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chasseurdeloup-retired · 4 years

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Suffering in Silence || Jared and Kaden

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Downtown PARTIES: @themidnightfarmer and @chasseurdeloup SUMMARY: If you give a mime a lift...

Being stuck inside sucked. A lot. Kaden was running out of Meerkat Manor episodes to watch and even then, he was getting bored. And the stripes hadn’t faded even a little. Nothing had worked, not even a tiny bit of bleach (which was objectively a terrible idea). He needed a drink, but more importantly, he needed to smoke. And he was out of cigarettes. He could ask Regan for a whole lot of things, but a pack of smokes was not one of them. No way was she encouraging his bad habit. A six pack of beer? Maybe. “Cancer sticks”? Definitely not. There was only one thing to do, then. He slapped on some of the foundati-concealer-whatsit that was vaguely skin colored on his face, grabbed a scarf, some gloves, and made sure his outfit covered every inch of his skin that he could. When he’d walked to the liquor store, the sky was clear and sunny. He could feel sweat beading at his temples as the sun beat down on him and his very concealed outfit. Kaden may have bitten off more than he could chew and got two six packs, a few more bottles of wine, and a nice gin on top of the box of marlboros. “You got it?” the cashier asked as Kaden tenuously balanced all the alcohol. The weight wasn’t a problem, hunter strength. The volume, a little more so. “Got it,” he said with a grunt as he pushed out the door, trying to give the man a friendly nod that probably looked more terrifying than anything else. As soon as he was out the door, two whole steps down the sidewalk, the sky opened up and rain poured down from the sky. Oh no, he could feel the makeup dripping away, into his eyes, and he struggled to keep his balance. “Putain de merde,” he said to himself, but it was barely a croak.

Jared was just doing his weekly shop, filling up on things he needed as well as what he guessed would cook alright in his new instant pot. As always the nymph had passed over driving his truck into town and -now that his tractor was all patched up- was gleefully housing his shopping into the cab. He may have been taking up four parking spots, but there were so few shoppers at this time of day he wasn’t worried. He’d never had any complaints before. Although this was likely due to the fact no one in town had ever seen him drive his truck, they likely thought all he had was the tractor and the horses. Pushing his last bag in Jared readied himself to go, patting down his pockets just to make sure he hadn’t dropped anything inside. In the few seconds it took for him to do this the rain started. The clouds had rolled in without him noticing, but seems everyone else had cleared out fast. The store closed for lunch just as the rain started to pelt down on the sidewalk. Hauling himself into the cab double speed Jared looked out over the rapidly emptying parking lot, only to spot a mime, a sad looking mime staring up forlornly at the sky as if the look in itself would halt the water. It was a tragic sight, and Jared took pity. Pushing open the back window of the cab he called out to the sad mime. “HEY, NEED A LIFT?”

It was going to be a long, awkward walk, but Kaden was sure he could do it. At least the stack of liquor was mostly coving up his face, right? And he had hunter strength, it’d be fine. Hunter balance wasn’t exactly a thing, but he had everything in hand right now and it was mostly steady. The wine bottles wobbling would certainly not fall as he continued his pace. A voice called out and his instinct was to hide his head behind the tower of alcohol in his arms. Shit, shit, shit; they all leaned to the left so he angled himself towards them, righting and steadying the whole thing. That was too close. Hopefully they didn’t see that. Or they weren’t talking to him. Only. Oh. They were talking to him. He caught a glance of the guy in the tractor staring at him, looked friendly enough. At first, Kaden tried to say “No thanks, I’ve got it,” but nothing came out but hoarse whispers. What the fuck? He tried again, same result. Alright, fine, he shook his head no and tried walking again, only now his heart was racing. Why couldn’t he speak? Was he turning into a-- No, that wasn’t a possibility. No.

In his panic, Kaden felt his toe catch on s bump in the sidewalk and he stumbled, doing everything in his power to keep the stack of liquor upright. Fuck, that was close. Too close to seeing all his recent purchases fall and shatter on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tractor was still there. With a heavy sigh, Kaden turned to the guy and said “Fine. Thanks.” Not that he heard most likely, not unless he had hunter hearing with how quiet and frail Kaden’s voice was at the moment. He walked to the tractor and looked at it confused of where to even start placing his items. “Uhhh, help?” The words were more mouthed than anything. Putain, he needed to get home and fast. He didn’t need anyone he actually knew seeing him like this.

He waited patiently for the guy to turn around and decide what to do. From Jared’s perspective, the tripping looked like a theatrical pratfall. Miraculously keeping the items balanced at the last second was impressive and the nymph wrongly attributed it to the act he thought was being put on. He spared a moment to cheer when the mime caught his balance again, clapping a few times and laughing in appreciation. He supposed mimes who wore their gear out to the shops were really dedicated to their craft, so of course they’d put on a show as soon as they knew they had an audience. After the second pratfall Jared figured maybe they truly didn’t want to get a ride and readied to move on. The nymph fussed with the windshield wipers, only spotting the mime had come closer once they were right at the doors. Jared jumped in surprise and swore a little. As much as he didn’t condemn mimes like the rest of the town seemed to, the make up was rather a shock out of nowhere, especially as it looked like there was some sort of real skin tone melting off of it in the rain. “Decided to get a ride after all huh, bud?” And with that the farmer threw open the cab door and climbed down. He gave the mime a grin and took the top most box from the stack in his arms and slid it into a safe spot under the seat inside. This followed by the next and then he gestured the mime in and out of the rain. “You’ll have to sit on the boombox, sorry about that bud. Never needed another seat.”

“Thanks,” he shouted, but it was still barely at full volume. The mimes who did this to him were dead the second he had a chance to hunt them down. This was a level of humiliation that Kaden hoped he never got to repeat. He was fairly certain this might be worse than Regan and Blanche laughing at him in unison. Still, he was grateful that this guy was helping lift the stupid boxes into the stupid tractor. And it was nice to climb out of the rain and into the covered cabin of the tractor, even if he did have to awkwardly situate himself on top of the boom box, trying to find a spot for his legs around the boxes. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d either never see this farmer kid again or the next time they did see one another, Kaden would be wholly unrecognizable. Then it dawned on him. He should probably tell this guy where to go. “Nine hun—“ His voice was still shallow. What the hell, was something caught in it? He coughed and tried to clear his throat, pounding his chest with his fist, hoping to dislodge whatever weird phlegm might be making him hoarse. “Nine—“ Fuck, it was just as bad, maybe worse. He looked around for pen and paper, anything to write on, but there was nothing. Putain. With another heavy sigh, Kaden tapped on the kid’s shoulder and pointed to the left. Guess he’d have to direct like this.

Once everything was all squared away, and the mime was sitting down as comfortably as could be expected. Jared hauled himself into the cab and situated himself in the chair, moving only slightly into the mimes space to pull the back window closed again, securing them away from the rain. The nymph thought for a moment he’d heard a sound from the mime and looked over at him curiously, but it seemed to only be his imagination as instead of mouthing any longer, the mime elected just simply to point. Jared started up the tractor and nodded away. “Don’t worry I totally know where you’re headed with all the booze.” In his mind, and once he’d given the mime a once over there was only one place he could be going. There were many mime based establishments in town, but for some reason all the layers of clothing screamed that those layers were abnormal. In that perhaps what was underneath was not safe for the public eye of a store. This had to be one of the mime strippers. Starting the engine up Jared pulled out of the empty parking lot and started towards the place. “So, had to stock up huh? Ran out of beer? Is one box enough?”

Kaden tried his best to hold on to something, anything, as the tractor rolled down the way. This was completely and utterly ridiculous. Oh well, at least the town wasn’t too big, it wouldn’t take long. Kaden was about to tap and point to the next turn when the kid pulled up to something and stopped the vehicle. His brow furrowed and he tried to ask why. There was no voice that came out. Not even a croak. Just air. He tried to scream with everything that he had, but only silence came out. It was like his vocal cords were paralyzed or cut out or something, it didn’t matter because he couldn’t speak. Kaden looked out the window to see how far he was from home. Maybe this was close enough. He pressed his head against the window and peered out. The Stripe Club? Kaden tapped on the kid’s shoulder and started aggressively gesturing his arms in an “x” shape, shaking his head no. If he couldn’t scream no, he was going to do the next best thing. He tried to point ahead, out the front windshield, away from here. There had to be something to write on here, there had to be. There was a slam on the window and Kaden jumped. There was a hand on the window. A white gloved hand. Attached to it was a mime, smiling. Another slam on the other window. Another mime. Kaden gestured “no” and “go” again as enthusiastically as he could manage and reached over to honk the horn. “Go!” he tried to shout, still wordlessly.

Jared was confused, very confused as he rolled to a stop and the mime didn’t immediately start to gather their many layers of clothing about themselves ready to hop out and make a dash out of the rain. Unfortunately for the other man, the nymph was a little slow to pick up on things, even this early into mushroom season. Sometimes he was extremely observant and tuned in with someone, but more times than not lately -especially given how his week had been going with what had happened at Pats- he was dottled. “Not here? The cafe maybe? Does the cafe serve alcohol?” Still so wrapped up in the others appearance that he couldn’t fathom the man was simply a person with stripes. Jared also jumped at the sudden sound, but he missed the initial fear that he perhaps should have felt. “You’re friends have come to get you bud, were you playing coy with me?” He laughed. But finally. FINALLY. The panic registered. The horn sounded and the nymph was jolted out of the early mushroom season haze that had taken him over unnoticed and he came back into reality. Foot on the gas the tractor jerked forward twice before ramping up enough momentum to move. “Not friends then, but...you’re a mime?!”

Kaden wanted to yell Not the fucking cafe! but it was useless. What if he just pulled the kid out of his seat and drove away himself? Tractors couldn't be that hard to drive, right? Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to, the tractor roared into action and started to pull away. The relief he felt was short lived as more hands started to cover the windows. How? How? Were they hanging onto the tractor somehow? Or floating? Oh god, they had to be floating, their terrifying painted faces tilting and moving in exaggerated expressions. Kaden considered cowering in the back, covering his head and shutting his eyes and just hoping he woke up safe in his bed, but somehow, some part of him knew this was actually happening. How could he tell this kid that these were monsters trying to kill them without a voice? While he was covered in stripes and face paint? He refused to mime it. And they didn’t have time for that. He settled for drawing his finger across his throat and then pointing at the fuckers outside. That might paint a picture, right? Kaden reached out and tapped the kid’s shoulder and aggressively pointed forward once more. Please, please take the fucking hint, kid.

The rain continued to pour, but it didn’t seem to impact the mimes stuck to the outside of the tractor at all. Jared started to speed up as more hands started to seem to glue themselves to the tractor, the faces appearing afterwards out of the gloom like it was a thick fog and not just a heavy downpour. The nymph swore and swerved in the hopes that it would have some of the mimes fall off, but no dice. If anything the image got worse. One mime seemed to have slipped, but their body was keeping up with the vehicle, one gloved hand adhered to the windshield, like a flag in the wind. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, but the mime in the cab was making….death threats? Fuck what had he gotten himself into. Was this some sort of ruse? Was this a mime mob hit or something. He had nothing to offer them and he said as much as he continued to drive and swerve. “I don’t have anything for you, fuck. Are you trying to steal my tractor? Please don’t I just spent the rest of my savings on fixing it.”

“I don’t want your fucking tractor!” Kaden attempted to say. And hey, that was a whisper! Barely audible, but that was an improvement, right? He still wasn’t sure that the kid heard it, but things seemed to improve the farther they got from the mime strip club. He looked back and saw that the last mime was struggling to hold on. Just one more good fast turn ought to do it. But they had to get out of here and fast. Merde. How in the fuck could he tell this guy where to go? He was clearly clueless and navigating wouldn’t work. Why didn’t he have paper and fucking pen? Maybe he could text someone and ask for a p-- Oh. Oh. Kaden reached into his pocket for his phone and furiously typed into the notes app, shoving the phone at the kid and pointing at what was written there, “900 Peaberry.” Putain de merde, if the kid didn’t understand after this he was just going to walk in the fucking rain.

Over the top of the noise the rain, tractor, and his own racing heartbeat was making Jared had no chance hearing the barely audible whisper of the mime sitting to his left. One mime left, flapping in the wind ominously, so the nymph pushed the window open with one hand and peeled the mimes glove off. In a terrifying fashion the glove came off with another identical glove underneath seen for only a moment before they’d turned a corner and the mimes were gone apart from the one sitting to his left. He swerved in surprise when a phone appeared under his nose, but squinted at the screen and then back at the only mime left. “This is where you were going? Okay. Okay cool. Fuck you’re not like those other mimes right? What the hell just happened?”

As the tractor swerved and careened away from the oncoming onslaught of mimes, Kaden tried to hold onto the inside of the cabin and the seat, attempting to maintain his balance while peeking back to see if the last of the mimes were gone. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw they were safe. For now. And it looked like the kid was actually taking him home. Putain, he would never leave again. Not until he didn’t look like a reject from a Dr. Seuss book. “Yeah this is--” His voice was still hoarse. Fucking hell, you had to be kidding. Kaden nodded enthusiastically instead and then offered the kid a shrug. It was about all he could manage apparently. Kaden felt relief wash over him as he saw his building drawing closer through the rain. Home. So close to home. Kaden tapped the kid on the shoulder and then pointed at the building and gave him a thumbs up. Once he rolled to a stop, Kaden practically threw himself out of the tractor and started quickly gathering his things. Shit, she should have bought two boxes of lights at this rate. He was going to need them.

Jared and the mime finally seemed to be on the same page, and he pulled to a stop in front of the desired building at last. The nymph pushed the shopping over to the door and looked down at the mime in the rain. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be giving a mime a ride ever again, but he smiled anyway. “Hey bud maybe next time drive to the store so you’re not struggling like that.” He then paused, wondering idly if mimes were allowed to drive, it seemed like they should be allowed but he had no idea of mime law. “Or at least a wagon and an umbrella just in case.” He finished before giving the guy a small wave. He was going straight home. Straight home to reflect on himself. Maybe he should stop being so friendly. It didn’t seem to be doing him any favours anymore...

#suffering in silence #wickedswriting #writing #chatzy #jared #themidnightfarmer

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inner-dreamscape · 4 years

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Pink Skies pt. 2

Title: Sirens

Part One

Also posted on AO3

The electrical buzzing of the blinking 'VANCANCY' sign outside the motel was hypnotizing. Chuuya stared blankly down at his hands, splayed open in the red light, then splayed out in the darkness when the sign blinked back off again. Again and again, his hands appeared in a haunting cycle, each time the same. Nothing changed. Nothing he did afterwards changed the fact that his hands were stained red.

It was a day to celebrate but Chuuya couldn't fathom the happiness the others felt at his first successive kill. He had to leave. He had to escape. So, he ran back to the motel room the first opportunity he got and he spent the next two hours burning his skin under a hot shower and wasting all the soap in trying to clean the red from his hands. But no matter what he did, he couldn't erase it. Couldn't wash the stink and the stickiness away. That red clung to his skin as if that person's soul haunted him for what he had done.

His hands trembled, or maybe it was his entire body. He didn't know. He wanted to cry but the shock and disgust and the urge to scream all warred within him that no tears were able to be shed. So he just sat there, on the floor next to the single bed, staring at his hands. He couldn't look away from them, didn't want to look away. Afraid that looking away would dismiss the act that he had committed. That it would devalue a human's life even if that human was rotten to the core.

He didn't know how long he had stayed there but before he knew it, the sun was rising and the red light was washed out. The only thing left were his clean palms.

Just like that.

Chuuya peeled a hand away from hugging his knees to stare down at them. Without his gloves on, they were the same as back then, clean and devoid of any blood. But he knew better.

The guy he managed to track down went down easily enough. It was easy to set his death up like a suicide. So wracked with guilt about putting an innocent man in critical care that he ended up hanging himself. Too late to be saved before the cops descended on him to arrest him for the drunken hit and run. He only hated that he couldn't have made a mess out of him, for Dazai.

For Oda.

It's been a whole week since Oda got out of critical care. Ango and Kunikida have been taking turns watching over the kids, with Dazai helping out whenever he wasn't by Oda's side at the hospital. The first 3 days, it took both him and Ango to drag Dazai out of the hospital room in order for Chuuya to take him home to sleep. It became easier to convince Dazai to leave once Oda woke up to tell him himself.

True to Chuuya's prediction, the first meal Oda asked for was curry. Thankfully, the nurse scheduled was able to dissuade him from breaking doctor's orders. From then on, all the nurses assigned to him had to keep an eye on the visitors to make sure none of them brought in contraband food. They kept a very strong eye on Ango, much to the man’s chagrin.

Despite the emergency surgery Oda had to go under, he escaped the crash with internal abdominal injuries, a broken arm and leg, bruised ribs and a heavy concussion. He would have to undergo physical therapy once his arm and leg healed, but the doctors were hopeful that there wouldn't be any lasting damage. Chuuya was glad. He didn’t know how he would have handled Dazai if there had been lasting damage. The scars and disabilities reminders about how they both had failed to protect family.

The noise from the shitty TV suddenly rose in volume as the characters on screen screamed at each other. He wasn't really paying attention to it, having it on as background noise. It was one of those rare days that their neighbors were away and the floor was blessedly silent. The thin walls left little to the imagination and privacy a thing to be missed. But that night, he couldn't take it. The silence. So, the TV was on.

It helped to distract his raging nerves and anxiousness. But it could only help for so long. Flipping through the limited channels, nothing caught his attention that he could fully immerse himself in. Even the game system he and Dazai scrimped and saved up for, for a joint Christmas present to themselves (and to be honest, the kids for when they visited), didn't seem enticing. He sat there, watching the over acted drama play out on the small screen. By the time the protagonist was making her exit, he had fully chewed his thumb nail down to the skin.

His partner was still visiting Oda and would probably stay there until the nurses kicked him out after visiting hours were over. Maybe he had time to go out and buy some cheap wine before Dazai came back. He had finished his stock yesterday, using liquid courage to help him finish his plan. Perhaps he could get drunk and go to bed early, forget about today and not worry about tomorrow. He means, Dazai knew he was planning something like this right? Chuuya wasn't part of the goody-goody two shoes agency so he didn't have to feel guilty over what Dazai would think. If anything, he knew almost exactly what Dazai would think. That wasn’t the problem. No. What was the problem was that he killed when he didn't have to. He killed when he promised Oda that he wouldn't become a killer like the rest of the gang. He killed when he knew for a fact that Oda wouldn't have wanted him to kill the guy that ran into him. He would have wanted Chuuya to leave it to the police and let the justice system get justice for him.

But he had promised Dazai first. He had promised himself first. That he would do anything in his power and position to keep the two of them safe from the shadows of the underworld. He stayed in the Port Mafia to thwart any and all future attempts at the two traitors should they become a target again. He stayed to keep an eye on other organizations that might deem the agency an enemy.

Dazai might argue that Chuuya was doing exactly what he was supposed to do. Nothing more and nothing less. Chuuya would be deeply inclined to agree with his partner.

Still. What was done, was done and Chuuya had to live with that for the rest of his life. He was prepared to carry that burden. Maybe he could coerce Dazai into keeping this fact a secret between them. What's one more amongst many?

His other thumb nail was gone now too. His spiraling thoughts had taken him out of the false calm he had acquired from the mindless reality TV he had settled on. He was fidgety. Angsty. He couldn't quite stop the bouncing of his leg as he stared hard at the grainy screen. God, if only he had a cigarette to chew on…

"I'm home!" Chuuya strangled a curse. He let it loose anyway once he saw the blood beading up on his thumb.

Dazai stood in the genkan, brown eyes focused on him as he removed his shoes. Chuuya ignored him, sticking his thumb in his mouth to suck the blood away. He made a face at the metallic flavor that coated his tongue. He didn’t think he had bitten so hard.

"Chuuya's not going to say 'Welcome home'?" Dazai whined, hefting the takeout bag onto the coffee table. "Even after I went out of my way to bring him food?" He directed a pout at the redhead, hoping for some sympathy.

"Welcome home, asshole." Chuuya grumbled, rummaging through the food containers to sort out their own. It was Dazai’s turn to pick up food anyways, so he got no pity from him.

"Hm."

It was Chinese that night. Peeking into each of the cartons, he found sesame chicken, pork fried rice, white rice, kung pao beef, egg rolls and some lin yueng bau. He claimed the fried rice, kung poa and lin yueng bau for himself, pushing the rest to the other side of him for Dazai. He dug in.

"Chuuya." Dazai called, still standing from the spot beside the couch.

He grunted, mouth stuffed with spicy kung pao and eyes glued to the TV. He knew that tone of voice. He was the ‘we need to have a serious talk’ voice because they were doing that now. Talking. No more secrets between them, they had decided. He was going to try to waylay the inevitable but Dazai hadn’t been known as the Demon Prodigy for nothing.

"Chuuya." Dazai called again, reaching a hand out to turn the red heads face towards him.

Chuuya swallowed down his food, lips pulling down into a frown. "What."

Dazai stared at him intently, getting that furrow between his brows when he was displeased with something. The look made Chuuya bristle. A callus free thumb swiped the splattering of sauce off of puffy lips. A pink tongue couldn't help but dart out and lick the digit. Appalled at his own tongue, Chuuya ripped his chin away from Dazai's soft hands.

"What?" He asked again, annoyed.

"What's wrong with Chuuya." And wasn't that a loaded question.

"Nothing's wrong with me. Sit down and eat already." He took his own advice and went back to eating.

Dazai sat down, but didn't make any moves to eat. He was still staring at Chuuya and Chuuya had no doubt in his mind that Dazai was figuring things out. He always did. He was the only person in the whole world who understood him to his core and he him in return. So he knew that Dazai was gearing up to have a serious talk, but honesty? Chuuya didn't want to have it. Yeah, he knew he would have to discuss this at some point, but not right now. Not tonight. His refusal to look at Dazai signified that.

The slender hand reached out again, this time, grabbing for the takeout carton. Chuuya made a noise a protest, but ultimately had to let it go if he didn't want the beef and bell pepper to fall from his chopsticks. He watched as the container was set back onto the table with the rest of the food. He slowly ate the rest from his chopsticks to prolong the conversation.

"You killed someone." Dazai stated, not asked. Because he knew. Chuuya didn't have to ask how he came to that conclusion. Dazai's seen him plenty of times after missions where he was forced to kill someone in self-defense and Chuuya was exhibiting those habits right in front of him. "Who was it?"

"No one you know." His leg started bouncing again. ‘When had it stopped?’

"Liar."

Chuuya glared. "It's true! It's not someone you know." Technically it was true. Dazai didn't know that guy's name. Chuuya didn't know either but to-ma-to, to-mah-to.

"But I know of them. You're more…keyed up than usual. That only happens when it's someone we have in common." A light seemed to go off in his head. "It was that guy."

"What guy?" His heart beat faster. He knew.

"The one that hit Oda." One look at Chuuya's face confirmed his answer. He smirked lightly. "I'm right."

"Whatever." He mumbled, reaching for the food.

Dazai stopped him. Chuuya groaned, leaning back into the couch.

"How did you do it?" Chuuya didn't like the look that infiltrated those brown eyes. ‘He shouldn’t have those thoughts’ he remembered thinking once. More than once because old habits die hard, and yes it was a habit. Until Dazai taught himself better, he knew the other would still be having them. And hadn’t that been the part of the reason he had stayed in the Port Mafia in the first place? To protect the both of them but also to help foster that new outlook on life; that life was worth something more than the pain and suffering of others at your hands.

Discussing this situation was going to be hard without bringing Dazai’s bloodlust back out from wherever it was buried. But Dazai had agreed to Chuuya’s terms of handling the guy himself, so it was a start.

"No. We are not going to talk about this. I'm not going to tell you how."

"I can always look it up." He threatened.

"Not if I ask you not too. And not if you want to keep this just between us." Chuuya fired back.

"Are you?"

"What? Going to ask you not to look it up?" Dazai nodded.

Chuuya remained silent, thinking about his answer. He wanted to say yes. Keep everything buried deep down under, and he knew that Dazai would take his request seriously. But that's how things ruined. It would fester and fester until it was eating him up inside. Until there was nothing else left inside him. Didn't they say the best thing for a wound to heal was to let it breathe?

Letting Dazai look up the information saved him from having to say everything out loud. And wasn't he just a right coward for thinking it in actuality.

He wasn't a coward.

"No. No I'm not." And Dazai smiled at him, pleased. They've come a long way into their relationship. "But I am asking that you not do it right away. I'll tell you. Later. Just…not right now, okay?"

"Okay." Dazai slid the hand that was holding Chuuya's arm, down until he was holding Chuuya's hand in his own. He gave the smaller one a reassuring squeeze. "That’s all I ask."

Chuuya silently nodded.

"Are you still hungry?" Their food was probably already cold.

"Not that much, no." He lost most of his appetite at the mention of his heinous deed.

The leg that was not curled up on the couch supporting their hands was still bouncing. It stilled briefly at the heavy sigh that escaped from Dazai. The other's hand left his for a moment, fishing in his back pocket for something. Chuuya silently missed the warmth.

Dazai pulled out an unfamiliar packet of cigarettes. He shook one out, gripping it with his mouth and pulling before shaking another out and offering it to Chuuya. It strangely reminded Chuuya of the morning in front of the hospital.

‘A lot of things are.’

Curiously, he took the cigarette, holding it up to his nose to sniff it. There was a fruity scent about it, different from the spice and tobacco from their usual. Seeing the question on his partner's face, Dazai told him, "They're new. The company just came out with them a month ago; fruit flavors. That one's strawberry." The painted ring underneath the filter was red. Looking over, Dazai's was yellow. Lemon.

Dazai pulled out a lighter and lit his, taking a deep breath to get the smoke going. The scent of lemons surrounded them as smoke escaped those parted lips. Intrigued and impatient, Chuuya leaned forward with his own cigarette tucked between his lips, pressing the tip against the smoldering end of Dazai's.

He didn't notice the deep inhale from Dazai, or the widening of his brown eyes. Instead, he focused on keeping the tips pressed together, trying to light his own. After a few seconds, the cigarette started catching. He moved back a little to see if it was enough when his eyes caught Dazai's. Blue eyes took in the heated look that covered Dazai's face.

The scents of lemon mixed with strawberry wafted into their noses as Chuuya's started burning. Slowly, Dazai reached out to pluck the stick from Chuuya's mouth and his own before crashing his lips onto the shorter.

Chuuya could have sworn he heard Dazai mutter into his mouth, "Beautiful" as he returned the kiss.

The kissing didn't last long and the strawberry stick was shoved back into his mouth. Rolling his eyes, he took a drag, tasting the flavor on his tongue. It was tart from the taste of Dazai and lemon, and Chuuya couldn't bring himself to hate it.

"I like the strawberry." He said at last, taking another taste.

He felt a weight on his left side as Dazai tipped over, resting his head on Chuuya's shoulder.

"Hm, I like the lemon." Dazai smiled, releasing the smoke in Chuuya's face.

"It's sour like you, no wonder." The redhead teased.

"And you're red, your point?"

Chuuya rolled his eyes. "Shut up, shitty mackerel."

They spent the rest of the evening bickering and watching trash TV, cuddled into each other. They didn't talk about the drunk driver again that night, thankfully. When they crawled into bed around 2 in the morning Chuuya felt like himself again. He peeled his hands away from Dazai's back to look at them once more. They were clean. Sighing, he cuddled Dazai closer to himself, burying his face into fluffy brown hair. There will always be blood on his hands, whether they were clean or not, but he had Dazai there to help with the burden of it. That was all he could ask for.

The distant sound of sirens, filtered faintly into their bedroom.

#bungou stray dogs #chaosia writes #part two of pink skies #mentioned killing #mentioned suicide #Dazai Osamu #Nakahara Chuuya #dachuu #dazai x chuuya #soukoku #Double Black #Oda Sakunosuke #Sakaguchi Ango #kunikida doppo

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ddp456 · 4 years

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A Little Lumberjane Christmas - A Gravity Falls Christmas Story/Poem (Re-post)

Hey, all! @ddp456 here, and due to the season, I wanted to re-share one of my favorite creations to spread some holiday cheer. I changed the format a bit, hopefully making it a bit more readable on Tumblr than the original versions here and here. Again, happy holidays, and please enjoy!

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Written by @ddp456 Illustrations by @codylabs Based on an idea by Wolf90

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It was Christmas Eve and time to deck the halls, in the podunk town called Gravity Falls. Weirdmageddon had pass, its horrors thankfully gone, bringing peace back to the sleepy state of Oregon.

Its natural weirdness seemed to had taken a pause, as the whole town awaited the arrival of ol' Santa Claus. Stockings were hung and trees were dressed really bright. From a distance, the whole town looked like a giant Christmas light.

Families were brought together, and friends would come and unite, proving enough Christmas cheer can make anything right. But one unfortunate soul didn't see things that way. She sat on a rooftop, watching nightfall rise up from the passing day. Who was this person, seemingly unaffected by Christmas joy? Why, it's the Lumberjack Princess, Wendy Corduroy!

Wendy hidden herself away at the top of the Mystery Shack, as the brutal winter winds blew away at her back. She didn't mind the cold, save for the tips of her boot-covered toes, and the feeling of frost nipping away at her stubby little nose. Wendy wanted a safe place to brood and mope and think, as she sipped from a thermos of hot cocoa, her favorite winter drink.

She had gotten out of her dad's apocalypse training by lying about work. She avoided Soos's Mystery Shack staff party by saying it wasn't her quirk. The rest of the town was swept away in the Christmas action, as McGucket threw a huge celebration in what was once the Northwest Mansion. Her friends Tambry, Lee, Nate, and Thompson begged her to come. Wendy refused. "No thanks. It sounds kinda dumb."

Even the Pines twins made their own attempt. An offered trip to Piedmont, California only added to Wendy's contempt. Wendy turned down their invitation, hoping Mabel and Dipper wouldn't shed a tear. "Sorry, guys. Maybe we'll see next year."

All Wendy wanted was to be left alone with her pain. Why did the world make it feel like she was insane? To her loved ones, she didn't want to seem like a grouch, but because of all the lies she told, Wendy couldn't even go back to her own couch.

Wendy's wandering mind instantly came to a halt, as she could hear crushed snow beneath a heavy foot fault. She sprang into action, her ninja-like moves were so slick. Wendy couldn't believe her eyes, "Holy crap! It's St. Nick!"

Santa Claus stood before Wendy in all his glory. The red outfit and fuzzy beard definitely matched the often-heard stories. Despite her older age, Wendy didn't doubt her own eyes. After all, this was Gravity Falls, where the weirdos loved to hide!

Wendy asked, "Santa, no offense, but what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be posing on soda cans with a cute polar bear? Don't you have, like, a zillion presents to give out today? I won't bother you. You can be on your way!"

Santa laughed. "You need not worry. My deeds with get their well due. But tonight, dearest Wendy, I've come to speak with you. It makes Santa sad to see you so blue. Your Christmas spirit I intend to renew. So, come join me this night. Give me a chance to help make things right. By Christmas Morn, I make this promise so true, your outlook on Christmas will gain a new view."

"Thanks for the invite, Santa." Wendy scoffed at the plan so bland. She sat back down in the snow, "But, yeah, a hard pass from me, my man."

With her back turned, Wendy was definitely out of range, to see "Jolly ol' St. Nick" undergo a sudden change. His famous smile faded into a frown turned amiss, as his opened, gloved hands turned into enraged fists.

"Young lady," Santa said without as much as raising his voice. "I'm afraid you don't understand. I'm not giving you a choice."

"WHA – "

Before she knew it, Wendy was tackled to the ground, She punched, scratched, and kicked, but in the end, was helplessly bound. Left in a hogtie, Wendy could only look around, the identity of her attackers made her let out a disgusted sound. "The gnomes from the woods?! This can't be right! Why are you bugging me on Christmas Eve night? And what's the deal with the elf uniforms? What's your beef? I thought you reformed?"

Jeff the gnome stepped up, since the other gnomes weren't very social. "Sorry, kid. It's just business. I swear this isn't personal. We gnomes need extra scratch for these long winter seasons, and the big man likes to outsource. Need there be a better reason?"

"HO HO HO! Well done, my boys!" Santa heaved with huge amounts of joy. "Please place Miss Corduroy in my big sack of toys! For a job well done, expect a little extra in your checks. Consider it a gracious extension of my respect."

The gnomes cheered as they started to drag Wendy away. Their redheaded captive did everything she could to stay. She pulled and tugged and screamed with all of her might, but the ropes holding her were simply way too tight.

"You can't do this to me!" Wendy yelled. "I have rights! What's the matter, Santa? Too scared to fight your own fights? You know against me, you'd have no such luck! For the last time, let me go, ya fat fu – MMPH!"

The angry ginger's potty mouth was hurting the simple gnomes' brains, so they decided to gag her with a candy cane. From her lips, Wendy couldn't get the sticky treat to waver. The only positive in all this was that it was mint-flavored.

They tossed Wendy into the oversized bag, usually filled with cheer. She let out a muffled cry, landing hard on her derriere. The sack's top was then tied off, robbing Wendy of all light, as Santa and prisoner sailed away well into the night.

Hours felt like seconds until the sack's top was undone. Wendy sprang up from the bag. This was her chance to run! Her ropes and candy cane gag had disappeared. The road in front of her had been perfectly cleared. Before Wendy could take one step, a sturdy hand clamped onto her shoulder. She turned to find Santa, about two seconds away from scolding her.

"Welcome, Wendy," he greeted, "to my humble abode. I wouldn't bother fleeing, for there's nowhere to go. We're at the North Pole, far away from civilization. This is my workshop. Call it my own private nation. Your cell phone won't work. All internet access is password-protected. My best advice is for you to do what you're directed. Now, join me, won't you? The next room is pretty fine. I really want you to see my toy assembly line."

Wendy sighed. There wasn't anything she could do. What if Santa's words were absolutely true? The best course of action was to play along with the part, and trick the geezer that she had a change of heart. The two walked down and across a large loading bay while Santa's nine reindeer happily ate their servings of hay.

Santa led Wendy to the toy assembly line, when the annoyed teen let out a whine. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm telling you, I can't stay. Can't you just leave coal in my stocking, and send me on my way?"

"HO-HO-HO!" Santa chuckled. "Why, Wendy, you're such a kidder! You can't lie to Santa. I must insist you reconsider. I know alone in the dead of winter is what you'd prefer. But in this case, I really cannot concur. There are reasons to my seemingly harsh way. I promise you'll reflect fondly on it one day.

Wendy crossed her arms and stuck out her tongue. "I really doubt that, you kidnapping pile of cow dung!"

Santa beaded his eyes, as he tried to stay reserved. "Maybe it's time to get what you deserve. With that negative attitude of yours – and your bad behavior. Santa's got the way to curb that. How about some hard labor?!"

With a hard push, Wendy nearly crashed into the conveyor belt. She looked around to see the hand she'd been dealt. An army of elves stood neatly in line, they slaved and worked tirelessly to finish their projects in time. An endless supply of toys, games, and electronics flew by at frenzied rates, to order to reach children in every country, province, and state.

"Whoa!" Wendy noticed. "Those aren't the gnomes. These elves are real!" "Of course they are," Santa prided. "Back home, this job needs the real deal! Who else could deliver such gifts with speed and joy? They pull out all the stops so each child gets a toy. These wondrous folks are able to look past their own wants and needs, to bring Christmas cheer by doing good deeds. Such is the lesson I expect you to learn tonight. So, jump right in and help, and please don't put up a fight!"

Wendy stepped up to the belt, finding that she was way too tall. "Hey, how can I help? These tools were made for someone super small!"

"Hmm…" Santa stroked his beard. "By George, you're right! Why didn't I see it before?" The old man snapped his fingers. "There! Now, you can easily do your chore!"

With a blink of her eye, Wendy had shrunk by half. She was horrified to see that she barely reached Santa's calf. Her lumberjack outfit and thick winter coat, were now a dorky, striped one piece, and curled shoes that looked like boats. Dipper's pine-tree cap became a cute matching hat with bell tips. Her long copper hair turned pigtails made her lose her grip.

"AHH!" Wendy shrieked as she felt her now-pointed ears. "Change me back!" She demanded. "Don't think I can't kick your chunky rear!"

Santa used one hand to hold back the pint-sized, fist-swinging threat. "Oh, give it up, kid. Just look at me! I'm not even breaking a sweat! All this protesting is really getting you nowhere. Help the elves with the toys, and I'll think about changing you back. I swear. Only when your Christmas spirit is revived, will you be allowed to go home. I'll leave you be now. Santa's got better things to do than listen to you drone."

Santa took his leave, when he stopped after a few paces. "I hate to do this to you, but to be honest, I'm really too old for chases." He snapped his fingers once more, the room echoed with a click. Wendy looked down, "What's this? Another one of your tricks?"

A metal tether was placed around her ankle, meant to hold her in place. Wendy couldn't run away or jump. She could barely walk around or pace. "You think you got me, old man?" Wendy bragged. "I'll be outta here super-quick." She reached under her hat, "As soon as I find my lock – "

"Looking for these?"

Santa flashed a grin, displaying Wendy's trusty lockpicks in his hand. "That's right, kiddo. Santa knows all your secrets. That's why he's the man!" Wendy was left speechless as her captor soon disappeared from sight. She pulled on her chain with all her might. The freckled elf tugged and yanked and fought against the shackle, but every escape attempt resulted in a painful ankle tackle.

Now faced with no other choice, Wendy turned around to accept her fate. She grabbed a toy off the assembly line and followed alongside with her elven mates. But after a few minutes, Wendy found the task to be a bore. She elbowed the nearest working elf neighbor, "So, what are you in for?"

The tiny elf stared at Wendy in a confused state. "I don't think you understand. We elves choose our own fate. We each have free will. Santa doesn't force us to stay. All of us volunteer here. We don't even ask for any pay!"

Wendy looked around at the other elves workers walking around scot-free. She was the only one chained down to the heavy machinery.

"Then, I don't get it." Wendy asked. "Why do you do all this?" The elf replied, "Because the end result is truly pure bliss. Seeing the happy, smiling faces of the grateful girls and boys, it's what powers our great quest. It brings us great joy!"

Wendy grew more curious. "But how can you see all of these things? There's too many to see and they're so far away. Are you just pulling my strings?"

"Watch…"

Wendy grew silent as from the assembly wall came something new. From a small crack, some kind of electrical portal grew. The portal shifted from different planes into a whole new world. Before Wendy's emerald eyes, did the elf's story unfurled.

A little girl knelt on the side of her bed, praying to the powers that be to watch over her loved ones' heads.

"That's little Clara," introduced Wendy's new friend. "She volunteers to take care of her grandma, helping around the house to no end. Even though her family has little money for presents, she gives them little grief. For this, we're giving her a special dollie to provide her some well-needed relief."

A new item flew down the conveyor belt at rocket speeds. Dozens of elven hands rushed to give it the details it needs. A blonde, huggable doll was the final result. Its design was truly perfect. There wasn't anything possible to insult. It flew off the line and into Santa's bag in an almost magical way, and soon, into Clara's awaiting arms on Christmas Day.

"I have to admit," Wendy's mood began to lighten. "That was really neat." She no longer felt like fighting.

"Then, why don't you give it a shot," the elf did suggest. "You're part elf now. You can do it. Try your best!"

Wendy began to picture a child in need, someone who was indeed worthy of the elves' creed. She opened her eyes and gasped aloud, as Wendy was soon presented with her very own cloud. The other elves murmured and gathered around, to see what child Wendy's mind had found.

The image became clear, displaying a teenage boy in punk clothing. His hair was blue. His jeans were torn and holey. But man, was his attitude loathing. The teen was with his mother, doing some late holiday shopping. But to Wendy's shock, she could make out some swears dropping. "No, Mom, you moron! What were you thinking? Are you always this dumb, or have you been possibly drinking? I said I wanted Super Linguini Bros. 3, not Part 2! Man, I honestly can't believe I'm related to you!"

As the image in the portal faded away, Wendy's blood boiled, perhaps more than anytime that day. The boy's expected present had appeared before her, half-finished. But her budding Christmas spirit had been quickly diminished. She picked up the video game machine, and threw it over her shoulder. Wendy let out a chuckle as her insight became ever bolder. All of the elves were shocked and frozen in pause, as the now-wrecked toy landed at the feet of Santa Claus.

Wendy spun around in horror. She knew an apology would be way too late. This latest outburst would surely seal her fate.

Instead, he approached Wendy without a sign of anger and rage. Santa rubbed his bearded chin, knowing he had to take from another page. "Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way. We need to go inside to find why you despise Christmas Day."

He stepped up to Wendy, who was still stuck in place, and placed his black glove over her freckled face.

"What are you doing?" She tried to pull away. "Stop being a creep! Get your stinking hand off me! I can't see a peep!"

Santa removed his hand, and Wendy was now filled with a sense of dread. She had been warped to a dark room with a yellow light hanging ahead. "Hello?" Wendy called out, no longer shackled. "Is anyone there?" "Sorry!" A new voice answered. "I'm on my way. I had to finish my hair!"

A purple and pink glow invaded the darkened space. Wendy entered a fighting stance, just in case. The small ball became a pixie, straight out of a fable. "Weird." Wendy noted. "You kinda look like my friend, Mabel."

The brunette fairy gave off a familiar smile, "Hey, there! Welcome! I hope you stay awhile. Beyond this point, lie the doors three. They represent Christmas Past, Present, and Future. Yippee! Each door will take you to a different point in time on Christmas Day. By journey's end, we'll learn the real reason of why you feel this way."

Wendy shrugged, "It isn't like I have any choice." The pixie agreed and waved, "No, not really. Just follow my voice! If you need anything, I'll be your busy bee! All you need to do is shout, "Hey, Christmas Fairy!""

The fairy led Wendy to the door labelled, "Christmas Past." She opened the door, "Come on! This will be a blast!" Wendy was reluctant, but did what the sprite asked. The redhead couldn't believe it! She was now ten years in the past!

They stood in a better version of the Corduroy household, one that hadn't been yet damaged by Manly Dan's tantrums left uncontrolled. In the farthest corner of a somewhat messy kitchen, a super-tall, redheaded woman baked cookies as her pigtailed daughter pitched-in. The child was covered in white flour from head and toe, and her chubby, little fingers were caked in sticky dough. But the deed was finally done. Into the oven, the cookies went in. The mother tightly hugged her baby, looking over her proudly with a grin. "I'm so proud of you, my little one. You perfectly made my recipe: Chocolate-frosted Christmas trees with just a pinch of sesame. One day, you'll be able to do it alone. Maybe to impress some lucky boy, or when you have a family of your own, my dearest Wendy Corduroy."

The little girl held her mother even tighter, her hidden anxiety and social fears became a tad bit lighter.

"Mama…"

The Christmas Fairy watched the heartwarming scene with glee. "How adorable!" She turned around, finding something unexpectedly. Wendy had turned away from the memory, as she hugged her own shoulders. "Can we get out of here, please? This all is getting older and older."

The pixie sighed, as she waved the memory away. "Maybe we can find something even better here in present day." Wendy followed the fairy to the next Christmas door, "Are we almost done? I'm not gonna lie. This is becoming a chore."

The fairy reached the large door, marked with label, "Present," so that Wendy could bear witness to ongoing Christmas events. This time, she was presented with not one window, or two, but three! On her left side, Wendy could make out a familiar, half-broken Christmas tree. The Gift Shop of the Mystery Shack was decorated with green and red. A nearby buffet table held quite an awesome spread!

The new Mr. Mystery, Soos, stood at the counter with elbows resting. His saddened face was downright depressing. Melody, his girlfriend and partner at the Mystery Shack, suddenly snuck behind him and gave him a hug-attack. "Hey, why so glum, big guy?" she wondered. "Gee, Melody." Soos lamented. "This party was nothing but a blunder. Everybody went to that McGucket shindig instead. With the way things are going, maybe I should have stayed in bed. Even Wendy, who works here, couldn't even bother to attend, Let's face it, this idea was nothing but a dead end."

Melody lowered her head against Soos's shoulder fat, "Oh, don't be silly. Just you forget about that! They can have their stupid party. Let them be. We'll have our own little Christmas; just you and me! And don't mind Wendy. You know she doesn't mean to hurt you. Besides, with us alone, we can make our Christmas a bit more "blue.""

The couple's lips met as they shared a Christmas kiss, though Wendy turned her head and quickly dismissed. "Okay! Moving on!" She fled the scene with swift feet, though she secretly thought the moment was sorta sweet.

The middle window allowed Wendy to view the snow-covered woods, as four burly soldiers followed a path, their heads covered in hoods. Wendy easily recognized those running around in the dead of winter making noise, It was her father, Manly Dan, and her brothers, the Corduroy boys!

Marcus, Kevin, and Gus followed along with dear old Dad, "Keep going!" Dan barked. "Onwards, my beefy lads! Those monsters this summer were only the beginning! We'll practice and train day and night to make sure we keep winning!"

The youngest boy, Gus, started to complain, "How'd Wendy get out of this? She's totally to blame! She said she couldn't come because of work? Yeah, right! She's full of it! What a jerk!"

It was then when Manly Dan came to a stop. The boys crashed into his mighty form, and dropped. He stuck a finger in his smallest son's face. "You watch your tongue, boy! Don't be a disgrace!" That girl beat the odds and surprised us all, She helped saved this town from its ultimate downfall. Wendy's proven herself to me. My stone-cold heart she had won, I only wish she was here to show you boys how to get the job done! But my girl's not here, so us four will have to do. We'll work together on this blessed day to show the world that Corduroys rule!"

The boys rallied around their father's battle cry, and Wendy watched them march without batting an eye. "Don't think I'm not touched by Dad's words. I hate to betray his trust. I just wanted to get out of apocalypse training without a fuss. Living through Weirdmageddon was more than enough for me. After that mess, couldn't we relax and let things be?"

Wendy's attention was drawn by the window on the right. Every part of the Northwest Mansion was bathed in glorious light. Its new owner, Fiddleford McGucket, had really turned things around. To properly celebrate, he threw a Christmas party for the whole town! Mingles of classes, both rich and poor, engaged with each other without signs of bore. Gathered at a distant table were a collection of Wendy's chums, Thompson, Tambry, Nate, Lee, and even Robbie V., that gothic bum. They sat bored out of their minds, their attention spans were wearing thin, without their fearless leader to swoop in for the win. The plucky cashier's mischievous mind usually created their favorite dares, games, and pranks, and now without her around, the mellow atmosphere really did stank! Surprisingly enough, Thompson threw his fist down! "Why are we just sitting here? Sure, Wendy's not around, but would she want us to sit around and pout? No way! She'd tell us to get off our butts, no doubt! C'mon, guys. Let's make our Wendy proud! We'll cause a little mayhem and make this party loud! He lifted his half-drank cup of punch into the air, as the rest of the teens joined in with the cheer:

"For Wendy!"

Wendy backed away from the third open portal, "I'm not really sure if I get this moral. Sure, all three present views have people that miss me, but their Christmases seemed to be better if I left things be."

The pixie bobbed her head, "Oh, Wendy. Try looking at this way instead. All of these groups would be better if you were there, but in your absence, they refuse to let their Christmas fall into despair. They celebrate what they have, versus what they have not. Now, with that said, maybe is there something more to Christmas that you thought?"

"Perhaps…" Wendy said, stroking her chin with curiosity. "Great!" The fairy proclaimed. "There's one last thing to see!" However, Wendy's interests soon broke away, as the door called "Christmas Future" made her want to stay. "Hold on!" The sprite cried out. "There's nothing interesting in here, I bet, and I'm not sure if Santa wants you to see that yet."

"It's nice to want things." Wendy opened the door and smirked. "What's Santa hiding now, that big, colossal jerk?" To Wendy's amazement, she was back at Santa's workshop. The lines of elves went on building toys non-stop. The big man himself surveyed his on-going mission, as he stood at the assembly line with his newest addition. Santa patted the shoulder of the pigtailed elf with a familiar, striped uniform. Her frozen, freckled beam was anything but the norm. The elf didn't even so much as breathe or blink, as her hands blindly manufactured new goods with a "clink, clink, clink!"

Wendy covered her mouth, "No! No way! This cannot be! I know that mindless little elf – that's me!"

Wendy's stomach grew nauseous as she stumbled away. Her pixie friend pleaded with her to stay. "Please, Wendy. You don't understand! This possible future is not Santa's ultimate plan!" But Wendy refused to hear her anymore. "Stay away from me! Let me outta this place!" she roared.

The blackened arena shattered like broken glass, Wendy was back in front of Santa and his elven class. The force of the mighty ginger had broken Santa's spell, as her outburst made him land on his jingle bells.

Wendy marched towards him with a nasty glare, until she was pulled back by her ankle snare. "I've had it with you, fat man! You've hit my last nerve! Now, it's about time that I give you what you deserve! You kidnap me and bring me to this awful place, and then you turn me into one of the elven race! You threaten me with child labor? So what? Big deal! Do you know the geezer I work for? He's an even bigger heel! Then, you dare to invade my mindscape and some, and pervert my most private of memories, you scum! You wanna make me your slave? I'd want you to try. Come a few steps closer, and I'll be happy to give you a black eye! I'll give you one last chance to change your mind. I'm too generous, I know. I'm not asking, I'm telling: LET-ME-GO!"

The other elves remained silent as Santa stood upright. His demeanor had changed to that of sorrow, not fright. "My poor Wendy Corduroy. I feel I failed you. For on this night, I was unable to give you Christmas spirit renewed. Your anger and pain is just way too great, I fear this time, ol' St. Nick had arrived too, too late. Your fate has been sealed. I'm sorry it sounds so grim. I have no other choice but to leave you to…him…

With that, Santa and his elves took their leave, leaving Wendy stunned as she couldn't believe. "Where are you all going? What? The truth was too much to bear? Didn't anyone hear me? I said lemme outta here!"

Now, left by herself and trapped in the empty hall, Wendy slumped down into a saddened ball. Her green eyes grew watery, but she refused to cry. To give her captors the satisfaction, the girl would rather die. The worse thing of all no one knew she was stuck here, as they enjoyed their Christmases without worry or care.

"I can't really blame them." Wendy said, with her chin on her knees. "I know I have hang-ups about Christmas. That part's solely on me. Still, I wish that someone could look beyond their bliss, and see that I was missing and things were amiss."

Little did Wendy know, as her mind began to wander, a new portal formed on the assembly wall beyond yonder. She didn't notice the window leading away from this nightmare, until she could make out familiar voices she'd know anywhere.

"Dipper? Dipper? Are you in there? Where are you now? To where did you disappear?"

Wendy climbed on top of the conveyor belt, as the icy feeling in her heart started to melt. Dipper Pines sat on his bed, with a wireless phone in hand, as his twin Mabel charged into the room with a demand. "Dipper, come join the party! What's the matter with you?" He explained to his sister, "Mabel, it's Wendy. I can't get through! All I wanted was to wish her a Merry Christmas, but no one seems to know where she is! I tried the Shack, and Tambry and Nate and the other teens. And no one picks up at her home. The phone just rings and rings! I don't mean to be overprotective, Mabel. I know I have a choice, but I'd feel so much better if I could hear Wendy's voice."

"Oh, Dipper," Mabel sat next to him on his bed. "Quit being such a big worry-head. Wendy's a big girl. She can handle things by her own. The last thing she'd want you to do is make this overblown. It's not a big deal. Christmas isn't Wendy's thing. If she wanted to be here, she would have given us a ring. Remember last summer? Here, I'll give you a clue. You can't force someone to do something they don't wanna do. Now, come on, already! Turn that frown upside-down! Let's get back to the party before anyone notices you're not around!"

And with that, Mabel went back on her way, but in spite of her speech, Dipper still wanted to stay. His parents' party was filled with family friends unknown, and older cousins that rather spend more time on their cell phones. The thirteen-year-old felt like a stranger in his own house, wishing for something that could keep his Christmas spirit from being doused.

He sighed, and lurched forward with a sigh. "Mabel's right, but I couldn't help but try. I know Wendy's busy, but I still wish she would have come. Maybe then, this stupid party wouldn't be so lonely and dumb."

It was then that Dipper made a wish that he hoped would travel far: "I hope you're having a Merry Christmas, Wendy…wherever you are."

A heartbroken Wendy rested her forehead against the portal's seem, when at long last, her eyes started to teem. A line of tears traveled down each cheek as she started to cry. She didn't think of herself, but of her special little guy. "I'm so sorry, Dipper." Wendy sniffled. "I really made things a mess. I wish I could make it right. I should have said "yes.""

"Wendy?" "Dipper?"

"AAH!" The boy screamed as he flew off the bed, convinced at first, he was hearing voices in his head. But sure enough, in a wavy window above his room, contained the image of Wendy, with a sense of doom.

"Wendy?" Dipper asked again. "Is it really you in there?" "Of course it is, dork." She said from the portal in mid-air.

Dipper moved towards the vision of his crush, and upon seeing what was wrong, his voice went in a rush. "Wendy, what's happened? Why aren't you tall? Your hair! Your ears! And what's the deal with that weird hall?"

Wendy wiped her face and started to plead her case. "Dipper, you gotta help me get out of this place! You're not going to believe this! I'm at the North Pole! Santa kidnapped me, and he won't let me go! He's forcing me to make toys and talk to Christmas ghosts. It's like he's trying to find what irritates me the most!"

Dipper immediately sprung to the rescue. "Don't worry, Wendy. I'll find a way to save you!" He examined the portal up and down and side-to-side, But hadn't an idea how to reach his secret love without a guide. After a few minutes, Dipper stood on his bed, as no more plans danced around in his head. "I'm really sorry, Wendy. I haven't a clue. I've never seen anything like this before. I don't know how to help you."

The two teenagers stood on different borders of time and space, as they met for the first time in months face-to-face. Dipper placed a hand against his side of the plane, The shine in his eyes had vanished and drained. "I – I wish you were here with us…with me…" Wendy set her palm against her devotee's. "I do, too, buddy. Trust me. Right now, there's no other place I'd rather be…"

All of a sudden, as though a Christmas blessing, their hands were able to touch through the barrier's meshing! Wendy and Dipper's fingers entwined as they laughed in disbelief, the ability to make physical contact came as such a relief.

Dipper said, "How can this be? I don't understand. Is this really happening? Or is it sleight of hand?" Wendy squeezed harder, "Hey, kiddo? Not at all trying to be rude, but Santa's coming back soon, so please, pull me though, dude!"

With that, Dipper tightened his grip and gave a tug, His noodle arms pulled Wendy into a huge bear hug. Once the slender redhead was more than halfway through, their worries returned with a threat somewhat new.

"What's wrong now?" Dipper strained. "Of all the dumb luck…" "I almost forgot, Dipper." Wendy explained. "I'm stuck! That old fat jerk snapped a cuff on my foot super-tight, to make sure I'd stay in his crummy workshop all night!"

Dipper wouldn't stop trying. "There has to be something I can do. There's no way I'd ever give up on you!" Though the kind words touched Wendy deeply in this situation out of whack, a second later, she could feel something try to pull her back. "No!" Dipper dug his heels deep into the blankets of his bed. "Don' t think this is over! I'd rather drop dead!"

"Dipper! Don't let go!" "I won't!"

Both Dipper and Wendy screamed as they were pulled into the wormhole, They landed back at Santa's workshop back at the North Pole, where Santa awaited with a horrific beast by his side, a ten-foot, horned demon, a so-called protector of yuletide. It was bearded and dressed in tattered clothing, its appearance was terrifying and somewhat loathing. The screams of the damned came from a container on its side. It held a wooden paddle, meant to tan wicked hides. Upon seeing this monster, the partners-in-crime shrieked, holding each other in terror as their knees became weak.

Santa shook his head, "Wendy, I've tried my best to make this right, but I feel there's nothing I can do to have you see the light. There's only one way to curb your attitude so pompous. I introduce to you, the Christmas monster known as the Krampus!

The fanged behemoth unleashed an unearthly roar, that even managed to shake the whole floor. It took a hooved step forwards in its quest, far from trendy, to claim the soul of the wicked child known as Wendy.

"Wait!"

Dipper shielded his still-ensnared sweetheart, He held his arms outwards, ready to do his part. The tiny boy's eyes met with his one-time rival, "Santa…" he greeted, thinking only of Wendy's survival. "Dipper…" Santa replied in the same, sober tone. "So, how goes those "Anti-Santa" traps in your home?" "You already know," Dipper grimaced, "That they're far from okay, but that's not the reason I'm here today. I don't have all the details, but I think I know enough. Please let Wendy go, and we'll be gone without a huff! I know at first, Wendy seems aloof and really tough. But she's so much more than that! Take it from this cream-puff! I get that Christmas spirit is your thing. That's okay and fine. If it's such a big deal, then what about mine? There is nothing I want more than to have Wendy to come home with me, so I ask you kindly, can't we please just let things be? I don't have a leg to stand on. But still, I'll beg this of you today: Please, Santa. Don't take my Wendy away!"

Dipper turned back to see Wendy slightly blushing. He corrected the mistake he made by rushing.

"I mean, "Don't take Wendy away!"

Santa and his pet gave each other a quick look, Their combined decision no more than a split second took:

"NO!"

The Krampus crept by Wendy, as she froze in a trance, as Dipper fought back with a second chance. "All right! You want a bad kid to give your curse? What if I could name someone even worse? A person that definitely deserves your type of misery? Here's a thought. How about you take me?!"

"Dude, don't!" Wendy said. "You really need to shut up now! If you keep going, you'll end up as this thing's Christmas chow!"

But Dipper ignored his crush's protests, and began to list off his sins and confess. "I've lied, cheated, and stole too many times, and that's only the beginning of my crimes! I beat up a gang of gnomes and marked them for dead. I fought living wax statues and cut off Larry King's head! I raised zombies up and left those secret agents to die, and made my sister, Pacifica, and even Wendy cry. I won't fight you, creature. I'll admit I made my own bed. I'll ask you a second time, leave Wendy, and take me instead!"

The Krampus licked his lips with a sense of glee, truly fascinated by Dipper's dirty laundry. He changed course to add Dipper to his collection, as Wendy dashed in front to offer her protection.

"Ain't going to happen, ugly! Not no how, or no way! Lay a claw on that kid, and I swear you're going to pay! If you want Dipper, you'll have to go through me first! So, come on, tough guy! I'm prepared to take your worst! If anyone deserves a decent Christmas, it's Dipper, my boy! And it's gonna happen, or else, my name's not Wendy Corduroy!"

To Wendy and Dipper's surprise, both tormentors began to laugh. Santa and Krampus supported each other so they wouldn't split in half. The elder's smile returned, "See, Wendy? I knew you would come through! Your act of sacrifice shows your Christmas spirit has been truly renewed! Santa's deed has been done. There's no further need for this. You two are free to go and enjoy Christmas bliss!"

Wendy raised an eyebrow, worried if there was another trick to be found. "Seriously?" Santa snapped his fingers a third time, as her shackle opened and fell to the ground. "Seriously."

Dipper and Wendy walked to the portal shining so bright, as Wendy realized something still wasn't quite right. "Santa, my man, I really don't mean to stall, but before we go, can you please make me tall?"

Dipper elbowed his friend, "I dunno. I think I like you better this way." "Please, Dipper, don't give him ideas." Wendy whispered with dismay.

Santa let out another joyful laugh, "Oh, I almost forgot, my dear. When you go home, your natural height will return, so have no fear." He and the Krampus offered a wave as the duo traveled back to California. "Have a Merry Christmas! But if not, you can't say we didn't warn ya!"

Back in Piedmont, Wendy and Dipper landed back in his bedroom, as she discovered she was no longer fitted in elven costume. Wendy's lumberjack clothing and height were rightfully restored, as the portal closely behind them, hopefully forevermore. Relieved, they rushed in for a snuggly embrace, their hearts still racing from escaping such a crazy place.

Dipper looked up at Wendy, "Are you sure you're alright?" "Thanks to you, buddy." She grinned and held him tight. "I don't know what to say, Dipper. Tonight, you really came though." "Oh, it was nothing." He blushed. "If reversed, I'd know I could count on you."

Their touching reunion was suddenly interrupted, as from the doorway, a shrill squeal erupted: "Ohmigosh!" Mabel grabbed her cheeks. "You're really here!" She wrapped around Wendy's waist as the much-taller girl rubbed her brown hair. "I knew I heard your voice! Did you change your mind?" Wendy turned to Dipper as she was caught in another bind. "Actually, Mabel." Dipper started. "Wendy wanted to surprise us. She spent all day and night traveling here on a small bus." Wendy followed along with Dipper's white lie about her stay. "I hope I'm not too late to join you guys on Christmas Day?" "What? No way!" Mabel exclaimed with excitement and great cheer. She flew from the room, "Hey, everybody! You won't believe who's here!"

With the two following along at a safe distance, Wendy gave Dipper a love tap, "Hey, thanks again for the quick assistance." "No biggie." He said with an embarrassed modest. "But if I can ask, are you sure you're ready for all this?" She threw her arm around her favorite little dork. "Of course I am, but now, let's get to work! I have something special to share with you two. Call it an old family recipe: Chocolate-frosted Christmas trees with just a pinch of sesame."

As they rounded the corner, Mabel teased, "Hey, you two! Guess where you're below? You guys are right under the mistletoe – "

"O-kay! That's enough right there!"

Wendy leaned forward on her knees as Dipper remained cross-legged on the colored rug on the floor. They looked up at Soos, dressed in a Santa cap, as he read from a selection of his fanfiction in Stan's recliner.

"Wow…" Dipper rested a heavy head against his fists. "I really didn't believe Soos when he said he made a Christmas story starring us, but there it is…"

"What's the matter?" Soos asked with a disappointed look. "You guys didn't like my Christmas rhymes?"

"No offense, Soos." Wendy threw out an arm in outrage, "But that story was kinda sexist, don't cha think? Why was I the one kidnapped? And Dipper saving me? Isn't that sorta cliché?"

"Well," Dipper held a finger up. "There was that one time at the Dusk2Dawn…"

"Exactly, buster! One time! Check the rescue scorecard, pal! I guarantee I have more saves checked off than you. Bet on it! And you really think Santa can take me on? Let 'im try! I'll punch him in the mistletoe, and break my foot off in his ho-ho – "

*CRASH!*

A thunderous crash could be heard on the Mystery Shack's roof. The sound made all three freeze in their tracks.

"Um," Dipper mumbled. "What was that you were saying, Wendy?"

"I – I," The lumberjane rambled nervously. "Like I was saying, maybe we should take a break, and get some hot cocoa and cookies, and see if there's any wholesome Christmas TV specials on."

"Good idea!"

"Sounds like a plan!"

The boys and Wendy jumped up and left the room, pressed together back-to-back. Their eyes searched every corner, in fear of a possible yuletide attack.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"And from this point here, our story finally concludes. Have a Happy Holiday, my friends. And remember, Santa's always watching you…"

#wendy corduroy #dipper pines #gravity falls #dipper #wendy

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theflashdriver · 4 years

Text

Making Merry

Here’s a late festive fic, focusing on Silver and the toys from a destroyed future! There’s some light Silvaze within but it’s not the focus, I hope you enjoy!

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The world was cold and silent, devoid of even the whistling of wind and crashing of snowflakes. A figure was pacing his way forward without leaving the faintest of crunches. Behind him, an equally muted sleigh was pulled; its golden bells kept quiet by a stabilizing aura. Cyan light flared from both the individual and his toboggan, they did not mingle with the snow but instead hang just above it. Though that coating hid their festive appearance; hanging bells, a stocking cap and a giant sack could be discerned by all zero of the people watching.

A prickly figure, with a stuffed belly and a long beard, was gently gliding through candle lit streets; bringing his hands gesticulate through the air as he conducted tonight's business. His yellow eyes crossed from one building to the other, with every movement his light would shift, and a fairy-tale would become just a little more tangible. Windows were commanded open with no more than a gesture, hearth fires would snuff themselves with the wave of a hand and it took little more than a thought to unlock doors. Boxes, wrapped in shining green and red paper, emerged from his giant bag to slip beyond glass panes and down chutes, sneaking their way into houses by whatever means possible, before their entryways resealed themselves.

Of course, beyond even those presents, there was evidence of his endeavour. The charitable figure could not relight fires he'd snuffed; icicles and snow tumbled out of place as a result of his movements, no matter how he tried to subdue them. Fortunately, the night was bright; moonlight and starlight lit his path better than streetlamps ever could. Not only that, but they obscured and rationalized the bright glow that emanated from his person rather than contrasting it.

Or, well, the glow that had been emanating from him.

A laboured breath smoked into the cold air as the figure's cyan trappings left his person, they barely clung on the trolley behind him. Silver the hedgehog, age seventeen, had stumbled free from his own telekinetic hold. As his boots crunched against the snow covered ground his ears spiked high and his eyes began to scan; he took in both windows and streets, looking for the slightest of movements or the flicking of light-switches. His paranoia proved to be for naught, no movement came.

A wispy sigh slipped from his mouth.

Despite the cold, sweat drenched the hedgehog's brow. As if this overuse of his power wasn't enough to tire him, the hedgehog was wearing a most bizarre outfit; red-green woollen gloves protected his hands and boots with golden ornaments covered his feet but those were the most regular additions. A Santa hat sat securely sat behind his fanned quills, a false white beard hid his muzzle and a red overcoat with golden trestles, while not too bizarre on its own, hid a pillow he'd stuffed over his core in an attempt to emulate a jollier body type.

These factors combined were exhausting him, but he felt the need to keep them up. Allowing his feet to remain on the ground, he tiptoed forward and waved his great sleigh to follow. Sighting another latched window, he willed it to open and sent another present from his Santa-sack to brighten the morning of whoever lived inside. Naturally, he couldn't entirely see what he was doing. Silver tried to set his gifts atop the nearest table or counter, whatever was in reach but, naturally, some had surely landed on the floor. His presents were meant for children, just as Santa's were. Within the boxes were toys that had no hope of ever being sold. They came from another world, just as his outfit and sleigh did. That planet was not dissimilar to the one he now walked but it'd been brought to ruin by a lack of the very force that had just pulled him towards the ground; gravity.

The current state of his world was a most bizarre one indeed, not particularly festive either. Doctor Eggman had created a device that would weaken the earth's gravitational field and activated it from the sanctity of the space colony ark. This had resulted in global devastation; oceans had escaped into the sky and unsecured objects did the same. This, eventually, resulted in the loss of all life; no one was prepared for the change.

By the time Silver had arrived, almost 200 years after the apocalypse, the world had been reclaimed by plants. Reaching vines coated the ground and traced up buildings, giant tubers had been granted time to take form and the only thing still living to feast upon them were gigantic slugs and snails. Those creatures having undergone accelerated evolution as a result of a lack of predation but, fortunately, hadn't become carnivorous. Being able to fly and sustain himself on the plants, Silver had a relatively easy time uncovering the cause of the apocalypse and figuring out how he would solve it, but that hadn't been his only goal.

His world had no people, it had no children to play with toys. Shopping malls and charity shops had been left long abandoned; their goods left to gather dust in a world where no dust could gather. Naturally, Silver wasn't going to grave rob to fulfil his plan, but those items had been left without owners; were it not for him, they'd see no use. He'd managed to find a Santa suit in his size, pulled an oversized sleigh from a display and sewn together a ridiculously large bag to house his stash. In truth, the most time consuming of his endeavours had been wrapping all of the goods. After some debate, he'd settle on gifting one shoebox filled with toys to each household across the Sol dimension's scattered islands. Naturally, even with his powers to aid him, this resulted in a ludicrous amount of packaging; despite how much smaller the Sol dimension's population was than that of his own world's prime, it still meant over a hundred thousand gifts.

He'd completed his journey around all but one of the islands; he was now, steadily, working his way through the capital city of Southern Island. There couldn't be more than a couple hundred presents to go, the end was within sight! Gritting his teeth and waving with his hands, Silver strode forward with what vigour his body would afford him. A list of doorbells informed him of a series of flats, with a swish of his hand the door was unlocked, and he dove inside; waving five boxes to chase up the stairwell and land outside each occupant's door. As the door relocked behind, the psychic sighted a row of homes; their latch windows all shared the same design. Rushing as fast as he could, dragging his haul behind him, he pried each one open with ease and forced a present through every window.

As he began to pant, struggling to endure the heat, the hedgehog finally snatched the pillow from beneath his shirt and stashed it into a garden hedge. Quickly sending parcels in ludicrous directions, he managed to trudge his way into the city centre. The space was marked by a grand Christmas tree, three stories tall and lit by a rainbow of red, gold and silver fairy lights. A marvellous thought managed to slink its way into Silver's head, a method of quickly dispersing what few packages remained. The sleigh was made to park in front of the tree, its red and brown oaken form was freed of garish cyan, before that very colour reclaimed Silver's body. He threw himself into the air, tracing along the trunk until he arrived at the tree's ginormous, crowning, star. Grasping it with his left hand, holding on with what might he had, psychic energy pulled in his right palm.

Squinting to look into the dark, he identified the windows and chimineas of houses he had yet to visit. One house at a time, Silver made openings he could take advantage of. He knew the districts he hadn't visited; he'd charted them before gathering his gifts, but it still took time to make his various manoeuvres. These shifts couldn't have been silent, not in every single case, but soon all of the destined paths had been made available. This was going to be exhausting, but not as exhausting as doing it all on foot.

He gestured down to his sleigh before, in one swift motion, pointing his finger to the sky. Almost instantly, a halo of gifts came to top the festive tree; only one step was left. Heaving a great breath, Silver resumed his conducting. Present after present raced beyond arm's reach, no postal service in any reality was capable of the feat he was performing. Gifts landed on windowsills, on workbenches, on tables and in unlit hearths; joy began to scatter itself across a half mile, ducking and dodging and diving its way into various homes. He gritted his teeth, brought his toes to curl and gripped tighter on the star; giving this task his total mental focus.

His false beard, unfortunately, was swept up in the maelstrom of presents and sent flying into the cyan breeze; luckily, it rushed skyward rather than into one of the houses. Silver continued his gestures, throwing out all manner of points and prods in an attempt to control the very chaos he was whipping up. Eventually though, gradually, the surrounding sky darkened again; his efforts were nearly completed! A bead of sweat slid down his nose and he felt his grip weaken but, using all his waving might, Silver managed to deliver those last presents.

Well, not the last presents but the last of those he'd felt obliged to give.

Heaving a deep breath, shutting his eyes tight, Silver stretched his aura to grasp windowpanes across the entire city. With a thrust of his hand and a smothered roar, he saved all those homes from the creeping of the night's cold; hundreds of entrances were forced to close. Satisfied but thoroughly drained, he draped himself in cyan aura and allowed himself to drop from the peak; it wasn't flying, instead he fell like a feather discarded by a bird. Reacquainting himself with the ground, he stumbled his way over to the sleigh. Between colossal yawns, he could make out the rough shape of the last two boxes within his sack.

Silver found himself unable to move the sleigh but, honestly, its final resting place suited it fine. Abandoned at the centre of the capital city, a great empty sack left flopping over its edge; it could mysteriously vanish tomorrow night. He figured that'd add to the wonder. Fighting his way into the sack, the hedgehog retrieved the two final presents and bundled them beneath his arms. Abandoning his vehicle, taking off on foot, Silver headed towards the home of the final resting child; a youth he knew all too well.

Boots left snow prints until snow gave way to sand, soon he was by the sea; the smell of salt and sound of waves polluted his senses, the lowlight was made darker still by his own lack of power. He could see a hut in the distance, crafted of old driftwood and wrought iron; an orange glow still lit the window. It was both a beacon and a worrying oddity, the girl within should have been long asleep. Another yawn threatened to tear through his throat, but Silver fought it off, changing his approach to avoid entering the house through its front door.

The garage entrance proved easy enough to break into anyway; by peering through its frosted window, Silver managed to grasp the pulley that the sliding panel door utilised and fold back its entirety. As ever, the garage floor was littered with raw materials, rusted tools and half-finished projects but he'd long learned to weave and avoid stepping on anything. But, when he arrived at the home's entrance, the hedgehog took pause. He pressed his ear against the great driftwood slab, listening for anything stirring within. Yellow light spilled from beneath the door, but he couldn't hear anything, no footsteps or speech or even tinkering. Well, the home's occupant wasn't known for sitting in silence.

As gently as he could, Silver turned the doorknob and pushed inside; the home's warmth immediately assaulted his cold fur. A festive interior lay before him; tinsel wrapped around every rafter, bobbles hung from nails crudely hammered into walls and splashes of red and green paint coated the walls. Well, she'd certainly given it her best effort. Slowly scanning the small hut, finding its hammock empty, Silver quickly discovered the occupant; sat in a chair of her own making, directly facing the door.

Marine the Raccoon, age ten, had fallen asleep waiting for Santa. She wasn't bundled in a blanket and she hadn't even changed out of her pyjamas, instead she sat in her usual bright green dress, gloves and boots included. Her arms were folded, and her head slumped, a clear sign that she'd lost a battle with sleep.

Looking past her, Silver was very glad that he hadn't entered through the front door. While she hadn't laid a dangerous trap, Marine had clearly wanted to know when Santa had arrived. She'd attached a bell to the door, set to ring as the door swung open; guaranteeing that she'd notice the arrival of any jolly intruder. If she'd rigged the back door too, Silver had no idea what he'd have done.

Gently creeping past her, Silver took the present from beneath his right arm and set it upright against the door. Ever so carefully, the psychic made sure to flip the present's tag such that it was visible; "To Marine, Merry Christmas, From Santa." Naturally, the other gifts had gone unnamed. Well, save for one other. When the raccoon did awaken, this would be the first thing she saw.

Turning back, he got one good look at the sleeping shipwright. By the occasional twitch of her foot and the odd flickering of her ear, Silver could tell she was dreaming about something. Given that and her uncomfortable position, it was unlikely she'd make it through the night without waking. Smothering another yawn, the faux Santa creeped his way back behind the raccoon and towards her hammock bed. He pulled down her blanket before quickly returning to her side, gently wrapping it across her shoulders in an attempt to provide some additional comfort. He figured she'd probably see it as some extra care on the part of Santa, maybe it'd even make up for missing the old fella.

Well, that and he had got her something she wanted, unlike the random gifts the other children had received. Marine's tools had been in disrepair for a while now, saltwater tended to corrode metal quickly and the raccoon had put her equipment through more than thorough use. Thus, he had packaged her a new toolset and drill; not typical gifts Christmas gifts per say, but what he knew she really wanted. Besides, Silver had got her some more typical presents; Santa was supposed to know better.

As he pulled away, Silver fought to smother another yawn, by this point his head was almost spinning; he'd spent so much energy, but he still had one gift left to go. Unfortunately, this last box was to be delivered on the other side of city. This gift was supposed to arrive at the palace and sunrise couldn't have been far away. He managed to make it halfway across the room before catching sight of something he'd both missed and forgotten, a small collection left on the countertop. A tall glass of milk and a small platter of cookies.

Cookies he'd helped make.

Around a week ago, Silver had made a mistake that he was now atoning for. Marine had asked for his help in preparing some chocolate chip cookies, insisting that they had to be the best they were capable of making. The hedgehog had helped her without really questioning, he'd figured they were just meant to be part of a gift, but towards the end Marine's excitement had spilled over. She'd talked about how Santa was going to love them and that he'd surely bring her a good gift this year. This had made Silver curious, having researched the fairy tale figure before, he'd asked various questions… some of which the shipwright hadn't been able to answer.

Silver had also admitted a couple of things that hindsight and research told him he shouldn't have. He'd told her that Santa had never visited the future, that he'd read stories about him, but they all seemed to derive from children's books and that he wasn't certain that the miraculous figure even existed. These points combined to cause the young raccoon a great deal of confusion and what amounted to disappointment. Questioning her own belief; she'd gotten angry and insisted that she'd stay up to meet Santa, proving to Silver that he existed.

Later that day, Blaze had explained to him why Marine had gotten so angry and consoled him that he'd had no way of knowing any better, but that didn't stop him from feeling bad. He'd left for the other world, promising them both that he was leaving to gather presents in secret and would return on Christmas, only to make this ludicrous plan a reality. He'd made Santa real, even if only in this smaller world.

Swearing that he heard something shift behind him, shaking away his daydream, Silver quickly scoffed the entire platter. Cleaning his muzzle with the back of his wrist, feeling both consciousness and energy return to him as blood rushed towards his stomach, the hedgehog slid his way to the door and quickly out through the garage. As he physically pulled the sheet door down, he noticed that some of the brightness had already returned to his psychic symbols. He had enough juice for this last flight, there was one more person he desperately wanted Santa to visit.

Wrapping himself in cyan light, the hedgehog took to the skies and rocketed himself above the clouds. The sky was still dark, the sun wasn't rising yet, but, given that it was Winter, people would surely awaken soon. He lingered among the cloud layer, obscuring his vision but guaranteeing that he wouldn't be seen, if even a single figure saw him this morning then this illusion was at risk of cracking. Fortunately, even with minimal view of the ground, this was a path Silver knew well enough to perform practically blind.

He broke free from the white cover just a hundred metres from the palace, its recently restored stonework made clear. Dodging between the castle turrets and around its backside, he came to hover above the royal garden before coming to land at a certain balcony. Its glass double doors were shut, the curtains pulled closed, but as he went to psychically create an entrance, the hedgehog found the doors unlocked. He poked his head through the drapes, attempting to quietly make sure the coast was clear, only for a set of amber eyes to rise from a book and ensnare him.

Almost reflexively, he stumbled back and clattered to the ground; quickly pulling the feline's present to his chest in an attempt to avoid crushing it. It was only as he lay there, back throbbing, that he noticed the decorations she'd clearly put up for his arrival. Red ribbons with golden trim lined the entryway and a pair of golden bells hung above its centre. Looking behind himself, he found that holly had been brought to rap around the balcony's guardrail. She'd waited for his return; she'd set all this up.

Before he could get to his feet, Blaze had stepped beyond the curtains and into the cold. Naturally, being pyrokinetic, the change temperature didn't shake her, but great plumes of steam were erupting with each of her breaths. The situation had surprised him, his heart was still pounding, but the combination of the ornaments and a smile on her face managed to subdue him.

"And what time would you call this?" She'd brought her arms to fold across her chest, looking down at him. Unlike Marine, she'd made it into her pyjamas; a button up purple night shirt and a set of baggy, grey, pyjama bottoms.

He couldn't bring himself to rise, a sigh escaped his throat and he broke from her eyes, "I-I don't know if it's early or late by this point…"

"You're coming to bed, so I suppose we should call it late," She mused, reaching down to him, "Where have you been? You look exhausted."

He looked down at himself and realised that, without the stuffed gut and beard, he merely looked festive rather than Santa like. Already though, her eyes had drifted to the box in his hands. As he glanced to check the tag, he found it exposed. By the time he looked back to her Blaze had already followed his gaze. She threw him a curious look, shifting from leading him inside to facing him directly again.

"W-Well, um," She wanted some kind of explanation and if she didn't get it now, she'd figure it out tomorrow when the world was abuzz with talk of mysterious gifts, "After what I said to Marine, an idea came to me. I know Santa doesn't really exis,t but if getting a gift from him would make her happy I thought it was only right to get her one," For some reason, either embarrassment or tiredness or some combination of the two, he was struggling to admit his actions, "The future had lots of abandoned toys, all in good condition, so I boxed them all up and… uhm… delivered them to all of the houses."

Her eyes had gone wide, he felt her grasp tighten, "Silver, what do you mean by all of the houses?"

"At first, I thought just Marine would be enough, then I realised I could do more so I…" The concern on her face was palpable, whether it was at the foolishness of his actions, or the toll they might have taken on his body, Silver was no sure. Regardless, he struggled to give further justification, "I also figured that, since Santa missed you during our years together, he ought to make up for it. It's not the only thing I've got you, I stashed another somewhere in the palace but…" He held the present out to her, "We didn't get to experience the wonder and mystery that's tied to this season, so I made certain that Santa got you something special this year. It's not like all the gifts were hand-picked, outside yours and Marine's they were random, but… it only felt right to…"

She took a step closer, pushing past the red wrapped box and into his soggy form. It was only with her warm touch that he realised quite how cold he was. Wandering through slush and soaring through the clouds had soaked him rather thoroughly. Her warmth almost immediately ate away at that cold, he brought his arm to wrap around her back.

"You're so naïve," The coffee on her breath was blatant, she'd stayed up waiting for him, "People are going to be so confused. I doubt they'll panic, but I'll send out a memo; make it clear that that Santa has actually visited, not some other large man in red."

Silver grimaced, "I'm sorry, I thought-

"Silver," She pulled back a little, still holding him but looking him squarely in the eyes. Her gaze was softer than he'd expected, "You did something good for my world, something ludicrous but ultimately good. Don't you dare apologise," Her hand slipped from his back to the top of her head, prying off his soggy Santa hat before dragging through his quills, "Just, next time, let's do it together. That way it won't come as such a surprise and you won't be run ragged. Honestly, look at you."

"Next time?" As he questioned, she finally tugged him inside.

"This isn't the kind of trick you can pull just once, Silver. People are going to expect it now," The princess flatly explained, "You've put yourself in Santa's shoes."

As Blaze left him, walking to her bedside and drawing up her phone, thoughts overwhelmed him. He hadn't really considered that. Silver had always thought of this as bringing the miracle of Santa Clause to life, not actually becoming him, but Blaze was right. If the miracle happened once, people would expect it again; he hadn't made Santa real, but he'd become a Santa. He'd travelled across this island nation in a single night (albeit, utilising time travel to make the long-distance movements far easier) and delivered presents into each of the houses.

Blaze's voice pulled him from his stupor, "Well, Gardon's already awake and he dared to open his. The news has already started to spread, we can relax," She was smiling at him again, he quickly turned and closed the balcony doors, "I'm sure Marine will run in and wake us up in a handful of hours, we should try to get some sleep at least," She suggested before gesturing across the room and behind him, "If you want, you can put that under the tree with yours, we'll open them when morning properly arrives."

Turning, Silver came face-to-face with a small, very decorated, Christmas tree; a sizeable bundle of parcels piled beneath it. Some of them were addressed to Blaze herself, likely gifts from political figures or castle staff, but the bulk of them were addressed to both him and Marine. One parcel in particular, near the front of the pile, caught his eye. It wasn't addressed to or from Blaze, not like the others. It was to him, from Santa. She'd had the same idea as him, she'd wanted to make up for lost time. This was his first Christmas in the Sol dimension, let alone civilised society; his first opportunity for this kind of thing. While he'd been away, she'd surely been planning for tomorrow.

Not tomorrow, today. He had to be his best for later, both so that Marine wouldn't suspect a thing and so that he could embrace Blaze's efforts to the fullest.

His present set down, a plan in mind to quickly nip out and gather the others that were stashed in the castle, he'd headed towards the door and prepared to wave goodnight only for her hand to catch his again. His brow raised and his head tilted but she just rolled her eyes, unleashing a yawn that was soon echoed by him. He hadn't noticed that the heat rippling off of her had brought him to fully dry, his quills and fluff had frizzed to their maximum. Boots were fought off, he escaped his jacket, and soon the two of them were lying together. Her head found his chest, his chin found her ear and sleep found them both before they could realise it. They were in for an early awakening and a busy day, but they'd managed to spend the first hours of this charitable holiday together, giving the other their whole to make them merry.

#Silver the Hedgehog #Blaze the Cat #Marine The Raccoon #silvaze #sonic #sonic the hedgehog

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stevemoffett · 4 years

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Pandemics Don’t Get a Cute Pun

Being Afraid

It’s been twenty-one days since I’ve spoken to another person in the flesh. Before that, I had gone for seventeen days. And before that, a week.

The first week of no contact began when I said goodbye-for-now to my co-workers. I decided to wait to go to the grocery store until that first wave of people had passed before I tried going. On my last grocery trip, I had decided to “stock up” in case I had to isolate for a little while, and so, having no idea how disruptive the situation would become, I bought a whopping three boxes of spaghetti and one big jar of sauce.

My all-spaghetti diet ran out by Monday, March 23rd, and I had nothing else edible in the apartment. So, even though it wasn’t cold, I put on my jacket (to limit my skin-to-air exposure), a baseball cap (to stop myself from scratching my head, a nervous habit), and my glasses (I stopped wearing contacts to avoid touching my eyes). By March 23rd, the CDC and WHO had not yet recommended wearing gloves or masks in public. But I already had gloves at home (you never know when you’ll need nitrile gloves), and I had two masks that I had to wear when I was around someone who was immunocompromised earlier this year, so I put one of the masks and a pair of gloves on. Then I drove to the store.

The local store was letting about twenty people in at a time. There was already a line forming, just five minutes past opening. I walked to the end and we all stood waiting about six or so feet apart from one another.

Nobody made conversation. In people-watching moments like these, I associate whatever behavior I see with the general attitude of wherever I am, even if there is no such stereotype: Ah yes, that reserved Texas stoicism I’ve heard so much about.

When I got into the store I pulled out a cart and walked stiffly. The night before, I had gone on the store’s website and written a list of the items I needed, grouping them by what aisle they were in. I was going to snake my way through the store one time, get in line, and leave.

A complicating factor of doing it live was that there were lots of people to avoid. During an ordinary cold season, I usually watch out for people near me who might be sick. If they look like they may possibly be sniffling or flushed, I take a breath, hold it, and let it out through my nose slowly as I pass them. Here in the grocery store, I did this every time I walked past people in the aisles, and for extra protection, I scrunched my eyes shut.

There were signs posted limiting the amount of each product you could buy. No more than four boxes of pasta at once, for example. The pasta shelf was totally cleared out except for whole wheat pasta, so I took four boxes of that. I bought three eight-pound bags of dried pinto beans, a couple of bags of rice (I’d heard that beans and rice together make some kind of magical combination where you can avoid protein deficiencies even if you don’t have any meat), a big bottle of canola oil, butter, four big jars of spaghetti sauce, a bunch of hot sauce, ketchup, tofu, and frozen vegetables. The meat aisle was almost completely picked over—I managed to get two pounds of ground turkey from there, though. I didn’t get any eggs because I enjoy them too much; I knew that it would be better to make a clean break from them until after things got back to normal than to agonize over eating the last of them.

In line, I had an extremely full cart. By contrast, an old man in shorts behind me had about four things in his, and he wasn’t wearing gloves or a mask.

I heard him say, in a very low voice, “Stupid motherfucker.” Maybe he said, “Stupid motherfuckers,” plural, but I felt like it had to be at least be partially directed at me.

The teenager who rang me up seemed relaxed. I felt demographically exposed. Now that I am middle-aged, I am very aware of my interactions with teenagers. If movies are any lesson, there are about six million ways that I can make an encounter with one of them a) awkward, b) creepy, or c) both.

“Have you seen many other insane people dressed like me?” I asked, cringing behind the mask since I had already failed point a).

“Not many,” she replied.

“Well, thanks for being here,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

“No problem! I’m getting paid a lot to be here!” She said.

When I got home, I decided to take everything up to my place in multiple trips. Climbing up and down the stairs for each trip, though, I started to sweat. When I came in with the last of the bags, I set them on the floor and took my gloves off. I could feel a bead of sweat dripping down my forehead. If it got past my eyebrow and went into my eye, then maybe some of the virus that had landed on me from contaminated grocery store air would be carried into my eye, and that would be Game Over.

I hurried to the sink, tossing the gloves into the trash and ripping a paper towel off the roll. I crumpled it and pressed the part of the wadded-up towel that hadn’t touched either hand over my closed eye.

As the sweat was wicked away from my eyebrow, I felt my fingers moisten and I thought, Could any germs from my hand travel back through this sweat bridge and into my eye? It was true that I had been wearing gloves, but maybe I hadn’t taken them off carefully enough and I’d touched my wrist, or the outside of one of the gloves, and not noticed. I had also grasped the side of the roll to rip the paper towel off. Had I contaminated the edges of a bunch of sheets farther into the roll, too? Could I even be sure I’d properly bunched the paper towel I was holding to my eye without having touched the eye-facing part?

I decided to text all of this uncertainty in a big run-on paragraph to my brother. He responded, “I think you’re fine.”

After blotting the sweat, I got the bright idea to sanitize the frozen vegetable bags I’d bought before putting them in the freezer by spraying them with bleach. I brought them out to my balcony so that I could spray everything down indiscriminately. I sprayed all the bags, waited a couple of minutes, then started wiping them off with a fresh paper towel.

As I wiped the bags, I noticed that they were not airtight; there was a series of little pinholes all over the bags in what seemed like regular intervals. I assume that this was a design feature of the bags. But I could see that the bleach spray was disappearing into the holes, which meant the cauliflower and broccoli inside were absorbing it.

I realized then that I had inadvertently poisoned all of my vegetables. I tossed them in the garbage and thought again of what the old man behind me in line had said.

Now I had no source of vitamin C. I’d thought that there might be vitamin C in meat, but there is not. You get it mostly from leafy greens, a few fortified foods, and citrus fruits. I checked online and found that if I got zero vitamin C, I had at least four weeks until I got scurvy. This meant that I couldn’t go longer than four weeks before my next grocery trip. It was a relief to know that I had a date where re-stocking was mandatory, because if there wasn’t one, I might have felt overly cautious, enough to start rationing my food so that it lasted as long as humanly possible, and I’d lose an unhealthy amount of weight by cutting my calorie intake down to the minimum 1200 a day.

But without a vitamin C source, that wasn’t necessary. I certainly had enough food to last me for four weeks, as long as I was strict. I wouldn’t be able to have any cheat nights, but I also wouldn’t go hungry.

I sprayed the bleach on the faucet handle and the soap dispenser, and left the non-perishable food—Sriracha sauce, ketchup bottles, mustard, oatmeal, spaghetti sauce, and boxes of spaghetti, all standing upright—out on the floor between my refrigerator and the front door. I’d wait another 72 hours before handling them, and even after that, I would wash them with soap before use (except for the cardboard spaghetti package).

Those first few days were extra paranoid because I knew that it was possible I had already been infected. A few nights, I woke up around 3 to use the bathroom, and as I passed my upward-pointing non-perishables there on the floor, they looked less like food items and more like a bed of nails, or like stalagmites deep in a cave: hostile, and waiting for me to trip.

If I cleared my throat several times within a couple of minutes during the day, I got worried. If I sneezed or felt congestion when I woke up, the anxiety would percolate in the background until the symptom went away. I began sniffing my toothpaste to make sure I could still detect mint, since the news had come that smell loss was a common symptom.

But all of this was a distraction from the real sources of my dread: my parents and sister. My parents are old and my younger sister is frail. Each of them has at least one comorbidity waiting to gang up on them if they were infected. They all live together, and my sister requires enough close monitoring that if one of them gets it, they will all get it.

My father has had a particularly distressing habit that he likes to trot out from time to time over the last decade, but since his stroke, he’s doubled his efforts. What he does is personify the small voice in my mind that prevents me from getting back to sleep at 3 AM.

He called me the other day, just to talk. And mostly, the conversation went as normal: I tore my hair out at his and my mother’s relative (to me) disregard for proper exposure limiting, and he gave me his latest movie or TV show recommendations.

After I tut-tutted over another unnecessary trip somewhere both he and my mother had taken recently, he responded, “Yeah, that’s true, it is a risk. Well, you know, if one of us gets this, then all of us will. And we might all die.”

He let the words hang there until I responded, with as little emotion as possible to show him that he wasn’t winding me up, “Sounds like it’s a good idea to be even more careful, then.”

As I said, he’s made a habit of nihilistic portending for the last ten years. The problem is that I am always trying to banish those thoughts when they’re still merely thoughts, but then he just blurts them out, which makes them real. Does he not understand after almost forty years that no matter how irrational, uninformed, or biased a father’s words can be, they are still taken to heart by the son?

And he says these things, but then he doesn’t change his actions in kind. If he believed that the situation were that serious, wouldn’t he be battening down the hatches instead of making flimsy excuses to go to the grocery store? Does he really need to get that steak because he has a coupon? Does he really have to go there for Kandy Kakes because they’re buy two, get one free? Is it really worth rolling the dice each time?

I did ask him this directly, and he replied, “Well, we have to live.”

He meant “live” figuratively—I knew that they had enough bland food there to last them a long time. I asked him, “So the difference between ‘living’ and ‘not living’ is going to the grocery store?”

The frustrating contradiction is that for a generation so insistent on austerity being the “tough love” that the world requires, my parents sure don’t want to be austere. When I had trouble getting a job just out of undergrad, I was told to “pound the pavement,” carrying my resume with a suit on and applying to places in person, because it would be “more impressive” than applying online. The most frequent criticism of theirs was that people my age are lazy softies who can’t do anything for themselves. My dad, who had been a mechanic in his adolescence, liked to repeat a joke about my and my brother’s lack of mechanical knowledge: “If Steve had a nut, and [my brother] had a bolt, the two of ‘em wouldn’t be able to figure out how to get them together.”

Yet, if anything ever has been, this is the time for austerity: you shouldn’t make any unnecessary trips for indulgent foods. Instead, stick with the bland, nutritious diet that will last a long time, and stay away from public places. You can truly turn the risk almost down to zero that way, by being austere.

I think that my parents (I can’t speak for their entire generation, just them) have two aversions to properly responding to the virus. The first is that hiding inside one’s house is not what courage looks like. Courage is going out and showing the virus that they won’t be cowed so easily! Staying in, by contrast, is living in fear and surrendering. But it’s not true. The virus can’t be “shown” anything because it is a cell-invading machine. It isn’t trying to cow them, or “try” anything at all, for that matter. It is only spreading. It’s also confusing because the other great fear of our time is terrorism, and in cases of terrorism, that is the right attitude to react with.

To explain their second aversion to responding prudently to the virus, I believe that at a certain age, you just feel entitled. If you’ve had a life like most people’s then you’ve had your share of happy times, but you’ve also had your share of awful ones. And at this point, almost seventy years in, you probably think, the painful parts ought to be mostly over. You don’t deserve to be cooped up in the house right when retirement, really the only good part of senior citizenship, is beginning. Therefore, you deserve to be able to go out and do things. Unlike the timid young, you simply don’t have the time to waste inside.

While I can understand both aversions (as well as a younger person is able to, that is), I can still disagree with them. And I can still get extremely angry when my parents show this behavior.

For that reason, I am not without my own nastiness. I’m sure my mother didn’t appreciate the time I said to her on the phone, “I want you to remember you said that when they’re hooking you up to a ventilator,” after she told me she’d gone to the Starbucks drive-thru that morning. I mean, yes, what I said was truly ghoulish, but I said it out of love. And, desperation.

Because the 3 AM nightmare that I have lately is the one where I send my usual text to my mom asking how they’re all doing, and she texts me back, “Well, [my younger sister] woke up with a little fever, but she’s fine, she’s fine…”

I hear the horror stories. Funerals that have to be attended via the Zoom app. Final goodbyes said over Skype or FaceTime. People dying at the hospital, all alone. I know that it is naive to hope for this, but I still want to be one of those families that just dodges it entirely, you know? Just completely lucks out.

Even though I know those horror stories I keep reading are a textbook case of selection bias (you don’t hear about the vast majority of cases, where a person gets kind of sick but then recovers and is fine), if I want to do some simple panic math, here are the numbers.

-A reasonable infection rate over the whole US population, based on the R0 value: 50%.

-The chances that if one of the three vulnerable people in my family gets it, all three will end up infected: nearly 100%.

-The chances of them dying, given their ages/comorbidities (I’ll be more optimistic with this statistic): 15%, for each person.

Here are the likelihoods for the optimistic scenarios:

-None of them get it. That’s 50% x 50% x 50%, which equals 12.5%.

-They all get it, but they all survive: ~87.5% x 85% x 85% x 85%, which equals about 53%.

That doesn’t represent complete coverage of the probability space, since there are minor variations in what could happen, like each of them could theoretically be infected from an outside source and then give it to only one of the others. But as an estimation, it covers the most major scenarios decently.

So then, to get the probability of the “bad scenarios,” in which at least one person dies, you take the complementary percentage: 100% - (53% + 12.5%) = 34.5%.

Am I really looking at about a one in three chance that one of my immediate family members will die, to say nothing of my grandmother, sister, brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew? Hopefully not. The more time that goes by with them not getting infected, the more information healthcare workers and scientists can get about proper treatment courses and possible new medications. And if we go long enough (over a year) without getting infected, we might be able to be vaccinated.

In addition to the nasty pictures I paint for them over the phone if they don’t properly isolate themselves, I have also tried to exploit the older generation’s defensiveness. With a relish that was all part of the act, I told them that there was an alternate name for the disease floating around online, “The Boomer Remover.”

The other term I’d heard, The Boomer Doomer, I refrained from telling them about. My reasoning was this: while The Boomer Doomer is flippant and insensitive, the word “doom” is still scary. So, the phrase “Boomer Doomer” admits some of the disease’s weight and suggests a small amount of seriousness in the mentality of millennial-and-younger generations. That wasn’t good enough.

No, The Boomer Remover was the one I told them about because in addition to being disrespectful, it is downright adversarial. “The Boomer Remover” sounds like a cleaning product. It casts the virus as part of the young’s artillery in the culture war. And it casts the boomer generation as vermin. The name brings to mind fears that older generations must all share since the beginning of time: you will soon be gone, and your absence will be celebrated. Maybe, I thought, their defensive attitudes could be redirected to something more constructive, like making the effort to keep themselves healthy.

It seemed to do the trick. They were more conscious of avoiding exposure to infection after I said it. I don’t know if they really were persuaded by The Boomer Remover—it’s possible that they just got more information from the news around the same time—but they did cut out more unnecessary trips, which relieved me. Not down to zero, but fewer than before. I still don’t accept the unnecessary trips they take, though, and I spare no opportunity to remind them of that.

Coping, Sub-Optimally

I am lucky in my personal situation. To some extent, I can work from home. I have joined the legions of Zoom users. Keeping rigidly to a telework schedule, I have made sure that my sleep schedule hasn’t changed by more than a half hour, and I still look forward to the weekend, even though I don’t go anywhere Saturday or Sunday. The library is closed, and most of my attendees don’t have the Internet, so I can’t run my book club. I can exercise, but after hearing my downstairs neighbors furiously pound on their ceiling during one of my workouts, I’ve had to figure out how to do silent cardio so I don’t have to run through the neighborhood every other day.

One thing that I’m experiencing seems to be something that a lot of others are, too: an unfortunate confrontation with my previous excuse-making. If I had an hour extra in the day, I used to say, I would cultivate a new skill and get really good at it.

After a reliable isolation routine had been set here in my apartment, I found that I did have an extra hour each day, since I didn’t have to commute. I could wake up a half hour later because I didn’t have to drive to work, and when I stopped working for the day, all I had to do was sign out. I could still exercise, still make dinner, and still unwind before bed, so my post-work day was similar, but I gained one more hour I could use as I pleased. What have I done with it?

I am not a gamer. After about six years of not playing any games at all, I bought myself a Nintendo Switch and the newest Zelda game when I graduated in 2018 as a self-gift. I played Zelda over eighteen months. It’s a long game, but the average time you’d have to spend per day to finish the game with only moderate quest completion over that many months is low.

Playing Zelda was like a being able to eat a filling meal whenever I happened to crave it. In-game, I found the environment to be so pleasant that when people in real life asked me if I’d done any hiking lately, I’d almost respond, “Well, no, but I have done a fair bit of hiking and mountain climbing in Zelda.” If I went a couple of weeks without playing, it would take only a minute or two to remember what I’d been doing when I turned it on again. Overall, it might be the best game I have ever played. And it seems like it would be the perfect game for these times, if I were playing it anew.

But lately, the game-playing I’ve been doing over the past few weeks shows a much different mindset—one I haven’t really experienced since I was an undergrad student.

When I was in college, the adjustment to living away from home took a long time, and as a result, freshman year was sort of a wash. I didn’t do well in my classes, my suitemates were all upperclassmen I couldn’t really relate to, and it was hard to make friends in the huge introductory lectures with no assigned seating. I spent nearly the whole year playing video games in my room every evening, ordering pizza after pizza after pizza.

The game I remember playing most was a first-person shooter called Quake 2. I had tried the original Quake when it came out in 1996, but at that time it was too graphics-intensive for the family computer to run. Now, though, Quake 2 was the cooler-looking game, and my new laptop could have run either one easily, so I got Quake 2.

If I could sum up the highlight of freshman year, 2003, it would be: It is 10 PM. It is Friday night. There is a pizza on my desk, only two slices eaten so far. There is me, twenty-five pounds heavier than I am now. I am listening to Zwan, the short-lived Smashing Pumpkins-led supergroup. Quake 2 is blasting on my laptop. Somewhere far away, my future wife shivers for seemingly no reason.

After freshman year, I made a bunch of friends, and some of them became my closest friends, and from that happy vantage point, freshman year looked even more bleak. I resolved that I wouldn’t play Quake 2 ever again. In fact, I decided that from then on, I would think of the intense urge to game, especially first-person shooter games, as a kind of emotional canary in the coal mine.

But now in 2020, stuck in the relative comfort of my nice apartment and isolated from my family, and with the extra time that isolation was granting me, I started looking online for a new game to play.

My computer is fine but is also nothing impressive, processor-wise, so I can’t run a modern game on it. I felt too intimidated to play one anyway, having been out of the loop for so long. So, I searched for “retro FPS games,” and found a game called Dusk. Dusk, the game’s description said, was made in 2018, but was “meant to look like a shooter from 1996.”

I bought it and did nothing else outside of work except eat, squeeze in workouts, and play the game. It only took four evenings, but I finished it. And after that, the gaming urge from freshman year was fully back.

Similar circumstances, similar results. If I didn’t dig up Quake 2, it was only out of a pitiful sense of pride; re-downloading it would mean that symbolically, I hadn’t changed at all since freshman year. So instead, I bought Quake 1, and I’ve been playing that ever since I finished Dusk.

It turns out that since 1996, there has been an online Quake 1 fan community that regularly cranks out game modifications, so there are literally thousands of user-made levels to play in addition to the original game. And the mod levels are all free, as long as you’ve paid for the original game, which costs only five dollars. As a result, nearly every night after work, exercise, and dinner, I turn on a 24-year-old video game (with a fan-made mod that sleekens those chunky graphics up a little bit) and play it until bedtime.

First, I played through the game at normal difficulty, saving after every tough set of enemies (this practice is called “save scumming,” and is frowned upon in the Quake community). Not wanting to be bogus, after I finished it that way, I immediately started replaying the game, this time on Hard difficulty and only saving one time per level. I haven’t made it through the entire game again this way yet, but I’ve also played a bunch of fan-made levels to see what the tinkerers have come up with in the last couple of decades.

Have you ever been so completely uninterested while listening to someone explain their hobby to you that you felt a little bit guilty, but you also felt bad for the person, for being so lame? That’s how I feel right now, re-reading what I’ve just written. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t one of those I-am-quitting-my-addiction-through-the-healing-power-of-writing entries—in fact, I stopped writing this several times to play Quake, even looking up strategy videos on YouTube when I got stuck—but I acknowledge that this is not a good use of my time.

Right now, I could finally be getting those guitar skill fundamentals I’ve always wanted. I could be (getting closer to) finishing all songs I’ve written, or writing new ones. I could be working on an actual short story, or a novel, or something, to point to as a positive thing that came out of this whole crisis, and yet, all of those roads end up in the same place: worry town.

In another way, my laser-focus on playing a game like Quake makes perfect sense. It is similar to a game I already know how to play—it’s not one of the new shooters my computer couldn’t run and I probably couldn’t understand. And it lacks any need for deep thinking. Your goal in Quake is to get to the other end of the level, and if you could try to kill everything you see on your way there, that would be cool too.

If I were playing Zelda, I’d be all the way inside my head thinking about my family as my character’s horse galloped past waterfalls, sunsets, and windblown grassy fields. But in Quake, I don’t have to keep track of my inventory, my life meter, my resources, experience points, magic spells, stamina, side-quests—anything. If I’m still shooting and moving, I can still win. There’s no time for my mind to wander because there are monsters around every corner. And at the end of the level, nothing needs to be committed to memory.

Is it weird that I can’t remember anything about the actual game Quake 2, which I spent months playing as a freshman, except for how it felt to play it? Well, that, and the sparse game dialogue: some enemies would call you “trespasser” or “intruder” just before they tried to stab or shoot you, and there’s a level about midway into the game where you make your way through an elaborate torture factory and you see your comrades all being sawed to pieces, but the only thing they cry out is “It hurts,” “Let me out,” “Make it stop,” or “Kill me now.”

The time I spent playing Quake 2 and the time I’m now spending playing Quake 1 almost seem like one of those cheesy explanations of wormholes you see in science fiction movies. What’s the shortest way between these two points on this piece of paper? someone asks. A straight line, someone answers, and the person who asked the question shakes their head and folds the paper so the two points meet.

Life at thirty-five still feels young—I don’t have that fear of replacement yet. But I do have a new awareness of how dangerous it is to get stuck in a rut. Talking with my family over the phone in the past few weeks, I said that I was afraid that I had become “complacent enough that I could wake up one day and realize that I’m forty-five, with nothing new to show for it.” There are plenty of things I know I’m now too old for, ways of acting, ways of dressing. And my life so far is starting to have a true feeling of accumulation to it. Thinking back on it is like looking down a mountain hiking trail, with confusing turns, switchbacks, and even blind offshoots. Some of it is obscured by the trees, lost from memory. It all seems impressively far. Looking forward again, the mountaintop is still in the distance, but now it looms.

In between the previous paragraph and the one before it, I found out that my high school film teacher, Mr. Truitt, passed away. I had mentioned him in my entry about starting a book club, and in it I’d said that I’d modeled my method of discussion on the one from his film class. I now seriously regret that after all of this time since high school, I never used the very small amount of time it would have taken to tell him how much his class and influence meant to me. And, it is an embarrassing kind of regret—an obnoxious feeling, having taken him so much for granted. I’d always meant to contact him some day, but ordinary life took the foreground, and if I spent twenty minutes thinking of what I would write in a letter to him, I’d forget about it twenty minutes after that.

Just as indecent is my poring over his obituary with the obvious question on my mind that anyone has about any death in the past two months.

If something can be drawn from this entry, I hope it would be this: don’t forget to let people know how much you appreciate them. Life is long, but it never feels long enough. And the absoluteness of death is one of the scariest things about it.

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redeyedryu · 5 years

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Apathy & Happenstance

Chapter 9 - Introspection and Preparation [Ao3] | 1 | 8 | x |

It occurs to me that I forgot to post the update here. Whoops... So in case you don’t read it on Ao3, here’s the 9th chapter of AAH. Bear in mind that the vote presented at the bottom is no longer open.

Summary: Papyrus puts together a shopping list and Sans is still a sweaty mess.

You wake up around ten-thirty, a half hour before your alarm. That gives you about an hour before you need to head in for your afternoon shift at the grocery store. It takes you about ten minutes to actually will yourself out of bed and another thirty to finish getting ready for the day, leaving you with about twenty extra to spare.

As you pad your way towards the kitchen, tulip tie and apron in hand, you navigate through the contacts on your phone, stopping at “Sans the (Blue) Skeleton”. You shoot him a quick text per your agreement (it simply reads: Not dead) and drop the tie and apron on the small dining table, next to where you had abandoned your bag last night.

Sans is sitting at the table, scribbling something on a loose piece of paper, his grin set in a frown and eye sockets creased in concentration.

It’s so weird how malleable the bone of skeleton monsters is and you wonder if you’ll ever grow accustomed to it.

Pliable bone aside, whatever Sans is writing down must be important—he didn’t even acknowledge you when you dropped your things on the table. You cast a glance at the piece of paper, curious, but can’t make heads or tails of his chicken scratch. You’re tempted to ask what he’s doing but ultimately decide against it. It’s not really any of your business, is it? You do, however, make a mental note to grab him one of your spare notebooks. Lord knows you have an overabundance of them. A few pens wouldn’t hurt either (you have an even larger collection of those).

A quick scan of the room reveals that Papyrus is in the kitchen once again, his back to you, arms braced on the counter, and you’re relieved that he has yet to turn anything into rancid-smelling charcoal. It looks like he hasn’t even attempted to start cooking, actually. You quirk a brow, noting he seems to be inspecting something quite intensely on the counter-top.

Leaving Sans to his scribbling, you come up beside Papyrus to find he has one of your cookbooks cracked open and that he’s perusing the pasta section. Does he like pasta? He had mentioned attempting to make “breakfast lasagna” yesterday, though you still have questions about that disaster. First of all, you didn’t even have lasagna so what sort of pasta had he even been messing with? Eh, whatever. Yesterday’s problems and all that.

“Did the cookbook threaten to devour your kneecaps or something? You’re staring at it awful hard there, sir.”

“HARDLY.” Papyrus scoffs. He tilts his skull slightly, taking in your appearance before quickly returning his attention to scrutinizing the book. “I AM MERELY DOING RESEARCH ON HUMAN CUISINE.”

You quirk a brow at that. Is there that much of a difference between human and monster food? You're rather reluctant to inquire, as that would require admitting that in all this time since monsters’ liberation, you had yet to partake in any of their food. You certainly had several opportunities to sample it but had always politely declined or offered up an excuse.

You ponder that for a moment. Why have you been avoiding monster food? Sure the monster populace in your city is quite small, being as far from Mt. Ebott as it is, but that isn't to say it’s non-existent. Heck, one of the supervisors at the grocery store is a bipedal rabbit monster who often brings in homemade cinnamon bunnies.

Maybe you should try one the next time she brings them in….

“Ah, before I forget,” you abruptly say, shelving the self-reflection for now, and with a snap, you point at the skeleton beside you. “I’m working at a grocery store today and figured I could pick up a couple things when I get off. Was there anything y’all wanted? I know we carry a few monster products if you… uh…” The sentence trails off as you catch sight of Papyrus’s expression. You turn your head just slightly to the side, brows furrowing. Why is he looking at you like that?

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” you voice the thought.

Those dark, empty pits of blackness are staring at you again. You expect him to say something but he merely continues to watch you, the moment stretching awkwardly as a shudder works its way up your spine.

“What did I say?” you press, not knowing what to make of Papyrus’s behavior.

Another beat of silent staring passes and you feel your muscles tensing. For what, you're not entirely sure.

When Papyrus finally lets out a very subdued chuckle, quickly followed by a few more that sound suspiciously like “nyeh heh heh”, the tension eases. He turns to face you, hip resting against the counter, and brings a bony palm to drape across his eyelids.

You're baffled, to say the least.

“Uh…?”

“YOU ARE A CURIOUS PUZZLE, AREN’T YOU, HUMAN?” Papyrus eventually manages, hand dropping away from his face, though he now has his arms crossed over his chest.

You squint at the skeleton. What is that supposed to mean…?

He merely shakes his head with one last chuckle and says, “IF YOU ARE OFFERING, THERE ARE A FEW THINGS I WOULDN'T MIND YOU ‘PICKING UP’ FOR ME.”

That's a really weird way to word it—it almost comes off as belittling, especially with the inflection he used at the end there, but whatever. You’ve already decided that the skeletons are weird.

“Okay,” you respond. “Let me go nab something for you to write on.” You don't wait for his reply as you run back to your room.

You snatch the palm-sized notebook sitting atop the nightstand, flipping it open to a blank page. It’s your go-to for making little notes and lists to yourself so it should be perfect.

Just as you’re moving to leave the room you remember Sans and his loose-leaf scribbling. You nab a couple small notebooks (they're no bigger than your hand) from the bookshelf squished up against the wall and a random assortment of pens.

Once you're back in the kitchen you hand Papyrus the notebook and a pen, instructing him to write down what he and his brother would like or need most.

“I can't guarantee we carry everything you write down but I'll get what I can,” you tell him, leaving out that you've never even perused the monster food section, so you can't even say what the store does stock.

“I SUPPOSE IT’S NOT SURPRISING THAT A HUMAN ESTABLISHMENT WOULD HAVE A RATHER MEDIOCRE SELECTION.” is all Papyrus says on the matter, before attending to building his list. He doesn't see how you quirk a brow.

“Uh huh,” you reply before leaving him to it.

As the large skeleton works, you give your phone a quick glance and, noting the time, realize you should probably head out soon. You go to gather your things at the table, stopping to tap Sans on the shoulder to grab his attention. You don't miss the way he seems to flinch at your touch, nor the way sweat begins beading along the crown of his skull. He’s even more huddled over the scrap piece of paper than when you left him, and you notice several areas where he’s completely scratched out whatever he had written.

“Here,” you say as he twists to face you, eye lights flicking from your face to the hand with your offerings.

He doesn't immediately accept so you shake the notebooks at him. “You looked like you could use these.” You press, and he finally takes the hint; his brows furrow and the corners of his shark-toothed smile dip into a frown. A few droplets of that red-tinted, magical sweat of his roll down the sides of his skull. He doesn't move to accept the proffered notebooks. In fact, he looks about ready to protest, maw parting, so you quickly tell him, “I've got plenty.”

His jaws snap shut with an audible click. A moment passes in which he does little more than stare at you, eye sockets squinted and frown ever present, before his expression finally shifts. The ridges of bone above his eyes raise and he grins a toothy grin. He’s still a sweaty mess, though.

“why sweetheart,” he says, folding his arms behind his head and leaning into the back of his chair. As his eye sockets dip closed he continues, “didn’t know ya cared ‘bout this ol’ bag a bones so much.”

Your expression goes dry and you give the skeleton a flat look. You drop the notebooks and pens on the table before him.

“Gross,” you say. “Don't call me sweetheart.” And with that, you get back to gathering your things, completely ignoring the deep chuckles rumbling from the shark-toothed skeleton. Your phone’s stuffed in a pocket, tulip tie jammed into your bag, which is then slung over a shoulder, and apron gathered and draped over an arm. That done, you head back to the kitchen.

Papyrus is leaning against the counter, arms and legs crossed. His eye sockets are shut, brow ridges raised, as a single gloved finger tap, tap, taps against the exposed bone of his upper arm. In his opposite hand you notice the notebook you had lent him.

“You done?”

His finger immediately ceases tapping out its rhythm at the sound of your voice. He cracks open a single, empty socket. A beat passes as the two of you simply stare at one another (what is up with this guy and dramatic, silent stare-downs?) before Papyrus decides he’s had enough. Legs uncrossing, he pushes himself from the counter, the hand holding the notebook lifting from his chest while the other remains wrapped around his ribs.

“HUMAN,” he says as he all but throws the notebook at you. You fumble a bit, nearly dropping it a couple times, but ultimately succeed in catching it. Thankfully, you manage to avoid any paper cuts. “I HAVE COMPLETED THE LIST.” he continues, “I TRUST YOU DON’T NEED ME TO CLARIFY ANYTHING ON IT.”

You glance at the notebook and absently note that unlike his brother, Papyrus’s handwriting is quite neat and uniform, with everything written in block letters. A quick skim of the page tells you that no, you don’t need him to clarify anything.

“Yeah, you’re good,” you tell him as you shift your bag down your shoulder and quickly stuff the notebook into it. “Thanks, boss.”

As you turn to exit the kitchen, intent on making your way out, you think you hear the tall skeleton sputter. Odd, but whatever.

As you ready yourself at the door, nabbing your keys and sliding into your shoes, you remember that you still have yet to set boundaries and ground rules with your impromptu skeletal roommates. You should probably address that. You call to the brothers from over your shoulder, informing them that, “When I get home tonight we need to talk about ground rules and boundaries.”

You hear a grunt of acknowledgement from Sans while Papyrus’s booming voice replies, “YES, GOOD IDEA, HUMAN!”

Alright, cool. That’s one thing almost done and out of the way. Hopefully it doesn’t escape your mind again by the time you get back….

With all your things gathered and prepared, you open the door, calling over your shoulder to the brothers one last time. You tell them, “I’m heading out now. I’ll be back in about seven hours. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone!” and make your escape.

It’s as you’re driving to work that a random thought comes to mind: today marks the third day of the brothers having arrived in your universe with nothing more than the clothes on their back. Not only that, but it’s also their third day on the surface and as far as you know, they have yet to step foot outside. You’re going to have to do something about that. You’ll have to double check your schedule but you’re pretty sure you don’t have to work either of your jobs tomorrow. Maybe you can take the guys out?

Your mind’s made up. Tomorrow you’ll take the boys out. The question now, however, is where will you take them?

* To the thrift shop downtown.

* To the large shopping mall near the interstate.

#Red Drabbles #Undertale Fanfiction #Reader Insert #Apathy and Happenstance #tenth chapter is roughly halfway written

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chibinightowl · 5 years

Text

Clowns of the Corn

For my friend @spazzterror, who has been waiting for this story for well over a year. Can be read as a sequel to The Great Minivan Escape, but that’s up to you.

~*~*~

“Jesus fucking Christ! I swear to fuck, Dickie, when we get outta here, I’m gonna kill ya.” Jason emphasizes his point by firing into the dark corn field again, the hushed laughter of the yet to be determined creatures rising into a shriek as one of them collapses. Dick isn’t normally one for killing but whatever these things are, they’re hell on the livestock and are creepier than anything he’s seen in a while, so he’s more willing to make an exception. Small wonder Clark asked if he would come out to visit his parents and poke around while he was off-world. At this point though, he thinks Zatanna would been a better choice. “Why blame me? You came of your own free will.” He cracks another glow stick and holds it high. The creatures don’t like the light at all, even lurid green that it is, and scramble back a couple of rows. There’s barely a moon at all tonight, and if it weren’t for the starlight lenses in their masks, they’d be completely blind. “Come to Kansas, he says. There’ll be pie, he says,” Jason snorts mockingly. “Fuck this shit and fuck your mother.” “Language,” Dick tries but Jason laughs at him and releases a stream of profanity that would make even a sailor sit down and take notes. Okay, so maybe he was a little too eager for some one on one time with Jason. They rarely see each other except for patrol and the last time they did meet up, it was after their adventure with that minivan where Dick made his brother watch the movie he’d borrowed some moves from. Needless to say, Jason loved it. And so did Dick. Time with Jason is a treat, so when he randomly tossed out the invite to join him in Smallville, it surprised him that the other man said yes. Clearly, he’s regretting this now. The vitriol slows down and Dick takes a chance. “These things have to hide somewhere during the day. They completely avoid the light.” It works. “Gotta be somewhere other than a barn. A tunnel? One of those grain stacks?” “You mean a silo?” “Yeah, that.” Dick wishes he’d thought to ask Uncle Jon about possible places to scope out before he and Jason wandered out into the cornfield earlier. This is so much more than he signed up for. “You know what this means, right?” “We’re pulling an all-nighter that would make the Pretender proud?”

“No. We need to capture one of these things and stick a tracker on it.”

Jason laughs again. It’s a good villain laugh, really. “If they’re in one of those grain thingies, I’m gonna light that sucker up and send it to the motherfuckin’ moon.” Dick can’t help but notice the more stressed his brother gets, the more his original lower Gotham accent makes a reappearance. “You know what this kind of reminds me of?” he asks instead. “What?” Jason asks warily. “Children of the Corn.” “I already died once, I doubt He Who Walks Behind the Rows will want me.” The chittering laughter around them quiets completely. Not a sound can be heard in the cornfield aside from their ragged breathing. Instinctively, Dick and Jason press closer.

“That can’t be good,” Jason murmurs. “No shame in a strategic retreat.” “That’s what you’re calling it?” Jason is already moving, shouting and shooting as he charges back down the row. Dick is hot on his heels, still holding up the glow stick. The laughter starts up again, louder than before. In the rows beside them, small dark shapes keep pace. It’s now or never. Dick slips a tracking device out of a compartment in his gloves and throws it hard to his left. This one is designed to catch hold on any surface and he utters a quiet prayer that it does what it’s supposed to. “I see the lanterns!” Jason shouts. The Kent’s have taken to leaving torches and camp lanterns around the barn, the chicken coop, and their house since these things appeared. If Clark hadn’t been on his way to mediate a peace treaty between two planets when his parents called him about the strange happenings, Dick doubts this would have escalated the way it has. As it is, he needs to call Raven.

Something catches hold of Dick’s foot, yanking hard. He stumbles and twists, trying to spin and regain his momentum, but the weight on his leg grows heavier. The ground is hard beneath him as he slams into it with a loud grunt. Dick spits the dirt out of his mouth and doesn’t stop moving, rolling and kicking hard at the dark little... he raises the glow stick he still grips tightly and blinks.

Clown.

It’s a little clown the size of a garden gnome. One with sharp pointy teeth and a dark stain around its mouth.

Dick does not want those teeth on him. Nope. Not happening.

He doesn’t have to worry. The creature’s head disappears in a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter from Jason’s well-placed shot.

“Get up,” he snarls, and Dick is back on his feet in a flash, scooping up the little body to analyze from the safety of the patio.

“Did you see that?”

“Yeah and I can never unsee it. Now move your fat ass!” Jason shouts and shoves Dick in front of him, snatching the glow stick. “My ass is not fat!” Dick puts on a final burst of speed and launches himself out of the cornfield and onto the mowed lawn of the Kent farm. In his arms, he can feel the body of the little whatever it is disintegrate as the light from Jonathan Kent’s lantern hits it. So much for his evidence.

“What on God’s green earth was that?” the old farmer asks, holding the lantern high against the dark and angry laughter that emanates from his cornfield. A few steps back and to his left is Martha Kent, shotgun in hand and covering him.

“Fucking demon clowns,” Jason swears as he lurches out of the field. Dick spots a bloody gash on the outside of his brother’s leg that hadn’t been there before.

Well, this is a rather ignoble ending to their adventure tonight. Sighing, Dick flops down by Uncle Jon’s feet. “Your cornfield is infested with little demonic clowns.”

“That’s new,” Aunt Martha comments blandly. “How do we get rid of them?”

Jason turns and takes another shot into the darkness. The laughter crescendos before disappearing with an angry hiss. “I don’t know what Dickie has planned, but I’m headin’ to church in the morning to stock up on holy water.”

~*~*~

After a long night of keeping watch, the sun finally rises and Dick is able to grab a few hours of some well-earned sleep. When he comes stumbling down the stairs just before noon, he spots Jason on the sofa in a pair of shorts that probably belong to Clark or Kon with his leg carefully propped up on the coffee table with the help of a few throw pillows. The white bandage runs almost the length of his thigh, ending just above his knee.

“Are you supposed to be sitting like that?” Dick asks around a yawn.

Jason lowers his book and glares. “It gave Aunt Martha something to do.”

There is no way either of them can refuse a request from the old woman and they both know it. She fussed mightily over the wound last night even as she calmly stripped Jason out of his pants last night to get a better look at it. Dick is pretty sure he’s never seen his brother’s ears get that red before and wishes he’d dared to take a picture and send it to Alfred for posterity.

Rather than pick a fight that Jason is clearly itching for, Dick tries a different tact. “The tracker move at all since dawn?”

The little bug he’d tossed into the darkness last night stuck. Just before sunrise, the creatures surrounding the farm retreated, leaving to protect their own hides from the sun.

Jason picks up the tablet sitting beside him and swipes at the screen. “Nope. Same spot. You hear from Raven yet?”

“Yeah. Got a text saying she’ll be here in a few hours.” Dick sits down next to Jason. “Where are Aunt Martha and Uncle Jon?”

“Town. I gave them Bruce’s black card from your wallet and said to have fun with it.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “You do know they’ll use their own, right?”

“They better not be considering how much ammo I asked them to get for me.” It’s plain to see the thought of Bruce’s card being used for this amuses Jason immensely.

This is an argument to save for later. “How much sleep you get?”

“About the same as you.”

“Still need to go to church?”

“Just waitin’ on you.”

There are a number of small churches in the community, but Dick drives their rented SUV to a very specific one. He’s never been all that religious, so it comes as a surprise that Jason kind of is. Vaguely, he remembers reading in Jason’s file that Willis Todd was raised Irish Catholic, so he supposes this is where it comes from.

Considering what Jason lugs into the small church with him, Dick can’t blame him. Holy water versus demon. He’s seen the effects that the power of belief holds over creatures of hell, at least in the hands of the right person. Whether Jason’s belief is firm enough, Dick isn’t certain, but he can tell right away as Jason makes his way out of the church about half an hour later that his brother is at least happy with what he’s got on him now.

The gym bag with the six gallons of holy water is carefully placed in the backseat and Jason gingerly takes his seat next to Dick up front. From the pocket of his dark gray hoodie, a strand of beads peeks out.

“You know the rosary?” Dick asks out of reflex and instantly wishes he hadn’t.

But Jason doesn’t lash out like he expects. “Yeah. Misspent youth.” He’s quiet for a time as Dick drives back toward the Kent farm, idly fingering the wooden beads. “I know it’s kinda stupid, the fact that I believe this shit will work. Especially since that also means I’ve got a one way ticket to Hell when I kick it a second time, but some things just stick with you, whether you want them to or not.”

This is something Dick knows all too well. “For what it’s worth, I believe the holy water will work. Better than your bullets.”

Jason grins sharply. “Well, then that means you get to help me stockpile a bunch of little holy hand grenades.”

“Only if they’re from Antioch.”

From the way Jason laughs, Dick knows this is one movie reference he gets.

~*~*~

The tracker leads them to an old, decrepit barn a few miles away from the Kent farm. Crumbling foundations of a demolished farmhouse are nestled in the tall grass, leading Dick to suspect the home may have been abandoned after a tornado and the land sold off to the surrounding landowners. Well, it just means there is no one here to witness what’s about to go down or to get caught in the crossfire.

In the late afternoon light, the red from Jason’s helmet shines darker than what Dick is used to. Then again, it’s not often either of them are dressed in full gear during daylight hours.

“Can’t I just set off a few pounds of C4 in there?” Jason is saying as they pile out of the SUV. Raven had met them at the Kent’s a short time before. “That’ll solve most of our problems. Let in some light and whoosh. No more clown gremlins.”

“If only it were that easy,” Rave replies, her attention already on the creepy barn.

The disgruntled noise from Jason is answer enough. “If the Pretender were here, he’d let me. Timmy likes a big boom.”

There’s the faintest hint of a smile on Raven’s face. “He does,” she agrees. “But I think your explosion would just be a waste if we set it off too soon. A portal has been opened here.”

“To where?” Dick asks. The thought of some underworld gateway so close to the Kent’s makes his skin crawl.

“I’m not sure yet.” Raven starts walking through the high grass.

Jason pops open the trunk and hands Dick one of the buckets full of their holy hand grenades. His wounded leg seems to be giving him some trouble, but he refused to stay behind. Wordlessly, they follow after Raven.

The barn door doesn’t close properly anymore, the painted wood splintered and cracked from the elements and neglect. At a signal from Raven, Dick sets down his bucket and grabs hold of the door, sliding it open on rusted tracks that resist less than they should considering the state of disrepair. A foul scent of rotting meat drifts out.

Dick has unfortunately smelled worse. “I hope that’s the missing cow.”

Raven is already shaking her head, even if she hasn’t set foot into the barn yet. “Look,” she says, pointing inside.

Jason peers over her shoulder and shakes his head. “This is right out of a bad horror movie.”

Peering in, Dick has to agree. Blood and gore and bone are everywhere, too much for just the cow. It could be a trick of the light that gives the floor an illusion of moving, but he knows better. The warmth and the rot is a breeding ground for maggots and flies.

“Those symbols on the wall…,” Raven says, trailing off as she levitates into the air and enters the hellish space to get a better look. “I’d hazard a guess and say that not all is well here in Smallville.”

“A cult?” Dick asks, standing in the doorway, but not yet willing to walk inside. There is plenty of daylight, so he’s not worried about the creatures sneaking up on them, but the wariness of a trained detective has been instilled in him since he was a child. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Jason hefting a couple of his water balloons to cover them.

Raven shrugs, floating toward a darker smudge on the floor. “Or just a bunch of kids who got their hands on the wrong kind of book.” She points at an object that is surprisingly clean of blood. “Like that.”

Dick has a feeling that as soon as this particular case is over, he’s going to burn this particular uniform entirely. Blood magic. It never ceases to amaze him how powerful it is and the kind of evil that can be wrought when used by the wrong person. He removes a large evidence bag from a compartment in his boot and enters the barn, stepping carefully. The air is thick with the metallic tang of old blood with an undercurrent of old hay that’s been left to rot.

“Where are the garden gnomes hiding?” Jason calls out as Dick carefully picks up the book and bags it for Raven. She makes it disappear in the folds of her dark blue cloak.

“They’re in the storm cellar,” Raven replies. “Waiting for us.”

“Geez, like that’s not creepy at all.”

“They’re creatures of utter darkness,” the young sorceress answers. “Light of any kind is an anathema to them.”

“Is the portal down there too?” Jason asks.

“Yes.”

Dick sighs and gags silently as he gets hit with a fresh wave of decaying flesh. “Let’s get to work then.”

They all have their parts to play. Raven prepares herself for the magics she’ll need to unleash while Dick takes copious amounts of pictures of the interior of the barn and tries to preserve any evidence that could provide a clue as to the identities of the people who died in here. He finds five skulls and bags each one, hoping dental records will reveal their names. Jason makes his way around the perimeter of the barn, carefully avoiding the entrance to the storm cellar, and sets his bombs. This place is going up in smoke as soon as that gate is gone.

It's almost sundown by the time they’re done and gather at the wooden slats covering the stairs leading into the storm cellar.

“This is gonna be great,” Jason chortles as he hefts his water balloons again. “A little light, a little holy water, some magic, and then it all goes boom.”

“You were singing a different tune last night,” Dick says, standing as he finishes lighting the camping lantern Uncle Jon purchased for them earlier in the day.

“We didn’t have holy hand grenades last night.”

Raven chuckles in that quiet way of hers. “I like that movie.”

“It’s a classic.”

“Are we ready?” Raven asks, holding her hands up.

“Let’s kill some clowns.”

The wood covering is torn away with a sweep of Raven’s hand and Dick holds the lantern high even as mage lights race down the stone steps to light the way. Familiar laughter and hisses echo up and around them as they make their way down into the storm cellar. In the center of the floor is a swirling pit of darkness that seems to swallow anything that touches it.

Just as it was last night, the creatures are difficult to make out as they dart from shadow to shadow, hiding from the light. Jason takes careful aim and throws one of his water balloons into a dark corner. A piercing wail meets their ears, even louder than the ones they’ve heard previously.

All hell breaks loose as the pit emits a pulse and more of the miniature clowns appear. Most disintegrate immediately under the powerful camp lantern and Raven’s mage lights, but a few manage to sneak away into the shadows. Dick’s one job is to keep the light steady and that’s what he does, covering Raven as she works her magic and Jason as he lobs colorful water balloons into all corners of the cellar.

“They just keep coming!” Jason shouts over the loud laughter that circles around them, shrieks and cries from over a dozen different little mouths, each one wanting nothing more than to tear them apart. One bucket is empty and the other is getting dangerously low. “What’s Raven doing?”

Dick knows better than to distract her unless she’s directly under attack. “Working, just like you.”

“While you just get to stand there all nice and pretty.” Jason tosses a water balloon directly at the inky portal and Dick swears it hiccups.

“Anytime you want to switch…” Dick knows his brother won’t. Jason has better aim and loves to lord it over him.

“Hard pass.” Another water balloon is thrown into the portal and Raven’s eyes blaze.

“One more, Jason. And then we need to get out of here.”

Jason picks up his bucket and throws the rest of his holy hand grenades into the gaping maw.

“Shit,” Dick swears as the portal erupts, strands of searing cold wind lashing out and whipping against anything that moved. It reverses in a heartbeat and the suction is strong, causing the three of them to stagger under the force. Even the remaining little clown demons aren’t exempt, and their chittering laughter turns into wails of despair as they’re dragged back into the darkness.

Raven grabs hold of Dick and envelopes him in the folds of her cloak, using her soul-self to protect him. The cold is numbing, worse than anything Mr. Freeze could ever come up with, and tears at his very soul. When Dick falls into the grass outside, he can’t help but be grateful once again that Raven is on his side.

Next to him, Jason is curled up in a little ball and mewling. This must have been the first time he’s ever felt the full force of Raven’s magic before. There isn’t time to comfort him though, and Dick scrambles for his brother’s belt where he’d tucked the detonator before. Destroying a crime scene goes against every instinct he has, but Dick refuses for the good folks of Smallville to see this.

A heavy glove lands on his and Jason sits up, detonator in hand. “I fucking hate clowns,” is all he says before the barn goes up in a flash, wood and hay igniting from the explosives and raining down around them.

Raven’s shield drops once the worst has passed. “Well, that was fun,” she says dryly. “Thanks for the invite.”

Dick laughs weakly. He’s pretty sure that was a piece of scorched bone that just landed next to him. “Anytime. Want to come back to the Kent’s for some pie?”

“I’m good. I have a paper to finish tonight.” With that, Raven disappears.

“Well, fuck.” Jason sighs heavily as he leans back in the grass and watches the fire. “Why didn’t you ask her if the gate was closed?”

“Because I trust her. If it wasn’t, she wouldn’t have left.”

“Fair enough.”

They watch the fire for another minute or so before Dick hauls himself up. His whole body hurts and all he wants is to soak in a tub full of hot water until he passes out. “We need to get gone too.”

He offers a hand to Jason, who accepts it without a word. His leg is bleeding again, Dick notices as the younger man limps back to the SUV.

As they drive away, Jason removes his helmet and gloves and tosses them into the backseat, rubbing blearily at his eyes a moment later. “I’ve decided something,” he announces.

“What’s that?” Dick asks neutrally. This could be anything considering Jason’s penchant for the dramatics.

“I hate the country. Gimme the city any day of the fucking week.”

“What about all the fresh air and sunshine? And the pie?”

“Fuck the air. Fuck the sun… And I can make my own damn pie.”

Dick laughs loudly. “Yeah, sure you can.”

“I’m serious. You’re never getting my ass out here ever again.”

His retort is on the tip of his tongue when the deer jumps out of nowhere and Dick swerves hard to avoid hitting it. “Son of a bitch!” he swears as the SUV spins wildly. His ears start ringing as both the deer and Jason scream at the same time. It’s hard to say which is louder.

The deer disappears into the field on the other side of the road and Dick gets the vehicle back under control, heart pounding loudly in his chest. He’s had enough adrenaline today, thank you very much. Jason is clearly just as done with everything as he flops back against the passenger seat, breathing heavily. “Jesus fuck, get us outta here, Dickie. My city boy ass wants back where it belongs. Where there’s no cornfields anywhere.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to watch Children of the Corn with me tonight?”

“I fucking hate you.”

#chibinightowl writes #Dick Grayson #Jason Todd #Raven #demon clowns #blood and gore #holy hand grenades #Batfamily #brotherly bonding

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sockdreams · 6 years

Photo

DIY: Spray Dye!

We've posted bunches of DIYs on dyeing your socks before, it's one of the most fun and easy ways to customize your sock drawer. But, we recently encountered a different way to dye, one that reminds us more of bleach stamping, thanks to it's stencil-ability: spray dye! It's way easier than vat or pot dyeing and super fun, so let's learn how to spray that dye!

Because we wanted to show the full range of possibility, I tried several different techniques: spraying on dry, spraying on damp, spraying on wet, and using smoothly textured stockings. What I learned is that there's a world of ways to mix and match techniques, so if you're interested in using spray dye, get ready to experiment! It's very fun but you'll want to test things out before working on that dream project. Luckily, I've tested some things for you, so you can go into your spray dye session with confidence!

First, here's what you'll need:

A work surface covered with newspaper (and I recommend laying down a plastic trash bag or something, THEN newspaper, for minimum mess). Be sure to really cover everything, you don't want any stray spray spattering things unwanted!

Simple designs to use as stencils. I used some printed-out clip art shapes—here's the sheet I used.

If your designs are on regular printer paper, you'll also want a sturdier piece of card, because it's gonna get soggy quick.

A craft blade to cut out your shapes and something safe to cut on.

Your spray dye, I'm using SEI Tumble Dye, picked up at a local craft store. Other dyes can be diluted and put into spray bottles as well, you'll want to read instructions on the dyes you use for best water-to-dye ratios.

Socks to dye! For science, I'm using a wide range: Extraordinary Thigh Highs, O Basics, Midcalf Woolies and the Opaque Nylon Stockings

Not shown: a place to lay out the socks to dry

Optional: a spray bottle of water

Optional: cardboard to put in the socks for less bleed-through

These spray dyes are pretty neat. I picked up a range of options, they were all under $5 each: two plain colours (Mint and Turquoise), two glitters (Silver and Gold) and a glow in the dark. The instructions are very clear on the packaging, you basically shake before using, spray and dye. They do also say "no gloves needed" but my fingertips ended up getting a bit dyed, so unless you're incredibly neat and way better at spritzing than I am, you may want gloves.

Spray dye on dry socks

I'll start with some Extraordinary Thigh Highs. To prevent excess bleed-through, I cut up an old shipping box into one long strip and slid the sock I was working on over it. It's a little tricky, but if you gather the sock up like you're putting it on a leg, you'll be good.

I cut out my stencil shapes, saving the cut out part to use as a reverse stencil. Simple shapes are good, both in making them easier to cut out and so the edges of the shape aren't lost from the texture of the sock or the dye bleeding.

Time to spray! The bottles were pretty easy to use, but some of the various types had a more stubborn spritzer. I found using both hands to squash the top down (and shaking the bottle regularly) helped a lot.

On a dry sock, the spray beads up a bit and is very "splashy" and airbrush-y, it's neat. I think it'd be really cool mixed with other surface design, like painting or stamping. Or . . . GLOW IN THE DARK DYE.

There's a faint colour to the glow in the dark dye (I'm pointing at it in the second half of the image above), but it's pretty subtle. It sort of blended into the Mint dye, so it's not very noticeable, which is rad. Surprise glow is the best glow. In later testing it seems like going super heavy on your spray by spraying close and several times makes for a better glowing shape.

Once I got one side looking how I wanted, it was time for the next! Having the cardboard inside made it very easy to flip and to hold by the edge so I could line up the splashes of colour. No matter what, you're going to have some "seams" on the sides of what you're spraying, but this helps break it up.

The end result isn't my favourite of the batch, but I am a fan of airbrushing and glow in the dark, so I still like 'em.

Wait, I take back what I said about which is my favourite. Because as soon as the lights are off, these socks ROCK. Please take this blurry, but vividly glowing image as proof of why. It's like proof of Bigfoot's existence, only way more exciting:

DANG! I'm sold.

Spray dye on damp socks

This spray dye says it's particularly good for tie dye, so I knotted and folded up a pair of O Basics and misted them heavily with water. I followed that up with some heavy sprays of Turquoise and hit them again with water, hoping to encourage some colour spread.

The results seem far more subtle than regular tie-dying, as the socks were damp, not wet, so the dye only spread minimally, though misting the water made the edges soften.

The end result is like drifts of clouds, but I personally would stick with a vat or pot for tie dyeing myself, because I prefer long dye times that are easier to achieve when the thing you're dyeing is sitting in the dye, rather than your dye sitting on the thing you're dyeing.

I did try something else rad on this pair, but you gotta wait to the end of the post to really see it.

Spray dye on wet socks

Well, socks, what if we go full-wet? I got a pair of Midcalf Woolies fully soaked and wrung them out thoroughly. I then learned two things.

First, if you're going to work with very wet socks, putting plastic under them will make things a little neater while you're working. I grabbed an old shopping bag, which ended up being perfect because I flipped it after I sprayed one side, so the socks weren't sitting in little puddles of dye.

Second, wet wool sure has a smell I forget about.

I loosely folded the socks sort of accordion-style, to get organic stripes and then liberally spritzed them all over with the Mint dye. Then, using the Turquoise dye I started at the toes, aiming towards the cuffs of the socks, for a sort of gradient.

With this pair I used a "reverse stencil" by laying down a cut out star shape and spraying around it. I super love how this looks and it's partially why this pair is my favourite of the lot.

Also: stripes are the best. And the natural-off white colour of the wool yarn adds a depth to the dye colours I really am digging. Plus, this pair has a little surprise you can probably catch in the images above.

Spray dye on dry nylon stockings

Socks are rad, but when it comes to fine detail their texture keeps things rough. Like RIT, SEI Tumble Dye works across different fibers—from the cotton Extraordinaries and O Basics to the wool Midcalf Woolies. So I knew it'd work great on nylon. Most dyes love nylon. And the super fine and smooth texture of the Opaque Nylon Stockings just begs to be drawn and dyed on!

I went a bit wild with the stencils on this one, but also experimented with drips, not quite by choice (the stencils were getting pretty soggy, but I went with it). The more detailed flower stencil worked like a champ on these stockings!

The finished result is like something a mermaid hippie would be into and that makes me love them.

Tips, treats and wrapping up

Since this has been a more free-form DIY, the various things I noticed trying out this technique get to go here. More than any other surface design technique, spray dye is something you want to keep fiddling with. I'm already eyeballing one pair to hit with the spray again once I've typed this all up.

Lay flat to dry, for real

The instructions on the dye mention that hanging what you've dyed will encourage the dye to bleed downward. If that's not your jam, then lay everything flat to dry on a fresh surface of newspaper. Once everything is nice and dry, put them in the dryer for 20 minutes to heat set the colour.

Sturdier stencils, seriously

I thought I was being all wise, using mid-weight card stock for my stencils. Well, dampness laughs at such hubris. I recommend not using anything less sturdy than a file folder and maybe having a couple of each stenciled shape, so you can swap when they get over-damp. This is a stencil only one pair of socks in, already buckling under the wet.

I also recommend having rags or paper towels on hand to blot your stencils and wipe your hands. Dye will pool and build up on your stencils, making things a little risky when you remove them from your socks.

Watch those wrinkles!

If you're going for a smooth or more patterned look, really use a piece of cardboard inside the sock and make sure everything is nice and flat before you start spraying. The overall look of spray dye is sort of free form; but getting slashes of the sock's colour in the middle of a dyed area, because you forgot to smooth things out, might not be something you want. I still think the stockings this happened to me on look awesome, luckily.

GLITTER!!!

Astute readers may have noticed I mentioned glitter spray dye in my list up at the top and then never mentioned it again. That's because it was 100% the best thing about the spray dyes and I wanted to show off the sparkles. Even as it was making an epic mess on my workspace (they spray much more enthusiastically than the regular dyes), it was beautiful and shimmery.

It's not a heavy sparkle, but what it does do is add a fairy dusting to whatever you're spraying. It took everything in me not to coat all the socks with glitter dye. I did happily get the stockings and the wool socks with it (silver and gold, respectively) and I'm thrilled.

Heads up: we did notice the be-glittered socks shed a little bit of their shimmer onto our hands, but we're not sure what the long term lifespan of the glitter is for these.

Go forth and spray dye!

Like a lot of more free-form dye techniques, spray dye offers a lot of possibility and rewards experimentation. If you've been wanting to play with dye but don't want to mess with the vats and buckets and dipping and dunking, spray dye is a fun and accessible way to spice things up with a little colour. Test and try and keep playing and you'll end up with a pair of socks you love that you made look that awesome!

#DIY #spray dye #tutorial #socks #dye #stars #hearts #so fancy #do it yourself

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eveycomesundone · 6 years

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Opium and Jade || Closed RP

The gold leaf paint was already peeling and she scowled down at it, the tip of a gloved finger tapping at the glass. She should have done the bloody job herself instead of hiring someone out for it, now that was two pounds she’d never see again. Not much to be done about it now, she reasoned as she fished her keys out of her small, beaded bag, and unlocked the door.

Her office, if it could be called such, was small and it was a constant battle to keep it from feeling cramped. There was no secretary to see to clients, to have them wait a moment before showing them in. Of course, it wasn’t as though clients were knocking down the door for her services. God, that made her sound so sordid.

A female detective was something of a joke, yet there she was in her tiny office with her neat little filing cabinets with her name in peeling gold letters on the door. Perhaps there was a punchline somewhere, but she couldn’t be bothered to find out what it was. So what if she was the laughing stock of Scotland Yard? They weren’t exactly stellar in their results.

So, she hung up her hat and jacket on their pegs and tugged off her gloves before shoveling a small pit of coal in the corner stove. For a small room, it never seemed to stay warm. Then again, she never seemed to stay warm. She just needed another case, anything, so that she could purchase a bit more coal and some paint for the door. Anything to just keep moving.

Sighing, she picked up the letters that had fallen through the slot and began to sort through them. Most of it seemed to be solicitation; she could clean her own damn windows, thank you very much. But it was the letter at the bottom of the stack that intrigued her.

There was no return address, no postmark. All it said, in crisp black letters, was: Miss Evelyn White.

She opened it carefully as she perched herself on the corner of her desk and her eyes widened. Evey read the letter again. “Bloody hell...”

@naganye

#naganye #opium and jade

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naiadqueen · 7 years

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The Light We Make

I’m so excited to finally post my piece for @a-little-light-zine, a Miraculous Ladybug digital charity zine benefiting the victims of Hurricane Matthew. Orders are still open until Feb 1!

Also on ao3

Marinette wakes to the crisp smell of gingerbread cookies, and a smile spreads across her face. Without having to check her phone (which is still grasped in her hand from the night before), she already knows the date. It’s the 17th of December. It’s also a Saturday, the first day of the Christmas Vacation, and a week before Christmas Eve. But most importantly, it was the Dupain-Cheng’s annual Christmas Decorating Day.

She flings the sheets off her body (disrupting a slumbering Tikki) and rushes down the stairs, wild-haired and barefoot.

“Maman, Papa,” she sing-songs, “Good morn—“ She stops dead as she notices her parents sitting on the couch, with definite not-smiles on their faces.

“Is something wrong?” Her forehead creases with concern.

Tom Dupain sighs and looks at his daughter, apology in his eyes. “Désolé, Marinette. We can’t decorate today.”

“Why?” she whines, bottom lip sticking out in a pout. Her good mood immediately dissolves.

Sabine Cheng twists in her seat and lays a comforting hand on Marinette’s arm. “We couldn’t find the lights in the cupboard, ma chérie. They must’ve gotten moved around when we renovated downstairs this summer.” Her reassurance does little to soothe Marinette’s disappointment. “We can check tonight after lock up, okay?”

“I guess…” Marinette smiles weakly at her parents, even as her heart falls.

“Okay then. Now why don’t you call Alya and see if she’s free today?”

Marinette glumly nods once and trudges back upstairs as her parents descend back down to the bakery to start their day.

But, two days later, Marinette sits, sulking, in a café with Alya and Myléne as they jabber on about the movie they just saw. She sighs into her gloved palm for the umpteenth time. The lights are yet to be located, and the bakery looks dull and depressing without the lights gracing its front, especially since it had started lightly snowing that morning. Next to the other buildings on her street, it is basically naked. She glares at the inferior lights winking at her through the window.

“Marinette!” Tikki’s voice comes in an earnest whisper. “You have a text!” Marinette looks down to see the kwami pushing her phone out of her bag. She takes the phone from her and reads the notification.

Maman: Found the lights! They were under the old curtains!

Marinette practically beams at the phone in her lap. She taps a message out onto the screen.

Marinette: Don’t start without me! On my way home now!

The bell over the door tinkles jollily as Marinette bursts into the bakery, startling a customer who was taking out his wallet.

“I’m home!”

Sabine, behind the counter, laughs. “I see you, Marinette. Let me ring this one up and we’ll close up for the day, okay? Your father’s upstairs.”

Marinette runs past the counter and up the stairs, dumping her bag by the door. “Papa!”

“In here, chérie!” Tom stands by a large brown box on the kitchen table. He chuckles at her eager expression. “Want to open it?” he asks his daughter. She nods, moving towards it, and almost reverently, pries open the flaps.

The lights, coiled around themselves, are coated in dust. Relics from Tom’s childhood, they have vintage-styled and oversized bulbs in a multitude of colours. When lit up, they shine bright and proud, and wash both bakery and home in a wonderful spectacle of jewel tones. The lights, paired with the promise of decadent Christmas treats, never fail to bring cheerful customers and tourists to the bakery.

Without another moment’s hesitation, she plunges a hand into the box, ready to begin the long-delayed decorating.

Instead, sharp pain shoots up her arm. “Ouch!” she hisses, yanking her hand back and cradling it to her chest. She stares at the pad of her index finger, where a long cut swells with scarlet.

“Marinette, are you okay?” Tom yelps, grabbing her wrist and inspecting her finger. She winces at the sharp movement, and a bead of blood drips down to one flap of the box. “Come, lets clean the cut.” He leads her to the sink and she washes the finger while he rummages around for a first aid kit. Finding one, he gently applies antiseptic cream and a large plaster to the wound.

“What cut you?” Tom asks between Marinette’s whimpers of pain.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe glass?”

As her words register, the two look at each other and turn back to the box on the table and peer in. Nestled between lines of wiring are shards of colourful glass from several shattered bulbs, hidden underneath the top layer of unbroken lights.

“Oh, no!” Marinette bemoans as Sabine enters the room. “They’re broken!”

Sabine gasps and goes over to them. “What the matter?”

Marinette explains the condition of the lights, before Sabine clutches Marinette to her chest. “How horrible!” cries Sabine as Tom pats her back comfortingly. “Oh, I am so sorry, Marinette.” Over Sabine’s shoulder, Marinette can see Tikki hovering by the doorway, concern in her eyes.

Marinette gives her a subtle shake of her head and buries her head into her mother’s shirt. “I guess we just have to buy new ones then, huh?” she sighs.

After an awkward dinner, Marinette sits at her desk, textbook open in front of her, and tries to think about her holiday homework instead of those damned lights. She fails.

“Am I just picking up Chat Noir’s bad luck?” she blurts, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Is that it?”

Tikki rolls her eyes. “Don’t be silly, Marinette. That’s not how it works.”

Marinette frowns. “Are you sure?”

Tikki sighs and flies around to face Marinette, placing her little hands on her cheeks and staring into her eyes. “Marinette,” she says, voice stern, “what’s wrong?”

“You wouldn’t understand, you’re new here,” Marinette huffs as she turns away, spinning in her chair. “It’s just… Every year, no matter how stressed or lonely I’d be, I could look forward to the Christmas holiday, because it meant I could be with the people I love most. A time where I could just be surrounded by love and joy, and not worry about the year ahead. And Decorating Day would always be the kickoff of the holidays, for as long as I can remember. A day that I just spend with my parents, and we’d just bond and laugh and talk; a day just for the three of us.” Her shoulders slump. “And while I know that things are different now, I can’t help feel that because this year’s Decorating Day was ruined, the whole of next year might be too.”

“Oh, Marinette.” Tikki’s voice takes on a softer tone. “You have to keep positive! Just because one day didn’t go as planned doesn’t mean that every day after that will. Life is unpredictable, but you have your family, your friends, and now Chat Noir and I by your side to help you when things get rough.”

Marinette considers her kwami before laughing lightly. “You’re right,” she admits, “of course.” She turns back to her book “Besides, we’ll go buy new lights; they can’t be all gone — my luck isn’t that bad, right?”

The Dupain-Cheng family gape incredulously at the bored-looking sales assistant in front of them. It is evening on the day before Christmas Eve, and it is the only time that the entire family has free, with Sabine and Tom caught up in the pre-Christmas rush and Marinette juggling shifts, present shopping, and her secret duties as Ladybug.

“’No more lights’?” Marinette squeaks in alarm. “Are you sure?”

“Um, yeah.” The assistant gives a slight shrug. “It’s the day before Christmas Eve. Everyone’s already done their shopping and decorating.”

“But are you sure-sure?”

“What my daughter means to ask,” Sabine cuts in, voice sweet as sugar, “is if could you please check the stockroom for us?”

“Yeah, whatever.” The assistant walks away, his grumbling about how it was almost the end of his shift loud enough for the trio to hear. In his short absence, they stand silence and wish for a miracle.

At the sound of his reapproaching footsteps on the linoleum, all three perk up with hopeful smiles on their faces. Slung under one arm is a white box, the amiable visage of Santa Claus printed on its side.

Unceremoniously, he hands it to them. “These were the only lights I could find.”

Marinette’s good mood is quick to wither. “Is that… a shirtless Santa?”

Sabine reads the box label. “‘Sexy Shirtless Santa Lights for all your Naughty List needs.’” She looks at the sales assistant in horror. “Why would you even stock this?”

“I don’t know, madame.” He shrugs again, his voice devoid of emotions. “Will you be purchasing this item?”

Tom coughs abruptly into his hand. “I don’t think so, no.” Placing his hands on Marinette’s shoulder, he ushers her towards the exit and gestures for Sabine to follow.

“Have a merry Christmas,” the assistant drones, and the automatic doors shut behind the Dupain-Chengs.

Marinette looks at her parents. “What do we do now?” she asks, even though she knows they don’t have an answer either.

Marinette doesn’t feel the excitement she normally has on Christmas Eve. Instead, she goes through her shift at the bakery lifelessly, barely registering anything over the regular customers asking where the lights this year are. Tom and Sabine are equally listless. When her shift ends, she trudges back to her room and flops, belly-first, onto the chaise lounge.

“Marinette.” Tikki parks herself on the cushioning by Marinette’s face. “It’s Christmas Eve! Cheer up.”

“No.” The chaise muffles Marinette’s voice. “I’m sad.”

“Well,” Tikki says, “what’re you going to do about it?”

Marinette jerks up to scowl at her kwami. “What do you mean, what am I going to do about…” she trails off as notices her box of discarded fashion projects. A grin stretches across her lips as an idea pops into her head. She meets Tikki’s eyes.

“I know what I’m going to do.”

“Marinette!” Sabine calls up the stairs, hours later. “It’s time to get ready for church!”

“I know! Just… come here!” Sabine and Tom exchange a look, both noticing that their daughter sounds more cheerful than she was earlier. Suspicious, they climb the stairs together and enter the house.

The curtains are drawn and the room is dark, save for light from half a dozen flashlights scattered around the room and pointing towards the middle of it, which stands empty as all the furniture has been pushed to the sides. Marinette, who is wearing a remarkable sweater covered in hastily glued on glitter, rhinestones and sequins, stands in the dark by the stairs. By her feet are two gift bags.

“Chérie, what is this?” Tom asks, befuddled.

“Close your eyes; you’ll see,” she says, tone cryptic.

Warily, her parents do so, hearing Marinette shuffle around, and only open them when she calls, “Okay, you can look!”

They open their eyes. Marinette stands proudly in the middle of room, the light of the flashlights bouncing off her sweater, and causing millions of slivers and fragments of colourful light to dance around the room. She spins once, the brilliance following her in a dizzying lightshow, and then giggles at their speechlessness.

“I thought that if we couldn’t put our old lights up,” she explains, “then maybe we could be our own lights this year. Check inside the bags.”

Her parents’ faces split into smiles as they dig into the giftbags and find old sweaters upgraded with sparkles. At their daughter’s insistence, they pull the sweaters on and join her in the center of the room. The light that was previously reflected is now intensified threefold, and the family is left in awe at the miniature stars and supernovas covering their living room. They become the center of their own galaxy, and, surrounded by the lights they made, Marinette hugs the two most important people in her life.

#my writing #alittlelightzine #miraculous ladybug #ml #ml fic #mlcreators

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hellogreenergrass · 7 years

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Signy Island - Week Six

18th January

Snowing again. And windy. And generally a bit Polar. Despite these clear signs that today should be an inside day, a day where you hide in your heated laboratory and bask in the technological and mechanical advances that have allowed humans to house themselves on a remote Island in the full force of the Southern Ocean. Wondering if you should put a jumper on, not because you are cold, but because it would make you feel even cosier. Or whether you should treat yourself and put your tea in the thermal mug with the Tardigrade on it that your (very considerate) friends brought you. The advantage being that you could have a large supply of hot tea on your desk without having to strain yourself to go to the kitchen to make another when you inevitably forgot about it and it went cold. Such luxuries are afforded on inside days, all the while the Polar winds whirl outside, forcing the seals into the ocean and birds back to their nests in order to wait it out. This was today.

But I didn’t do any of this. I gamely dragged myself and Iain, to be my field assistant, out into the field to drill 88 soil cores spread over hilly and coastal, weather lashed terrain. Each point to be sampled was 100m away from the other, in a grid nearly a kilometre wide and long. This sounds straight forward enough, especially when planning such things on maps. In reality, one point may be at sea level and another 100m away could well be at the top of the cliff. Or in the case of one point, over the edge of a cliff on a steep and disintegrating bank of moss and scree roughly at an angle of 60 degrees, sometimes more. I’d set out the grid on my own a few days earlier, and whilst I followed my GPS over the edge of the cliff where it indicated the next point was to be, I wondered if maybe I should go back to base and rope up. I decided not and plunged forth, immediately regretting my decision as I downclimbed what turned out to be an unreversible move. It was later pointed out to me that when one is in a situation where they think, “maybe I should do this thing, like rope up and abseil, or call base and let them know what Im doing”, then that is probably the thing I should do. But I styled it out with an ingracious amount of bum sliding, swearing and a heart rate of at least 250bpm. Safe to say Iain and I found an alternative route, approaching the point from the ground up, rather than giving ourselves over completely to gravity and the God’s of misadventure.

Despite the appalling conditions we had a great day out. Iain is good company and made a dull job brighter, if not the weather. In part because of the large amount of innuendo about large penetrating rods into moist substrate….trust a Glaswegian.

20th Jan

I bum lifted today! No, this was not a crude endeavour you filthy minded so and so you. Nor is it innuendo, (well, sometimes it is around here) but is in fact what we call chick counting when the penguins are still sitting on them. Because you have to lift up penguin bottoms. You see, much more delightful than what you were thinking! I was Stacey’s field assistant for the day and we needed to count the Chinstrap chicks over at Cummings and the Moyes Corrie area on the West Coast of the Island. It’s beautiful around there, and the high winds that still hadn’t dissipated from earlier in the week, only added to the drama. Big waves crashed over icebergs in the bay, the mist continuously rose and lowered it’s skirts, so that every few minutes another part of the view would be teasingly revealed or tucked away. I find that clouds and mists on mountains give a good sense of scale, as if we innately equate a cloud with a certain distance. They belong in the heavens, and we on Earth, and mountains are where they meet. Us tiny specks of biology in comparison to either.Or maybe thats just the romantic in me.

Cummings Cove is also home to the Cummings Hut. A battered and bruised relic of early polar adventures, that was all the lovelier for the brow beatings that Antarctica had furrowed upon its walls. It is essentially a roof planted on short, thick stone walls, with the door attached to the roof and slotted into the allocated space, as if the whole structure came as one piece and just needed a few feet of stone to raise it up for head clearance. It felt very Alpine. The roof has recently been replaced, and just the other week Iain and Matt came out to replace the chimney vent. And on this trip Alex painted the front door to match the fascia. Its now a bright blue (Cuprinol Beach Blue in fact!) and alongside the roof and gables that are ‘BAS Green’, a sort of pale sage, it looks quite fetching. Inside, the hut contains a worktop the length of one side with an array of tinned and dried food stuffs: namely a worrying amount of processed cheese in tins, several butts of drinking water and the Tilley lamps and Primus stoves of yore that furnish all our huts. Along the other side are two bunks with fleece skins over the mattresses for warmth and a mound of down sleeping bags of varying ages, sizes and perfumes. A small Perspex window looks out from the rear gable over the cove and the dozens of fur seals that live there. We stopped briefly, leaving Alex to stock up the first aid kit and finish the paint work, before heading out to count the penguins.

To get to Moyes Corry and the majority of the Chinstrap colonies that we needed to see today, we hiked up the short but steep scree and snow slope that makes the Southern edge of the bay and Cummings area. At the top, the ridge was greener than expected (for a ridge) and on closer inspection showed a multitude of colours and textures in the diverse array of moss and lichen species present. This was Cryptogam Ridge. Naturally. (FYI: Cryptogam is a plant with no true flowers, cryptogram on the other hand is code breaking). Down the cliff from here was our first colony and out of 35 nests this year, only 2 chicks have made it this far. In previous years there have been three colonies at this spot, but today, only one. And this one doesn’t appear to be having a good year. Stacey and her colleagues suspect the combining doom of climate change and the El Nino to be the indirect cause.

Next we had to ascend a small peak and then traverse across its Southern slopes of perilously placed scree, before shuffling our way down the final descent – a 50 degree slide of snow, ice and loose rocks. Remember that here in Antarctica, the South facing slopes are the ones kept shaded and cold, not the North face! A mile more and we arrived at the biggest colony on todays survey list: A few hundred nests of chinstraps. I gloved up, armed with a spray can of blue sheep dye to mark the nests we had checked off, and got lifting! Taking a cluster of nests at a time, I offered my right hand in a distracting sacrifice to the understandably furious pecks of the parent penguin, whilst lifting its tail up and counting the chicks beneath. Sometimes there was nothing, sometimes an egg, but usually it was a grey fluffy mass and sprawling wings that stares blankly at you with the blackest little eyes, like beads of onyx dropped into a mound of silvery fuzz. The chicks vary in size, from the recently hatched that are smaller than my palm, to the huge and frankly ridiculous chicks that are near the size of their parents. All the more ridiculous as their parents are still sheltering them, but as they are so big now the parents are lifted clear of the ground and balance atop a massive fluff bundle. So I repeat this process for the best part of 200 times: bend, lift penguin, get pecked and hit (flippers hurt!), shout out the number to Stacey and then spray the rock adjacent blue. Sometimes the nests were at the bottom of the cliff, so I would scramble down to the surging waves, slipping on the rock as my boots – now weighing a few extra Kg with congealed penguin shit – struggled to take grip on the frictionless schist rock. Shit on schist.

At the final colony, we looked down into a wen that was flanked by hundreds of meters of soaring cliff. Stacey pointed out the nests of sea birds that I had overlooked, too distracted by the view of a Moe Island. Moe is essentially a mountain in the sea, and a spectacular feature of Signy. The island stands maybe a mile offshore, perhaps less, and the bulk of it is a mountain peak. Although the whole island cant be more than a kilometre or two in diameter. There is a brief plateau on one side, before the land gives way to a sheer cliff into the sea. Today it was snow capped and what had been huge waves crashing the beach at Cummings, now looked like sloshing ripples lapping at pebbles under the mass of Moe. The cool thing about Antarctica is that latitude has already done the work of altitude. We may live at sea level, but to all intents and purposes it’s the same as being a few thousand meters up in the mountains of Europe. So smaller peaks that we would not even consider a mountain back home, are very Alpine. Both in topography and climate. A hill of 50m above sea level has more in common with the high mountain plateaus of Northern Norway than anything at the same level back in the UK. Stace and I both stood in silence taking it in: Just beneath us a flock of Cape Petrels floated in the sea, hundreds of them bobbing like black and white flotsam in the swell. Our view stretched to the horizon and it was exhilarating knowing that there was nothing but open ocean for thousands of kilometres, and in fact if we set sail from here and just let the winds take us, we wouldn’t make land fall again until we hit the South Orkneys from the other direction. Such are the currents of the Southern Ocean, circling around and around the continent. I felt so very very lucky to be here.

#antarctica

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thepackratchronicles-blog · 7 years

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Ch3

I don’t traffic in anything have to do with dark magic. Black stuff, the sort that requires blood rituals and deals with demons. Beyond my own, staunch morality, I’m rather allergic to it.White magic, fae charms, and everything between doesn’t even make me itch, but dark magic? My eyes water, my sinuses fill, and my throat feels like sandpaper.This is exactly what happened to me not five minutes after calling Iris. I sneezed in rapid succession and scrambled for a hanky. This would be a long day, I could already tell. Turning the dial of my radio, I picked up a police scanner and listened to all the words fit to broadcast. There had been an attack at Enoch’s store. A struggle, and a man dead matching Enoch’s description from two bullet holes in the back of the head. Very nice. Very professional. I felt my blood boil. I am not, by practice, a man prone to rages. But when someone not only kills a valuable sort of magical goods. Someone I’ve known for a very long time, well I can’t say it doesn’t get my dander up.Blowing my nose, I struggled to pull on my parka, beanie hat, and gloves. I had to do some thinking, and doing it holed up in my pack was not the most productive. I needed fresh air. Salt air.About two hours later I was at the docks. It’s my favorite place to mull things over. Also, like most ‘rough places’ in any city or town, it’s where you’re more likely to find some magical inhabitants.Glamours are expensive you see. Oh sure it’s easy for a thousand year old vampire to pay to keep themselves looking and seeming human. But when you’re a down on your luck Troll trying to feed a brood of kids, a halfhearted masque is the best you can manage.One being in particular, a Hill Giant named Larry, was the one I was after. He ran a seedy little bar at the docks, which catered to the lost and found of magical beings. Especially those who could afford no manner of glamour. And thus had to keep out of the eyes of ‘normies’ lest the MPD (Mystical Police Department) swoop down and lock them up.Larry was massive, and likely eight feet tall when he stood upright, which he never did. He hunched like most of his kind, and was cleaning massive iron mugs when I entered. He snorted his greeting, and I slipped onto a barstool.“You ain’t wanted here, bub,” “Now now Larry. You know quite well I paid my tab last we-” “Ain’t about the tab. You got yerself a price on yer head.” I blinked once. Twice even. A price? How was that even possible? What could I have done to warrant such an over-exaggeration of a reaction.“Come again?” Another snort. “-y’heard me short-stack. Some.. high end lawyer wit’ a bit of dark power behind him put it our on th’magic radar a half ‘n hour ago. Says anyone who brings y’in gets a hefty price. Gotta be alive tho’, so there’s a comfort,” A half an hour? I had been safe and snug in my little abode a half hour ago. This was ridiculous. But I felt the proverbial weight of a target being draw on my back. I scratched my beard and pondered.“Any chance you won’t tell anyone I’ve been here, Larry?” There was a long pause. He of course was waiting for the reason to not be telling anyone. Digging into one of the many pockets of my parka, I slid him two gold coins, which he took. “-Course not, we’re friends ain’t we?” I didn’t stay much longer at Larry’s place. When you’re prey, you move. As I stepped onto the docks once more, I was spotted. Men in suits... same as the sort that had shouldered me outside of Enoch’s shop appeared on either ends of the long shore. “Ah... feck,” I muttered to myself. I myself, am not one for fighting. In a one-on-one brawl, I can handle myself alright. I’ve watched countless hours of professional wrestling. I know that a good thumb in the eye, or kick in the jewels halts most any fights. But four buff men in suits? No thank you.I weighed my options. I doubt I could run. I didn’t have time to dig into my pack for anything proper. I only kept simple things in my accessible pockets, anything heavy got cataloged away. That’s when I thought of it.A month ago, a mermaid had needed some help getting her children out of debt with a rather disgusting goblin. He was using their songs to get people into his establishment of ill-repute. Abused them rather severely. Normally I’d have taken such a task without charge, but she insisted I take something. So she had given me a pearl. One time-use. Apparently it would allow me to ‘Swim like fish. Fast and true. Much fast’ (she was in fact, a Russian mermaid.)I had never had a chance to test it, do to it’s single use, so I couldn’t organize it in my collection. But now seemed as good a time as any. In a flash, I sunk my hand into one of the pockets of my pack, and heard the splintering of wood. Those bastards were throwing hexes at me!I made a mad dash towards the edge of the dock. Popping the pearl into my mouth, I swallowed and jumped into the icy waves below.My muscles screamed in agony. My chest pounded at the shock. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay under for long. Not a chance. That’s when it happened.I felt my clothes loosen. My arms shrank... my legs seemed to.. melt together. For fuck’s sake. Swim like fish. Swim as a fish. I’m a fucking fish!A marlin to be precise. Thankfully a large enough animal to where I could still carry my jacket and pack. The only two items that mattered and swam as rapidly as I could towards salvation. My pack hanging off a fin, and coat perched on my spear-like snout.I had no idea how to get where I needed to go, I was never a boating sort of person. But the further I got away from those goons, the better I’d be. I kept to the coastline, until I was able to pop up to recognize the lower half of the city. That’d work. I didn’t know how long it’d take to revert back to myself. So I huddled under a dock near the city, and tossed my pack and jacket onto shore. Both hidden by shadow and planks. Then swam aimlessly until I felt the change take place.Once I had the appropriate amount of appendages I scrambled out of the water. I shook the beaded water off my parka and pulled it on . Both my pack and coat had been jinxed to be VERY weatherproof. I thanked that leprechaun, wherever he was.I popped into my bag long enough to dry off. Change into warm dry clothes, a sturdy pair of boots, and a few more layers to keep the hypothermia out. I also grabbed a flask of Orcish Spirits, and after a gulp I felt the feeling rush back to my fingers and toes.Once I was back into the real world, I slung my pack onto my back, and started on foot. I had no idea where I was going. I was very sure that I couldn’t go to any of my usual haunts. They’d likely be watched. And I refused to put anyone in danger recklessly. I did text Iris. Not because I was concerned. She is definitely a woman who could take care of herself. But because I told her I’d be off the grid for a while, and gave her some vague details about why.I received a reply of “Right”. Which was clearly a disguised statement of love, concern, and admiration. I decided then and there that I would in fact be safest among the normies.Magic is a very well kept secret. And the people who enforce that secret are some of the strongest and scariest people you’d never hope to meet. No matter how much power this strange, Warlock... Lawyer.. Lawyerlock had, he wouldn’t dare risk exposure en mass. I went to a mall, for I love the mall as it’s filled to the brim with people determined not to pay attention to you. There I spent a useful hour doing research on my now third cellphone of the day. Devouring a side of “Left Side Moon’s” lovely orange chicken. Iris had installed an app that let me read the “Magical RSS Feed”. Which apparently announced all the goings-on in our world. And true to his word, Larry was right.“Bounty - Packrat Moe - Vast Gold Reward - Alive - Any Information Paid - Contact 555-8392″ “Well Well... this is interesting,” I whispered to myself, the only council worth a flick in times of crisis. I forwarded it to Iris, and asked her politely, if a little vaguely to see if she could find out who had posted it. Her answer came not twenty minutes later.-Someone trying to keep hidden. Lots of magic loopholes. Burnt out computer tracking it down. Bought new one, sending you invoice.- I rolled my eyes, but continued reading.-Law Firm, Ghul & Associates. Nothing on the man who runs it. Doesn’t exist.-I thanked her. It wasn’t much, but it was more than I had had before. I at least had a starting point. I stocked up on supplies, food, odds and ends, and once more set out. I had an appointment with a lawyer to keep.

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