’t know what to do with the intensity of those feelings. It is precisely because we are so moved by music that we keep creating it. And in the act of that creation we are free. There are no limits to that freedom, which is why bands time and time again return to the well-worn Sleep Walk chord progression and try to make something new from it. Back in 2006, soon after buying what was then the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs album, I found myself playing the album’s closing track over and over. I loved the chorus and I loved the way it collapses into a lo-fi demo at the very end, stripping away the studio sheen and...not to be too punny, showing its bones (the album title is Show Your Bones). Later on I would realize that the song, called “Turn Into,” uses the Sleep Walk chord progression. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=exqCFoPiwpk
It’s just like, what Waits said, our hands goes to where we are familiar. And so do our ears, which is why jazz often sounds so unpleasant to us upon first listen. Or Captain Beefheart. But it’s worth the effort to discover new stuff, just as it’s worth the effort to try and write it. I recently lamented on this blog that music to me now is more about remembrance than discovery, but I’m still only 35 years old. I’m middle-aged right now (I don’t expect to live past 70, not with the lifestyle I’ve been living). There’s still a whole other half life to find new music and love and leave it for still newer stuff. It’s worth the challenge, that moment of inner resistance we feel when confronted with something new and challenging and strange sounding. The austere demands of adult life, rent and routine, take so much of our time. I still make time for creative pursuits, but I don’t really have much time for discovery, for seeking out new music. But I’ve resolved to start making more time. A few years ago I tried to listen to and like Trout Mask Replica but I couldn’t. I just didn’t get what was going on. It sounded like a bunch of mistakes piled on top of each other. But then a few days ago I was writing while listening to music, as I always do, and YouTube somehow landed on Lick My Decals Off, Baby. I didn’t love what I was hearing but I was intrigued enough to keep going. And now I really like this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMnd9dvb3sA&pbjreload=101 Another example I’ll give is the rare Robert Pollard gem “Prom Is Coming.” The first time I heard this song, it sounded like someone who can’t play guitar messing around, but the more I heard it the more I realized there’s a song there. It’s weird and strange, but it’s there. The lyrics are classic Pollard: Disregard injury and race madly out of the universe by sundown. Pollard obviously has a special place in his heart for this track. He named one of his many record labels Prom Is Coming Records and he titled the Boston Spaceships best-of collection Out of the Universe By Sundown. I don’t know if I’ll ever become a Captain Beefheart megafan but I can hear that the man was doing something very strange and, at times, beautiful. And anyway, why should everything be easy? Aren’t some challenges worth meeting for the experience waiting on the other side of comprehension or acceptance? I try to remember this now whenever I’m first confronted with new music, instead of vetoing it right away. Most of my favourite bands I was initially resistant to when I first heard them. Queens of the Stone Age, Kyuss, Guided by Voices, Spoon, Heavy Times. All bands I didn’t like at first.  I don’t wanna sleepwalk through life, surrounding myself only with things I have already experienced. I need to stay awake. Because soon enough I’ll be asleep forever. We need to try everything we can before the Big Sleep comes to take us back to the great blankness, the terrible question mark that bookends our lives.
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detectivedreameater · 3 years
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One For The Money|| Nell and Marley
TIMING: Earlier this week (during the living nightmares potw) PARTIES: @nelllraiser SUMMARY: A bounty gone wrong. Or maybe right? Alternate title: Manumbra Numba 5 CONTENT: Mild PTSD episode
There had been quite a few strange calls coming into the precinct in the past week, so taking a domestic disturbance call felt like a tiny relief in the tide. Marley didn’t normally deal with them, but Maynard had agreed to let Marley take the case on her own, which she was grateful for. She needed some time alone, away from the precinct, and away from Jane. As bad as she felt saying that, especially since they’d talked, she needed it. Things still didn’t feel quite right between them, and she knew that it was just all the things they didn’t have the energy to say right now. She was trying to give Jane time to process what had happened to her, but she also wanted her to come to her so that she could help. Marley had never really wanted something like that before, but dying couldn’t be something you went through alone. It just...couldn’t. She’d seen enough deaths and the pain they caused in her day to know that. But she wasn’t going to force anything out of Jane, so spending some solo time on the job was just what the doctor ordered. Or, well, what Marley ordered. 
 When she pulled up to the house, all the lights were off. Her car traveled slowly up the driveway, which was obscured only slightly by trees, a small dirt trail leading to the house. Her hands subconsciously gripped the steering wheel tighter and she felt her heart rate increase without her say. Why was it doing that? It was just a house. When she stopped her car, she could see distinct tracks leading inside-- muddy shoe prints and what looked like some sort of drag trail. She stepped out of her car carefully and picked up her flashlight, pointing it at the front door. “Hello?” she called out, walking towards the front slowly. Her palms were getting sweaty and her skin felt sticky suddenly. She couldn’t swallow. “P-police!” she called out again. Heard a thump from inside and stopped in her tracks. “Show yourself!”
With all the money she owed the hospital, Nell had been working overtime when it came to bounties, both supernatural and not. This was one of the latter, some regular Joe that had run out on bail, and was trying to avoid the law. Nell’s tracking spell had led her here to an abandoned house, and she’d wasted no time in flipping off the Karen who had threatened to call the police on her when she’d seen Nell poking around the eyesore of a home. If the police came it’d be easy enough to show them her license. Just a few steps into the house made for a pretty obvious picture. Her target had been squatting here, trying to law low before carrying on to wherever they’d gone next. Stomping a foot lightly against the ground, she uttered a spell that would tell her whether or not there was any living creature on the premises, and if her quarry was still holed up in this dump. Not one, but two results came back to her, the first closing in on her quickly. The question of who it was didn’t pose all that big of a mystery when a voice rang out through the dilapidated house. The police. Right on schedule. “I’m allowed to be here,” Nell started with a roll of her eyes, moving towards the voice. Poking her head out, her expression quickly changed to one of amusement, a crooked grin coming over her lips. “Well if it isn’t my old friend,” she teased, recognizing the woman who’d let her escape the police holding cell.
Something like relief flooded through Marley when she recognized the voice inside the hallway. Though her mind still held tight, her muscles relaxed and she lowered her weapon and flashlight. “You again,” she said to the small suspected spellcaster, putting her hands on her hips. “I half expected you to be climbing in a window the next time we met.” She stepped into the house, and the chill that ran up her spine made her freeze. She looked around the entryway and over to the living room, where there was evidence of a squatter. “You here for that?” she asked, pointing towards the mess of belongings. The hair on the back of her neck suddenly stood on end. A noise from upstairs made Marley’s muscles tighten. “Or...are you there for that?”
“Me again,” Nell replied with a shit-eating grin, all too ready to give the detective a hard time. “I could go back out and climb through the window if that’ll make you feel better,” she offered innocently, eyebrows high as she jabbed a thumb in the direction of the closest one. She’d parted her lips to answer Marley when the sound of the second being her spell had detected thumped from above. “I guess both now,” Nell replied, voice instinctively dropping to a hushed tone. “There’s something else here. I know that much for sure. And it’s not just some cat or rat.” A seriousness that hadn’t been on her when they’d first met came over the witch as she approached the stairs, figuring there was only one way to find out what the thing was, placing a foot on the first step as she slowly began to climb.
Marley crinkled her nose at the girl, but didn’t opt to reply as she watched the girl’s demeanour change almost on a dime. Whatever was here was serious, and she knew what it was. How, Marley wasn’t sure, but she had a hunch-- and she hoped her hunch would be confirmed here. Her body stiffened and she glanced towards the stairs. For a minute, her vision wobbled-- the hallway ahead of her stretched out, elongating, twisting, turning upside down. Marley held her breath for a moment, closing her eyes tightly. When she reopened them, the world was back to normal, and it was only after she’d glanced back over her shoulder towards the door that she realized why her heart felt like it was going to hammer itself through her sternum-- the lone car sitting in the partially obstructed driveway, the footprints leading up to an empty house, the darkened hallways. This house was the same as the one she’d gotten trapped in with Roland. Another thump from upstairs made her jump and she looked up to Nell, then to the stairs. “Wait!” she said, shuffling forward. Her arms were shaking. It wasn’t the same, she had to remind herself. This wasn’t the same. “I’ll go first.” Because she was the cop and the descending sun outside meant her abilities were kicking in.
It felt like the skin on Nell’s arm where her summoning sigil tattoos had been inked were itching, as if they could warn her of the danger that might be upstairs. That was ridiculous, though. There was no way they could possibly do that. Instead it was her own hyper vigilance that was causing them to prick, as if they were asking her to Summon something in case they’d be needed. But she waited, not about to bring three hellhounds into the world when there was no immediate need. The warping of the stairs and hallway was enough to make Nell’s shoulders stiffen, her magic instinctively pooling in her stomach should she need to call on it. Nevertheless, Nell was still perched on the stairs, beginning to ascend. After all, even if the home was turning into some sort of not so fun house, there was still something that didn’t belong here— and the only way to get to it was up. Marley’s call made her wait for no other reason than habit, and she looked skeptically at the detective, not all that keen on letting her go first. Plus, she simply wasn’t used to it. Nell always generally put herself at the forefront of danger. “It’s fine,” she rejected, also not liking the way Marley’s arms were quivering. “Don’t worry about it.” Then she continued her ascent until she reached the top landing, pausing cautiously for a moment. A moment was all the manumbra needed as it leapt from its ceiling perch, perfectly disguised until it was too late. Down it fell, straight onto Nell as it flattened her to the ground. Nell’s grunt of pain was quick to follow, an angry snarl coming from her not a second later as she twisted, grabbing for one of her hidden knives and jabbing it into the demon’s side. A fucking manumbra. Of course it was a fucking manumbra.
Marley’s heart hiccuped, then froze. Everything was so familiar. Everything was the same. Roland’s face flashed through Marley’s mind and for a minute, she considered turning and running. But the door closed loudly behind her and the creature dropped from the ceiling, pinning Nell beneath it, and Marley felt the same pull inside of her as she had when Roland had yelled at her to leave. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave someone behind. Not Roland, and definitely not this annoying kid who kept calling her old and breaking out of her jail cell. Marley took the stairs two at a time, her arms shaking, and pulled out the switchblade she kept on herself. There was too much error margin using a gun, so this would have to do. She stabbed it into the creature, hoping to distract it enough for the girl to get away. “Run!” she said, lifting the knife to stab into the creature again. “Get out of here!”
The two stabs, one from each of the women, was enough to make the manumbra scramble for a moment, and more than enough for Nell to wrestle the thing off of her with a growl. “Piece of shit!” she yelled before processing what it was Marley was trying to tell her. Run? Like hell, she would run. The witch had never run from anything in her life, and she sure wasn’t going to start now. In the flash of an eye, Nell was raising her knife to herself this time, drawing a careful line down her patchwork scarred forearm. In the same moment, she struck a knee firmly against the demon’s chest, trying to drive it into the ground in an attempt to make it stay still so she could banish it. Gathering the ruby droplets on her left hand, she began to draw a binding circle around the manumbra as quickly as she could, careful not to smudge the lines. “Help me hold it down!”
Why wasn’t Nell running? Marley could easily get out of this mess, but she couldn’t just leave someone behind. Not anymore. Before it would’ve been easy, but after she’d been locked in that house with Roland-- after they’d spent so much time in that place, alone, wondering if they were going to live or die-- after realizing she’d only survived because of him, she couldn’t leave him behind. She wouldn’t leave anyone behind ever again. “Dammit, Bambi!” she growled, stabbing the knife down. The creature made a loud noise and it rocketed up Marley’s spine, making her freeze. Suddenly, the hallway began to warp. The floor beneath her sank. And then the whole world flipped upside down. Marley went crashing to the floor-- ceiling?-- and felt her hand smack hard against wood, the knife falling from her grip. “Shit!” she shouted, rolling away just in time to watch the creature slam down where she’d just been. “We have to get out of here!” she said, scrambling across the ceiling towards Nell. “Quit messing around!”
Nell let out an annoyed growl as the manumbra escaped the circle she’d been working on, watching as it skittered around, trying to find an opening to pin it down once again. “Shit,” Nell cursed as she watched the detective fall...somewhere. She wasn’t entirely sure which way was up at this point. “I’m not messing around!” Nell yelled back. “I know what I’m doing if you’ll help me get it pinned!” Tracking the manumbra as it crawled along the ceiling-floor, Nell threw the knife from her hand towards the demon, a sense of satisfaction flooding her as it landed with a satisfying thud, and the creature made a pained noise. “I can bind it!”
The knife landed with a thud, but Marley knew better. “Bind it?” she shouted, looking over at Nell with bewildered eyes. “Are you serious? Just fucking kill it or run!” she called out, pulling for her gun finally as she came to a stop near Nell, kicking away at floorboards of the ceiling to try and distract the thing. Visions of her nightmares tried to flood her eyes-- dark hallways, closing in. Wood peeling like paint, floating around them. Hands gripping her throat, choking her. Marley shook her head, tried to refocus, but it wasn’t enough. She stumbled, grabbing her head. “Stop it!” she shouted at no one, “just stop it!” The creature took its chance, lunging. Marley remembered watching it drop hard onto Roland, remembered it trying to squeeze the life out of him-- she shoved Nell out of the way and felt it collide with her back, face hitting the floor-- ceiling?-- glasses falling from her face, snapping. It went to squeeze, she knew it was coming, and her body instantly changed itself, like an automatic muscle response. The creature slipped right through her and she pushed herself up, turning around to face it again, gun pointed. She fired into it several times, unloaded her entire clip. It screeched in pain, skittering backwards, away from them. The world shifted under them once again and the two were dumped back on the actual floor, near the stairs. Marley lay still for a moment, breath hard to come by, gun still aimed. “Where is it!?” she asked in a haze, “where’d it go?”
“Fine!” Nell yelled back, preferring to bind it, but willing to kill the demon if need be. “I’ll just kill it, then!” But it seemed the manumbra had other plans as it charged Marley. Called out to the cop as it looked like the manumbra would be aiming to end the woman. Instead of a squishing or squeezing, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing where Marley was, and the demon passed through her. “How did you-?” Nell began in surprise, not yet putting the pieces together of what were mara induced abilities. The world was moving too quickly to come to that conclusion at the moment. Finally, everything was still apart from the two women looking around in their frantic attempts to find the demon. Reflexively, Nell offered Marley a hand to help her up before once again performing the spell she’d done in the beginning of her house exploration. This time, the only signatures it returned were her’s and the detective’s. “It’s gone. It must have run. Are you alright?”
Marley looked up to the offered hand, almost immediately wanting to swat it away-- she was the cop, she was supposed to protect other people and offer her hand up to them after they were attacked. Rubbing her chin, she reached up and grabbed her offered hand after a moment, hauling herself up with some effort. Though she was physically unharmed-- she couldn’t be hurt that badly at night-- her body was still shaking and flooded with adrenaline and shock, shaking herself off. “I’m fine,” she muttered, wiping something off from her hand. “How did you know what it was? A-- what did you say? Man-something?” She wanted to get out of this house, but kept still, waiting for Nell’s response, before she realized she didn’t have glasses on her face. Hurriedly, she glanced around, only to find the broken in half on the floor where she’d landed. “Fuck…” she hissed, scooping them up. A piece of glass fell from one of the lenses. “Fuck.”
Despite Marley’s insistence that she was fine, Nell gave the woman a cursory once over, trying to see if there were any parts of the detective that was bleeding. However, it seemed that most of the wounds the manumbra had dealt were below the surface, as those were the kind it specialized in. “It’s a demon,” the witch began her explanation, figuring that was the best place to start. “And I...know demons.” There was no need to get into the specifics of it at the moment. Besides, what would she tell Marley? That her dead grandma left a journal behind that helped her figure out how to summon the creatures? “This one was a manumbra. They’re a bit rarer than their cousins. On a scale of demons, it’s not the worst. But it’s obviously...not great either when you’re its prey. The good news is that it doesn’t need any special rituals or anything to get rid of it. If you stab it enough or whatever- it’ll just die on its own.” Wordlessly, Nell took the glasses from Marley, waving a hand over them with a murmured spell to repair them back into one piece before handing them back to the woman. “We should probably get out of here for now.” Nell would have loved to stay and see if the demon returned, but she could tell that Marley wasn’t in the best of places at the moment.
“A demon?” Marley said, a bit breathless. God, she hated that. She groaned, pressing her palms into her face. “Great, perfect. So now I’m being stalked by a demon.” This was just what she needed right now, wasn’t it? Manumbra. She’d remember that name. She’d remember it and next time she found it, it wasn’t going to get away. She would kill it and burn the body and make sure it was dead for real this time. No more coming back or whatever the fuck it was doing. She looked up when Nell grabbed the glasses from her and waved her hand over them, fixing them almost instantly. “So I was right,” she mumbled when Nell handed them back, “you’re a spellcaster.” Marley only knew a few spellcaster-- they seemed just as secretive and hushed about their abilities as real supernaturals-- but she’d keep that to herself for now. “Thanks.” She glanced around, then back to Nell, before motioning for her to follow her down the stairs, weapon still drawn. They weren’t safe, after all, until they were out of this house. She was reminded that Nell was here for a bounty, but whoever it was, they were surely already dead. “Uh, sorry about your guy,” she muttered as they passed by his stuff, “maybe next time will be better.” 
Once they were outside, Marley holstered her weapon and took a few long steps away from the building, looking back in. When she was sure they were safe, she turned back to Nell, quiet for a moment. “Thanks. Again. For--” nodded back at the house, but couldn’t finish the sentence. “Uh, you um-- stay safe out there, okay Bambi?” She dug through her pocket a moment before holding out her card. “I know you hate narcs and shit, but if you’re ever in trouble-- just call me. Promise I’m cooler than all the other narcs.” And then she slid her glasses back on and turned back to her cruiser. Next time, she’d finish this thing for good.
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cheryls-blossomed · 3 years
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I saw someone comment this as a criticism towards iris so I'm curious what you think. they said she/barry claim she's a good reporter but she's never actually had a successful story, and always calls barry or needs someone to help her clean up the messes she gets herself into on purpose. I'm a biiig fan of iris so regardless of criticism it doesnt change my opinion of her at all, but i'm still interested in your thoughts :)
Let’s be clear, if it wasn’t for Iris and the “messes she gets herself into,” Barry would still be unemployed.
Actually, I didn’t even know this was a criticism folks made, but I appreciate you asking me about it, nonnie, because hopefully I can dispel this as a bad faith (and utterly false) criticism of Iris. To do that, though, we need to talk about Iris’s journalism over the years.
Iris is looking for her story at the start of season 1, and she finds it when a mysterious super-powered hero begins saving people. She names him the Streak and starts her blog, where she records sightings of the Streak. Barry and Joe are literally trying to get her to stop writing, while Eddie pretends to Iris that he doesn’t even believe the Streak is real and that she’s wasting her time (Eddie writes him off as a hoax, all the while he’s trying to get Singh to allow him to create a task force to catch the speedster). She’s essentially on her own, but she continues to write about the Streak, later renaming him the Flash, and this lands her a job at Central City Picture News, where her mentor, Mason Bridge, writes her off immediately as an over-eager aspiring journalist. She has so many, well-researched stories she wants to write, but the editor of CCPN is more interested in what she can write about the Flash. It’s such an uphill battle for Iris from Day 1, when it comes to her aspirations as a journalist, and nobody is coming to help her out, exactly. When she gains Mason’s respect, he tasks her with researching Harrison Wells. Iris is intuitive and sharp, and when she meets “Sam” at the West house, she immediately goes into the archives of her blog, where she’d also recorded sightings of other meta-humans, and connects the dots that “Sam” is Ronnie Raymond. Iris’s blog also serves as a meta-human database, which we see Oliver and his team use, and furthermore, the information Iris gathers on the Burning Man which she gives to Caitlin is what Caitlin uses to locate Ronnie. From the very beginning, Iris’s meticulous research is what allows for huge positive plot developments to take place. Furthermore, it’s hers and Mason’s research on Wells that propels Barry and Joe’s investigation into the truth about who Harrison Wells is. While I am still incredibly peeved that what should have been Iris’s investigation is just unceremoniously handed over to Joe and Barry, neither Barry nor Joe would have known to even begin investigating Wells. While Cisco discovered the truth on his own, this was in an isolated timeline that was erased, a timeline that saw Cisco murdered for discovering the truth. Meanwhile, Iris compiles all the data of her research and is able to connect everything back to the Particle Accelerator, a conclusion she reaches on her own through her research. She later helps the team locate Grodd, because of reports she’s kept track of.
In season 2, Iris is still a journalist for CCPN. This is really the first instance of Iris needing Barry’s aid with a story, and it’s because she’s trying to take down an illegal eviction scam and gets caught in the crosshairs. Barry saves her, and she later writes the piece. That was all her; her own research, and her own story. Barry coming to her aid, while she’s in the thick of it, is pretty standard for journalists in superhero stories, and it really doesn’t diminish the fact that she exposed this scam on her own. (And honestly, who doesn’t love the trust fall scene?) She uncovers the truth about Wally on her own and confronts Francine about it. She later confronts the speed-racing crook, in her attempts to protect Wally, and while he threatens her, she has back-up, having recorded everything he was saying, wiring it all back to CCPN to protect herself. She refuses to write a negative piece on the Flash, when Trajectory attacks Central City, and instead proves to Scott that some people are always heroes no matter what. Iris’s determination as a journalist is what makes her successful, and we see that time and again. 
In season 3, she is investigating Frankie Kane’s home situation, and she goes to interview her abusive step-father, where she discovers his physical and verbal abuse of Frankie. She also ensures the entire hospital is evacuated, while Barry goes to talk Frankie down. A clear visual representation of truth and justice working together to save the day: Iris using her investigating prowess and realizing who Frankie is targeting and then evacuating the hospital, and Barry going to Frankie and saving her. Again, there’s no one coming to get Iris out of the “messes she creates”; instead, she’s actively using her journalistic talents to help save the day. Is Iris sometimes reckless with her own well-being when she goes after a story? Yes. Iris blatantly lacks self-preservation. But that’s also what makes her so incredibly compelling as a journalist, because she has flaws, but she’s smart and determined and intuitive and heroic. In 3x11, she writes a big story on the illegal arms dealership she’d been researching and how Wally saved the day. Yes, Iris enlists Wally’s help on this case, but she’s the one who has been following through and doing all the research. She tracked the man selling the illegal arms down and busts him out. This is her story, and while Wally did come to her aid, once again, she originally enlisted his help, so that she wouldn’t just recklessly be walking into a trap. Iris was also struggling with her own future demise, and so her recklessness is understandable. We have to also allow her growth as a journalist, as well. 
After the PTSD she suffered during season 3, Iris leaves CCPN, but she returns to journalism in the back half of season 4 after her time as the Flash imbues in her a newfound confidence and sense of fearlessness. She wants to write a piece informing the public about DeVoe, so that they can be informed, and she makes a compelling case to Barry as to why she wants to publish this article. And he agrees with her perspective. She publishes this, and the public begins reporting directly to her blog on sightings of DeVoe, which helps Barry and Team Flash track them. Her articles on the DeVoes are all from her own research that she’d been accumulating, and they have a profound affect not just in terms of the individual success of the story, but on protecting Central City and helping to save the world. AND her articles on her blog are what get Barry is job back at CCPD, and we should all listen to David Singh who says, “You can thank your wife.” Thank you, Iris West-Allen. 
In season 5, she’s quite active in reporting for her blog. We don’t know necessarily the specifics of the stories that she’s writing, but we know she actively reports on meta-humans in the city. We see her at the crime scene in 5x02, where she asks David Singh for a quote, which he gives her, because he respects her integrity as a journalist (Iris’s articles on the DeVoes brought her much acclaim in the city as a whole). We see her investigating Ragdoll in 5x05. In 5x12, she officially launches the Citizen, and in 5x13, she immediately goes to follow up on an old colleague of Dwyer’s. This leads her to Dwyer, and she holds her own against him, stabbing him with her pen. She only calls Barry in the aftermath to inform him about what happened and that she discovered Cicada’s weakness on her own. Iris saved herself and discovered vital information to defeating Cicada. 
In season 6, we see her investigating a lot more, and we see how her style of investigating has changed. She’s more meticulous now. She’s more careful now. She’s really come into her own as a journalist, and that’s the point of character growth. Folks can’t criticize her more reckless decisions in 2x03 and 3x11, without recognizing that Iris also has to come into her own as a journalist. She and Team Citizen do all the research on Black Hole and then successfully publish an explosive on Black Hole, implicating McCulloch Tech. Carver sends an assassin after Iris, but she escapes by herself, after going to meet her source. While injured, she realizes that Carver is behind Black Hole, and she successfully gets him to drop the defamation suit, by coming up with an elaborate, contingency plan. That was all Iris, by herself. She then pieces together the truth about Eva.
Iris has had much success as a journalist, from writing and researching lots of stories, particularly about meta-humans, in Central City. But her most successful pieces were (1) her original blog; (2) her exposure of the illegal eviction scam; (3) her exposure of the the illegal arms dealership; (4) arming the population of Central City with information on DeVoe; and (5) her exposure of Black Hole. For only two of these, did she need Barry or Wally to come to her rescue, but she did all the research for those pieces. The success of those stories are her own. And she didn’t get herself into a mess; she was in a dangerous situation, and she made the right choice of asking for help. For all the others, she never needed anyone’s aid at all. In fact, she was cleaning a whole lot of messes up. And those five stories are simply the ones we heard the most about; we know she’s had a lot of success as a journalist otherwise, and she’s constantly using her journalistic abilities to save the day (whether it was more direct, such as in the Frankie Kane episode, or more subtle, emphasizing how her journalistic abilities play a huge role in her ability to quickly recall information and stay calm in high-stress situations, such as in the Flashtime episode).
So yeah, I think that criticism is entirely false on all accounts. I also think there’s a lot of bad faith criticisms of Iris: the same folks that will call her a “Mary Sue” (a blatantly false character assessment, it’s not even funny) will also turn around and whine about Iris being reckless. Which is it? Is she so perfectly good at everything or does she have flaws? So, I would pay no heed to those people, because they are just looking to hate on Iris without providing any real or valid criticisms. 
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the-recusants-sigil · 5 years
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Hello, hello! Thank you for the warm welcome!! <3 
OK so I absolutely ADORE this idea and I love writing for these four so so much!!  I couldn’t write just a couple of sentences and these turned into novel chapters, so I’m splitting your request into 4 parts. That way, I’m not just dropping a 10K word document on you asfhsfshfhsf
Here is Part 1 of your request- going numerically, that’d be Xigbar!
Thanks again for stopping by, I hope you like this one and the others to come!!
Xigbar
Words: 2388
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-The mission started out simply enough. It definitely wasn't anything outlandishly difficult: just track down an overgrown Heartless, eliminate it, and report back. Absolutely no big deal.
-Except it WAS a big fuckin deal. There he was, wandering the Land of Dragons in the dead of winter, on the edge of hypothermia and certainly not thinking straight. Perhaps he was no longer capable of feeling emotions, but frostbite was another story entirely. He knew better than to RTC without finishing  a mission, so here he was,in the dark,  trudging through waist-deep dnowdrifts on a fucking mountain to find this stupid thing.
-Xigbar had been walking since he arrived that morning. In fact, he'd started out in a slightly warmer climate miles away at this point, and he'd briefly pondered taking off his jacket to cool off a bit despite the risks. Now, his teeth chattered violently and he wished with every fiber of his being for a fire. Just a small one, to warm his toes and keep his fingers firmly attached.
-In the faint light of the half-moon, he caught sight of something that stopped him dead in his tracks: a single, enormous footprint.
-Squinting into the darkness, he peered ahead and made out another, and another, heading up the mountain towards a small cluster of coniferous trees up ahead. Ah, shit. More walking.
-Before he could take a single step, a low, rumbling growl came from behind him. The Freeshooter turned, slowly, to face the biggest fucking Heartless he'd ever seen in his life.
-Glistening fangs, beady yellow eyes, twisted horns and inky black scales covered the thing. If he had to guess, Xigbar figured the thing was at least twelve feet tall and built like a tank.
-As he discovered, it was fast, too- even its eyes, glowing bright in the darkness, were impossible to track as the thing closed the distance between the two. It swiped at him with claws like kitchen knives and put him on the defensive immediately. No doubt, the beast had his number; at every point he warped to, it was waiting with jaws wide open, ready to crunch down. It batted him around, tossing him in the air and catching him in its jaws once it had its fun.
-Between the cold and the brutal sneak-attack, Xigbar found his energy fading fast. He raised his only free hand and squeezed his eye shut, focusing the last of his energy on getting somewhere, anywhere, safe.
-......
-....................
-Look, all you were trying to do was keep your head down and out of trouble. There were a lot of vibrant characters in San Fransisco, but all you cared about was doing well at your job and enjoying your ground floor studio apartment. Affordable housing of any kind was a rare luxury in the city, and you'd struck gold with a landlady who just wanted a good, responsible, quiet tenant. For her, you checked all the boxes.
-You certainly weren't looking to get involved with anyone else. Not platonically, not romantically, not even as roommates.
-And yet, here was this man leaned against your trashcan in the alley, bleeding everywhere and groaning. Despite the summer heat, he was dressed way up in a long black trenchcoat (torn to tatters though it was), trousers, knee length boots, and gloves.
-What was his deal?
-You'd never seen a dying person before. OK, so maybe he wasn’t dying. But as it was, if anyone else were to witness him in the alley, in front of your place, bleeding out with only you around, they might assume it was you who did it. Your brain short-circuited and, unable to fully think through the situation, you dragged the man inside your apartment and slid the patio door closed.
-So there you were, panicking inside your studio with an unconscious dying dude bleeding out on the floor. What would your landlord say? Would you ever get your deposit back for damaging the green shag carpet?
-At the very least, you figured you could ask him some questions when he woke up and help him contact the cops, in case he'd lost his phone. In the meantime, you put on a pot of coffee and watched the man sleep, contemplating his features. He was handsome, with nicely tanned skin and long, dark hair shot through with streaks of brown. A deep scar ran the length of one cheek, and the opposite eye was covered with an eyepatch. He sort of looked like an anime convention escapee, you thought, but then again, folks in the city proper were often just like this.
-”Ugghhh....” the man stirred gently, and you jumped. The single remaining eye fluttered open, and you were struck by the color: bright yellow, like your little Volkswagen Beetle parked outside. He glanced around slowly at first before sitting bolt-upright and grimacing. Perhaps he forgot about his injuries.
-”Uh... are you okay?” you asked dumbly. His head whipped around to meet you, and the intensity of his glare instantly made you feel... small.
-”Yeah, definitely, just dandy,” he grunted and waved flippantly in your direction. Steadying himself against the wall, he tried and failed to rise to his feet. The man raised a mangled hand into the air in front of him, ever so briefly, then sighed and let it drop to his side. “Can you... can you maybe tell me where exactly I am?”
-”Uh, I mean- it's, uh. My apartment. San Fransisco? California? Planet Earth?”   You licked your lips and sighed. “I found you in the alley. Did you get hit by a car?”
-”Car? What are you talking about? I don’t know what any of that means. I need to get home. I need to get out of here and report back- OWWWW!” Xigbar yelped as his second failed attempt at standing brought him closer to the ground.
-”No. I don't think so, Mister. You might have a concussion.”At that point, you'd already folded the spare futon down from its hiding spot in the wall and tossed down some spare pillows and blankets.
-“That means lots of rest. I thought they were worse, but your cuts don't actually look horrible. Let's get you cleaned up and laying down, then maybe we can get you an urgent care appointment to look at your head.”
-”No. No doctors.”
-”You religious, or scared or something?”
-”Er- yeah. Somethin' like that.”
-.............
-Xigbar really knew he should have RTC'd as soon as he was able to stand. He should have reported back a week ago. Yet here he was, truly a stranger in a strange land, crashing on this good Samaritan's couch, eating good food, and- for the first time in a really long time- relaxing.
-For him, some peroxide, butterfly bandages and ibuprofen were the trifecta- his wounds cleaned up nicely and the pain was definitely more bearable.
-You called out of work for the week shortly after he woke up, feeding them a line about your brother-in-law dying or some shit; you didn't have one, of course, but nobody had to know that. He told you his name was Xigbar, and that's really all you knew. The dude was tight-lipped to say the least.
-Xigbar went with you on every trip you took. At first, he was pretty wary of your little yellow Bug, but he warmed up to it pretty quickly- at least, until you dumped the clutch and stalled on a hill for the first time. He jumped like he thought the thing was trying to kill him, and you couldn't help but laugh.
-He went with you on trips to the grocery store. You showed him your favorite restaurant (and taught him how to talk to the server like a person rather than a barmaid). He sat next to you on the sofa as you pointed angrily at the TV and complained about some goings-on in your world. He helped you uncork a cheap bottle of Trader Joe's wine, then another, and another, and you ended up talking shit about your coworkers. For you, it was the guy who followed you all over the office and wouldn't leave you alone for anything. Xigbar offered to punch him as a show of gratitude, but you assured him that no, it was really okay, the guy was just a little weird.
-On the other hand, Xigbar's work stories were different. You surmised that his office was comprised entirely of... er, vibrant characters. Like, for instance, the one that ditched work every single day by hanging out in the break room right next to his manager. There was also the “gambling addict in denial”- according to Xigbar-  who had, just a few weeks ago, literally swindled the pants off of a man in a bar. And there was the one who could, and would, electrocute and stab anyone and everyone for the slightest of infractions.
-”Uh, dude. Have you talked to HR?”
-”...What's an 'HR'?”
-”Human Resources, duh!” you sighed dramatically.
-The loud, barking laugh that followed told you that he had not, in fact, talked to HR.
-.........................
-Six days had passed since you'd found Xigbar bleeding all over everything in your alley. Since then he'd improved dramatically, and when you could tell he was feeling well enough to stand on his feet, you decided that his seventh day with you would be devoted to seeing as many tourist attractions as possible together. The guy didn't have any memories, he told you, so you wanted to help him “start fresh” with as many happy ones as possible.
-This was, of course, a total lie: Xigbar remembered everything in his life, he liked to think, with the exception of how he got here. He was totally content to live the lie and continue following you around.
-In just a few days, something about you had grown on him. He couldn't quite place it, but it was something about your smile, your ripostes after his witty comments, the way your hair fell over your face when you slept, your tendency to rant and rave and scream at the endless city traffic... he didn't know what to do. For the first time in a long time, he was at a loss.
-You took him absolutely everywhere you could think of: a boat tour of the bay, a cable car ride up Telegraph Hill, a brief stop for brunch at a local bistro, gift store browsing, and finally a walk across the Golden Gate Bridge to watch the sun set. The roads were more peaceful than they normally were, even for a Sunday evening. Perfect, you thought.
-If Xigbar had a heart it would have been racing: being near him made his mind do backflips and twist itself into knots. He enjoyed being there, but more than he liked the sight of the setting sun, he loved the wind in your hair and the glimmer of joy in your eyes. Those beautiful eyes.... God dammit.
-”Hey, let's take a picture!”
-”Huh??”
-Before he could stop you, you'd produced your phone from your pocket and turned on the camera.
-You held the phone in front of the two of you, snapping a seies of pictures, and drew it close to examine. In all of them, Xigbar smiled even wider than you had- genuinely, not his usual, wolfish grin.
-He has such a nice smile, you thought.
-He peeked over your shoulder at the picture, too, and felt his chest tighten in a way he'd nearly forgotten.
-.......
-After that, Xigbar knew it was time for him to head back. Xemnas would surely drill him about his whereabouts. Xigbar thought it odd that he hadn't seen so much as a single Shadow in his time here. Even if the world was really as bad as you said it was, he supposed that a world yet untouched by darkness must have some kind of hope.
-The minute you got home, you printed out two copies of the picture of the two of you on glossy photo paper, each picture small enough to fit inside a wallet. He took it gratefully from you and turned it over in his hands, the tightness in his chest creeping back.
-”This has been a really great time. Thanks for takin' such great care of me. You really got a knack for it,” he started. Suddenly your chest, too, felt heavy. “But I really oughta get back to my life. Boss Man's gotta be wonderin' about me by now, ya know? Same with yours.”
-”Yeah... I guess so,” you sighed. It had been nice having him around, despite the rocky beginning. Your eyes swept over his lithe figure and settled on his face- angular, ruggedly handsome, and watching you intently for a follow-up to your response.
-”I'm actually going to miss you,” you admitted.  “Who's gonna sass me for running stop signs and stalling on hills? Or talk shit about my coworkers with me? I hope I get to see you again. Please don't be a stranger.”
-He reached forward, fingertips brushing over your face, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You didn't brush him off when he laced his fingers through your hair, and when he pulled you in for a kiss, you grabbed his coat and pulled him in as close as you could.
-He drew away sooner than you would have liked. Than you would have both liked, really.
-”I'll make a point to stop back by, 'kay?” he assured you. With a sad smile, he lifted a hand and was surrounded by wisps of inky black and purple smoke. Just like that, he was gone.
-”W-what?” Wide-eyed, heart racing, you glanced around your apartment and resisted the urge to scream.
-”What the FUCK was that?!”
-.................
-As soon as Xigbar was back within the walls of the castle, he realized he'd fucked up.
-”Aww, shit!” There was no way she hadn’t seen the corridor of darkness, and there wasn’t really a good way to explain it, either.
-Mortified, and more than a little tired, he reached into his pocket and checked to make sure the picture was still there. Xemnas could wait until tomorrow; he'd sleep on his little snafu and figure out what to say the next time he visited you.
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memory-mortis · 4 years
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We Were Never Really Here pt. 2 (Joe x Reader)
A/N: Decided to make this one longer, yeet! Still not much of romance cause I feel like it would take more time to form a connection with Joe.
Warning: Guns, violence, swearing, blood. Surprisingly.
Words: 2613
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Rain pattered against the windscreen of the car you sat in. Soon the driver’s door opened and Joe sat down, aroma of the fast food he brought filled the air. You glanced at it, your mouth watering already. Now that you finally got over the crippling shock of killing a person, you felt hungry again and your stomach grumbled in agreement. Joe handed you the burger you asked for, as well as some fries. Before he took a bite himself, however, you handed him a pack of tissues. “Wipe off that blood first, it’s gross.” He looked at you puzzled but then did as you told him. You took a big bite out of your burger. You didn’t even feel bad this time, in that moment you would eat anything, edible or not. When you looked up you realized that Joe was staring at you. “What?” You cocked an eyebrow, chewing. “Nothing,” he murmured and started to dig in too. The next couple of minutes was just the sounds of the two of you gobbling down food and the occasional slurp of cola. You finally gathered the courage to ask what had been on your mind for a long time. “What were you doing with that girl in a motel like that?” His brows narrowed. “Straight to the point. You’re brave.” “Thanks.” “Not a compliment.” You cocked an eyebrow for the second time but questioned it no further. Silence filled the air once again, this time thick and terribly awkward. You crumpled up the piece of paper in which the food came. “Whatever,” you proclaimed as you got out of the car and made your way towards a trash can. When you got back, you were surprised by Joe being the first to speak. “What exactly is so important in that notebook of yours?” he asked. “Tsk,” you crossed your arms over your chest, “that’s not how trading works. You answer first. What were you doing with that girl?” Joe let out an amused chuckle. In fact, that was the first time you saw him smile. He looked much younger when he wasn’t frowning. “Alright.” He looked around the parking lot, still empty. “I save kids from human trafficking. She was one of them.” I knew it. You bit your thumbnail, a habit which just refused to leave you. Joe watched you intently. “Your turn,” he disturbed your train of thought. “Right…” You took a deep breath before speaking. “I am an investigative journalist. I have to stay incognito everywhere because there are people who would love to see me dead for exposing them. You’re the only one who knows my real name. Consider that an honor.” Joe snickered. “No wonder you’re so nosy.” “Hey!” You slapped him on the shoulder playfully. “Not a single thank you? Come on, I helped the cops capture one of the biggest mobs in California!” “Oh really?” He looked at you with amusement in his eyes. “It was all over the news! You must have heard of it.” “I don’t watch TV, it’s a waste of time.” “Oh? And what do you do?” The way he pinned his eyes into you made you shrink. “Sorry. Crossed the line.” Just like that, all the good mood was out the window. Good job, Y/N. Suddenly he put his hand on your head and began pushing you down. “Hey, what are you-” “Shut up,” he shushed you. “Someone’s coming.” You took a look in the rear-view mirror and really, a car was pulling up. You hesitated when you saw the police sign but then remembered the actions of just an hour ago. “Hide under the dashboard,” he commanded and you did just as he told you. To hide you even better, Joe took off his hoodie and threw it over you. Normally it wouldn’t work, but the color blended almost perfectly with the darkness. A knock on the driver’s window ensued. Joe rolled it down. “Good evening, sir. A bit late to be out here, isn’t it?” The cop was trying to be funny but obviously failed as Joe didn’t let out a single sound. It made you want to giggle but you had to remain completely still and silent. He cleared his throat and continued: “Anyways, we’re searching for this woman, have you seen her?” Woman? Were they looking for you? Shit… It dawned on you. There were probably cameras in the hallway, meaning that anyone could see you swing that fire extinguisher. You bit your lip hard. Even if the cops weren’t bribed you would still very much get murdered as soon as you’d step into prison. No, meeting all the shitheads you put there in the first place would be the death of you. And if you were to survive? Your identity would be spilled. That would be like walking around with a goddamn target drawn on your forehead. “No,” you heard Joe speak up and felt a sense of relief wash over you, “doesn’t look familiar. What happened?” “She uhh, murdered a colleague of mine. So please, if you ever spot her, don’t hesitate and call 911.” “Yeah, of course. Will do.” “Alright then. Have a nice evening, sir.” Next you heard the sound of the window rolling up and tried to get up, but Joe’s big hand stopped you and held you down. It remained on your head for a couple more minutes until he pulled the hoodie off of you. Finally you sat back up into the passenger seat. Your hand ran through your hair, moving any stray strands out of your face. Joe opened his mouth to say something, but you interrupted him. “Why don’t we work together?” “What?” He looked at you as if you had gone mad. “You save kids from human trafficking. That’s nice and all but it doesn’t solve the problem entirely. You can be the muscle. I will go with you, take evidence, expose the leaders. Together we’ll be unstoppable. We can fix this world.” You stared each other in the eyes. His face remained stone cold for an uncomfortably long moment before he finally burst into laughter. Something about the laughter lines in the corners of his eyes made your heart flutter. For the first time in the time you spent together you actually saw him. Although he intimidated you when you bumped into him back then, he was much different now. The yellow light of a McDonald’s sign illuminated his face. His piercing eyes lined by circles hid beneath thick dark eyebrows - does this man ever sleep? He had tied his hair back into a low messy bun, some strands just refused to listen though. Very rarely did he show his teeth, a little bit crooked but still well taken care of. Behind all this tough facade hid a rather handsome man. “What is it?” Shit. Did you just get caught staring? You took a sharp breath and looked away. “Nothing,” you mumbled and sipped some leftover cola. “I like it.” “Huh?” You almost choked on the drink. “Your proposition, I like it.” “Wait, really? You don’t think it’s stupid?” “I think it’s incredibly stupid. And dangerous. But I like it.” A cheeky grin grew on your face. Joe turned the key in the ignition and started the car. You didn’t ask any other question. You had a feeling he wouldn’t answer even if you did.
“Here, kitty kitty,” you whispered to get the cat’s attention. It trotted over to you with a quick ‘mrrp’ and rubbed against your hand. “McCleary must’ve been gone for a while, the cat’s touch-starved,” you noted aloud as you gave it some affection. Joe simply hummed as he continued to search the house. You understood his reaction. The situation was suspicious and neither of you liked where it was going. You gave up on trying to cheer Joe up since it seemed to be an impossible task at the moment. When the cat had had enough of you, it ran away into the kitchen to eat some kibbles. Of course it was the fancy kind. You chuckled quietly to yourself, then decided to be of some use while you were there and began searching for anything that would help. You walked over to the tea table in front of the couch and grabbed a handful of jelly beans. You practically jumped when you saw a hand reach over from behind you to grab a green one. “Jesus! You’re unbelievably quiet for such a big guy!” Joe looked you straight in the eye as he squeezed the jelly bean and inserted it into his mouth. Is he always gonna be this weird..? “Anyways,” you took a deep breath and walked away from him; The lack of space between you two made you uncomfortable. “Did you find anything?” “No, nothing. I did find a gun though.” “Okay, cool. Just don’t shoot your brains out with it. What now?” You threw the rest of the beans in your hand into your mouth. “We should check his office.” He didn’t waste another second and immediately headed for the door. It was a nice change from the usual verbal diarrhea you would get from people. Right to the point, just the way you liked it. The heavy realization, however, slowly crept into both of your minds and its dark shadow loomed over you: you weren't searching for McCleary anymore; You were searching for his body. You gave the cat one last pet and left.
The office felt cold and dark despite the sunlight peeking through the big window. You stood in the corner, hand covering your mouth as you stared at the bloody scene in front of you. Joe stood closer to McCleary's lifeless body which sat in the chair, hands stabbed through on the glassy table. Blood was spilled all over. You'd seen worse over the years of work but something about this just disturbed you. Joe was about to touch something on the table. "Wait. Step away for a moment," you commanded as you rummaged through your bag. You pulled out a camera and snapped a picture of the crime scene. "Okay, go on." Joe nodded and looked at the cards scattered on the table. One of them seemed to catch his eye. He picked up the phone and dialled a number. You didn't need to come closer to hear the gunshot. Joe practically slammed the phone down. You didn't think the mood could get more sour but you were proven wrong. He grabbed a glass vase and lifted up his hand. "No, no, no!" You ran over to him and stopped him from smashing it. "Joe, I get it, you're angry, but you need to calm down. We shouldn't break anything in here." He clenched his jaw but you saw him slowly calming down as he looked at you. You gave him a smile. "Good, very good." You took the vase from his hand and gently put it down. "Mother.." he suddenly spoke with a rasp. "Hm?" "Mother. We need to go home. She isn't safe." Dread crashed over you like a wave. You had nothing to worry about except your own life but what about Joe? Did he have a family? A girlfriend? A wife? A child waiting for him to come home? You gave him a nod. He walked to the door in just a few steps but since you were smaller in general, you almost had to run.
When you arrived at his house you were immediately greeted by dead silence. You already half-expected what you were about to find. Joe stepped into the bedroom and you followed close behind. On the bed she lay, pillow resting on her face as a silencer for the gunshot. Joe took it off and exposed the dead woman's face. She'd been shot through her glasses. You watched Joe closely. Should you comfort him? Would he lash out? You hesitated for a moment, then gently put your hand on his shoulder. He didn't weep, nor did he attack you or try to shake you off. "I'm so sorry.." you whispered softly and squeezed his shoulder. "She was the only one I had." So he didn’t have any other family after all. "Not anymore." He turned his head to look at you, confused, eyebrows furrowed. "Nina. She has you. And you have her. Let's go avenge your mother and save the girl."
Your empowering speech was disturbed by a noise downstairs. Both of you turned to face the door. Joe lowered his voice. "Stay here." He pulled out the gun. "What? No!" You frantically looked through all drawers until you found another hidden gun. "I'm coming with you." "Are you stupid? Do you even know how to use a gun?" "I'm from Detroit, of course I know how to use a gun." He snickered quietly. You gave him a smirk. Another noise came from downstairs, this time it was the sound of drawers opening. You checked for bullets in the gun, then nodded towards the door, signaling to Joe that you were ready. He went first with you behind him as backup. The floorboards were old and creaky and you had to try really hard not to make a sound. It only took a few steps to get to the staircase but all of a sudden it felt like 20 miles. Joe kept looking back at you to make sure you were still there and you were uncertain whether you should be offended or complimented. Unlike the way to the stairs however, the events that took place after descending downstairs happened much faster. While Joe shot the man in the living room, perfectly visible from the staircase, you had to take care of another man who was in the kitchen to your right. He sprung to action as soon as he heard Joe’s gunshot and although you had held a gun before, it had been quite a long time. He got close to you but you still managed to shoot him in the face without getting hurt. Some of his blood squirted onto your face and you tried to wipe it off, which left you with red smudges on your cheeks. “You okay?” Joe grabbed your chin and turned your face to examine it. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you pushed his hand away. “Go get the other guy, we need info. I don’t think we’re getting anything out of this one.” You poked the man you just shot to make sure he was dead. Yep, definitely not getting up. Joe grumbled something you didn’t understand and went to speak with the wounded man. You stayed. What was becoming of your life? Considering you had one to begin with. Two lives. You had already taken 2 lives in those past 2 days. The awful feeling from yesterday overcame you again as you stared at the gun in your hand. Your sight got blurry as tears fell onto the gun. No. I signed up for this myself. You quickly wiped the tears away with the back of your hand and took a deep breath before hurrying over to Joe who was now interrogating the assassin. He passed away right after you walked in. “Did you get anything?” “Yeah. Governor Williams took her.” Your eyebrows rose in shock. “Governor Williams? Holy shit. That explains the cops.” You felt him staring at you. “What?” “Were you crying just now?” You clenched your jaw at the question and the way his eyes pierced right through you made you nervous. “No,” you huffed. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s go take care of your mother.” You turned on your heel and headed upstairs, his gaze pinned to your back.
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megalony · 4 years
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Unlawful protector- Part 2
This is the second part of my latest bodyguard! Ben Hardy series, thank you all for the comments so far I hope you like this part.
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Enjoy.
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"What's she done now?" (Y/n) questioned with a huff, her eyes landing on Mary who was standing only a few feet in front of her in the corridor. Reaching the maid who was only a few years older than herself, (Y/n) drifted her eyes from the brunette to the swarm of people crowding around Louisa's room.
The eldest sibling was causing a scene on many occasion, sometimes she was ill or she just wanted attention and would get it any way that she could. (Y/n) wondered what scheme she had come up with tonight to cause such a crowd of servants and family brooding around her room.
When (Y/n)'s eyes landed on her mother, she felt her stomach churning at the sudden howl that left her mother's lips. She had tears streaming down her face as she was leaning heavily onto one of the servants who was guiding her away from the room. Evidently trying to drag her down to her own room as she was in such a state of distress.
Shaking her head, (Y/n) violently hit away Ben's hands when he tried to wrap his arms around her waist in order to pull her away. He may have been the cause of the distress but he had to play his part and he truly didn't think it would be a sight that the youngest sibling should bear witness to. He followed after her as she pushed through the swarm of servants when normally she would be very kind to them and politely ask to be let through. Her arms flung in front of her to make a path between them for herself so she could see for herself that Louisa was simply ill.
She couldn't be...
(Y/n)'s body almost crumpled down when she made her way over the threshold into the room that was less crowded on the inside as it was in the corridor.
The scream that left her mouth didn't reach her ears as her eyes were suddenly drowned in horror. Her lungs felt like balloons that had been popped, sagging and shrinking in her chest until they were nothing but shrivelled useless organs.
There she was. Louisa. The eldest of the four siblings, the one who was meant to take the crown when their father passed.
Her golden hair that had previously been pinned up at the back of her head was strewn around her head, scraggly ends left limp against the grey carpet. Her usually bright blue eyes had been drained of all life and colour and were now crackled, looking as if one touch would shatter them completely. Her tanned skin was now verging on grey and her lips were not ruby-red but ice blue with streaks of very dark blood that was dried and caked to her lips and chin.
What made (Y/n)'s throat tighten and close off was Louisa's chest.
Her beautiful peach dress was tainted with blood. There was a small but obviously deep slash in the thick material that had pierced through the skin. Around her chest the blood had seeped over onto the other side and it had trailed down her torso and dripped and soaked into the dress along the sides. As if red wine had simply been poured onto her. The grey carpet was black in colour from the red pigments painting and soaking through to the floorboards beneath.
Someone had slain her sister.
Ben's arms wrapped around (Y/n), pulling the broken girl into his chest as he tried his best to look the tiniest bit disgruntled at the sight in front of him but it was hard when he had already seen and caused it. He opted to simply curl his upper lip in distaste but held the same bored expression he had when he first arrived.
He felt (Y/n) tightly gripping his arm that was wrapped around her front as she almost collapsed. Wheezing as if she too had been stabbed and could no longer hold the ability to breathe.
Turning them both around, Ben held (Y/n) upright as he slowly walked her out of the room. Guiding her the small distance down the corridor to her room as he could feel the blade of the knife pressing against his lower back causing it to become harder to hold back his grin.
(Y/n) crumpled down onto her bed, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest as if it would prompt her to take deeper breaths but it didn't work. Her eyes snapped closed when Ben rested his hand on her shoulder, letting her lean back against him. She knew she hadn't been close to Louisa, she wasn't very close to any of her siblings growing up but she would never wish something like this to happen to any of them. Louisa may have been a bit of an airhead and rather spoilt but that didn't mean she deserved to die.
She wouldn't know what she was doing if she was to be crowned, people would of had no reason to fear her being Queen like they had reason to fear their father. Louisa had been harmless and now it seems she had also been defenceless because she was now dead.
"S-she..." (Y/n) didn't have enough air in her lungs to sustain herself, let alone try and speak a proper coherent sentence. How could someone do that to Louisa? How ould they even have the opportunity to do that when she was meant to be watched twenty-four seven? She had been the next in line, she was the top priority to be guarded and now she was dead. Someone inside the castle had gotten to her and that meant that Daniel would be next.
If someone got to Daniel and God forbid, Anna, then that meant that either (Y/n) would also be killed or that she would be the one who would be expected to take the crown which she didn't want.
"Shh, princess. It's okay... you're alright." Ben couldn't help but feel a sliver of guilt for the pain he had clearly caused (Y/n).
He didn't mean to hurt (Y/n)... at least, not yet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tipping her head down, (Y/n) looked at the book set out in front of her that she hadn't paid attention to since she opened it. Her legs were crossed beneath her on the wooden chair she was sitting on in the library, the one place here where she could be on her own without people bustling around or disturbing her.
At least, it was a quiet and undisturbed place until Joe arrived.
He knew this was exactly where (Y/n) would be and he had bustled in the moment he heard about Louisa. The brunette made a snarky comment towards Ben who he insisted didn't have to sit at the table with them when he wanted to talk to (Y/n). It was clear Joe didn't trust Ben even though he had been given no reason not to trust him but (Y/n) could see that Joe knew why he was here. Louisa being killed just proved that they all needed someone to watch over them.
Holding her breath, (Y/n) lifted her eyes from the book on the table to Joe when he reached over and rested his hand over her own. He looked desperate but he hadn't said very much to her yet. The moment he went to say how sorry he was about Louisa (Y/n) simply shook her head.
She didn't need his apologies or his sorrows for her sister, she needed all of this to stop.
"Come away with me." He whispered the words in a tone of desperation and pleading as he made sure his tone was quiet, not wanting the only other person in the room to overhear. The castle clearly wasn't safe anymore if someone on the inside had gotten to Louisa and there was only a matter of time before (Y/n) would become a target. He wanted her to be safe and he saw that the way to do that was for her to leave.
"I can't-"
"Yes you can. The worst that will happen is they think you've been taken or killed, that gives you the freedom to leave. David and Anna will be watched like hawks now, you don't even want the crown, why are you so desperate to stay?"
If they thought (Y/n) had been taken they would wait for a ransom or start looking for her. If they thought she had been killed they would mourn her and she had the freedom to change her identity and just disappear off the face of the Earth. She would abdicate the thrown if it ever came down to her but her siblings were going to be protected more now that Louisa had been murdered. They were doing checks of everyone who came in and out of the castle.
"I told you." (Y/n) hissed, trying not to snap but she couldn't help it. "Louisa's dead, alright? Someone got to her and if I leave now someone could get me or they'll just find me and bring me back. When David or God forbid, Anna gets the throne I'll be safer to leave. They won't care then but right now I'm safer here than leaving. You go if you want to."
Things would die down once someone took the throne when her father passed which admittedly wasn't going to be too long. No one would dare murder him when he was dying a slow death, that was more torturous and more revengeful than killing him quickly.
If (Y/n) left people could see her as some kind of target and try to hurt her, when someone was on the throne they would worry about them and what they were doing. (Y/n) held power right now because she was in line, she was closer now to the throne than before so she was a threat. She would be watched and searched for if she left. Joe could go if he wanted, she wouldn't hold it against him and she wouldn't care too much if he left because it was so much better than staying. He had that freedom, right now she didn't.
"We said we'd leave together and that's what we'll do." Joe tightened his hold on her hand but his eyes narrowed when she scoffed.
Leaving was always one of those childhood dreams that they had talked about non-stop since they were little. (Y/n) talked about going somewhere and being someone else, not being a princess or a member of the royal family but just someone else. A baker or a painter or a dressmaker, being someone who would go unnoticed and for her to be able to have a quiet life. Joe talked about leaving because he hated being a member of the court. It was boring and overrated and it was so hectic to talk about anything and everything that was wrong or corrupted with this place.
They made silly promises to each other that they would leave when they were older. They would fall in love and disappear and have a family together. It was always a fantasy but at the same time, it was the best dream either of them had and it was hard to let something like that go so easily.
"How old are we, Joe? Is the plan still happy families somewhere far, far away... or is it still just a dream?" Bursting the bubble she had placed herself into all these years hurt but at the same time living a dream wasn't the best option.
(Y/n) believed she could leave when this was all blown over. She knew she could grab some money and disappear into the night but she knew it would be hard and she didn't believe Joe would be there every step of the way, if at all. But she had to think that someone was going to be there with her because doing this alone was something she couldn't face quite yet.
"Right now, I think all you have is this 'dream' or waiting around to be stabbed. At least I have the will and the freedom to leave."
(Y/n) turned her head away from him, his words cutting to her core and causing tears to well in her eyes. He was right. A princess disappearing into the night was unheard of and with her family, she could simply be carted back here. Leaving her life and her responsibilities behind was something that was more of a dream than it could be a reality for her. At least for Joe, he would have the will and the freedom and the permission from his family to go. He wouldn't be hunted down, he could tell them he was going on a trip or he could spin almost any lie and no one would think it weird.
A shiver ran down her spine when Joe unlatched his hand from her own and stood to his feet. Saying nothing as he turned and left, making sure to bump his shoulder with Ben's as he went.
"What'd he say, princess?" She couldn't quite work out if Ben's tone was condescending or if he was being genuine as there was that hint of teasing mixed in that she didn't like in times like this. It made her question if he cared for her or if he could ever be serious or not. After their kiss the other day she wished that he would feel something for her but if she brought it up she could guarantee he would laugh or scowl.
"Do you think I'd ever get away with leaving? You know, just... disappearing somewhere?" (Y/n) slowly lifted her gaze from her hands to look at Ben who had taken the seat next to her that Joe had previously been using.
She watched as he rubbed his hand over his chin as he thought about her question. There was a glimmer in his eyes but he was taking the time to think about it so he wasn't stringing her along or playing with her- yet.
"If your brother or sister took the crown, I'd say you could pull it off if you planned it well. Otherwise, you're stuck." It lifted a weight from her chest to know that he thought she could get away with it, or at least he thought she could try her best and almost pull it off. Either way, someone having that little bit of hope for her made her feel better, it didn't matter if he was just telling her what she wanted to hear.
"I wouldn't take the crown." (Y/n) whispered the words quietly to herself but Ben could see she was more convincing herself than him.
"You think if they died you'd really look at your mother and decline the throne? Oh, princess don't delude yourself." His taunting tone was back to his voice as he smiled. The worst thing was she knew he was right. If it came down to it she would either decline the crown and her mother would pressure her into it or she would crumble and accept because of her mother.
She didn't have the courage to stand up to her mother and everyone could see that.
"So you'd have to make sure you left before anyone had the chance to officially ask you." His words surprised her but they made sense, they made her happy. If Anna died the only options she would have were to disappear that very day before anyone officially said would you take the crown or she would have to crumble and accept it. "You really don't want to be here, do you, princess?"
Ben sighed through the words as (Y/n) dipped her head down so she didn't have to see his gaze or look into his eyes.
Little did she know she was compromising him by feeling this way. Louisa wanted the throne, Daniel was desperate for it now and Anna would take it if she got the chance. (Y/n) was the only one who wouldn't want the throne if it was presented to her. But it was clear if she was put under the slightest ounce of pressure she would collapse and the crown would be placed upon her head. So if things went that way, Ben wasn't technically going to be compromised.
Pressing his hand gently under her chin, Ben tilted her head up so she was looking at his wolfish grin which sent shivers up her spine. She had no time to say anything before his lips were on hers.
This was different from last time.
He wasn't kissing her so very gently that she could barely feel the touch and it wasn't gone after only a few seconds. It was more presuming than before, more confident because he had the knowledge that she wasn't going to pull away. His lips moved against hers instead of pulling away to reveal his shark-tooth grin. His hand moved to cup her jaw and run his thumb along the prevalent bone as he continued to steal any ounce of air she held in her lungs.
No one else had kissed her before.
(Y/n) always thought it would be Joe who would kiss her properly but he had only kissed her gentlemanly on the cheek. But now Ben had kissed her she couldn't imagine anyone else even comparing to this feeling.
Maybe Joe wasn't the person she should be dreaming about leaving with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Stop fussing." Ben stated the words quietly but made sure he didn't hiss or sound annoyed. He couldn't help but noticing that (Y/n)'s eyes were drifting down to look at what she was wearing again and again. She wore a navy blue long-sleeved top and some trousers she knew her mother disapproved of.
With Louisa passing away last week her mother was demanding that the rest of them have dinner together as a family- minus their father of course, who was on bed rest which he hadn't left for weeks now. (Y/n)'s mother wouldn't be happy that she was not wearing a dress like her mother kept pestering her to but she hated dresses. Especially the ones her mother put in her wardrobe and kept trying to make her wear on 'special occasions'.
"She'll get mad."
"Fuck it, she'll be worse if you're late." Ben responded as he wrapped his arm around her waist to stop her from turning around to go back upstairs and get changed. If she wanted to be on time they didn't have the time to go back and scan through her wardrobe to see which dress her mother would approve of Besides, he thought she looked nice with what she was wearing, a dress would only make her uncomfortable and that would, in turn, make him feel weird.
(Y/n) nodded silently but she couldn't help how her heart raced at his cursing. She wasn't meant to swear, whenever she had it was only around Joe and even then he made fun of her for it because she couldn't do it in front of her family who would throw a fit.
"I'll be one minute." (Y/n) stated quietly, tugging on Ben's hand to free herself from his comforting yet strong hold so she could head down the corridor on her left to go to the bathroom.
Standing in the main corridor, Ben clasped his hands behind his back as he concentrated on his hearing when voices could faintly be heard. He made sure to stay looking ahead of him down the corridor but he distinctively heard Daniel's voice coming up behind him. The stars seemed to be shining on him again and giving him an opportunity as he heard only one set of heavy feet walking up to him. Meaning his bodyguard must have been somewhere around when he was talking. Short time window but very achievable.
Perfect.
Daniel clearly seemed to know who Ben was because he didn't utter one word to him or even glance at him as he walked past to get to the dining hall down the end of the corridor.
When the second eldest sibling was two steps in front of Ben, he gripped the handle of his knife tucked into his trousers where it always stayed for easy access. He clamped his left hand down on Daniel's shoulder to pull him to a stop and as quick as anything, Ben moved his right hand and dragged the blade across Daniel's neck from left to right.
He didn't have time to mess around.
Ben grinned at the strangled, choking sound that left Daniel's lips as the blood started to flow down and soak into the collar of his crisp white shirt. He held himself up well for just having been slashed with a knife.
"Your life is payment for your father's crimes." Ben spat the words like poison in his ear before giving him a shove to the left, watching him crash into whatever room Ben had just moved him into. The only son grasped at his chest as he looked like a fish out of water, his eyes bulging from their sockets as blood seeped out of his neck and coated his lips.
With a quick breath, Ben quickly but quietly shut the door and stashed the knife back into the waistband of his trousers before speeding down the corridor (Y/n) had gone down.
It had taken less than a minute to get Daniel and Ben could already hear who he presumed was his bodyguard hurrying down the stairs. Ben couldn't be seen in the corridor because he would be implemented in the crime and it would be assumed he was the killer or had at least seen something. He needed to give himself an alibi and what better way than being with the girl he was meant to protect?
(Y/n) jumped in surprise when she turned her head from the sink to the door which Ben just walked through. Locking it behind him which made a flutter of panic bubble in her chest.
Had something happened?
His eyes seemed to shine as he walked over to her slowly, a little too slowly as if she was a prey that he was eyeing up. The moment he was standing in front of her he grabbed her hips and started walking her backwards, picking up a bit more speed. A gasp left her lips when her back hit the crystal white wall next to the sink and Ben's hands moved from her hips to her wrists, holding them at her sides against the wall.
"I won't get through that dinner without doing this first."
His whispered words made absolutely no sense to (Y/n) until he kissed her with a sense of passion and ferocity that she had never seen or felt before. But by God, did she love it.
She felt a groan building up in her chest when he held her wrists tighter and pressed his chest fully against her own, having to lean down due to the height difference between them. His teeth nipped at her lower lip causing her chest to tighten as she opened her eyes that were blown wide to find his emerald orbs already staring at her. His lips curving into a sharp grin at the look on her face that showed she didn't know what to do but also that she didn't want him to stop.
He felt her shaking against him when he kissed and nipped at her neck and he knew he had her.
Her mind was running away from her the same as his was. She wouldn't think for one moment that Ben was the cause of Daniel's death when she found out because she would naturally presume that when Daniel was killed Ben was here seducing her like this. She would also tell her mother and anyone else that he was walking with her to the dining hall, she wouldn't dare breathe a word to anyone that he was kissing and touching her like he was.
He'd given himself the perfect alibi without her even knowing.
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