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inspectormila · 4 years

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Mirror’s Edge || Sharmila & Erin

TIMING: Current (POTW)

PARTIES: @inspectormila, @corpse--diem

SUMMARY: Mila goes to discuss Erin’s recent fire. Things don’t go well, but not for the reason you think.

Sharmila wasted no time once she returned to White Crest in opening and reinvestigating each and every fire that occurred in her absence. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her department to do a thorough job, it was just that they weren’t that great. They weren’t her. Every accidental fire and explosion case she could convince the chief to hand her was now splayed across her dining table in loosely organized chaos. Most looked like accidents, but there were a few questionables. The explosion at the morgue, for instance, but she would grill Cece about that later once they’d had a few drinks. The second was also close to home, Nichols’ Funeral Home. Not only were there people trapped inside, one of their own had actually been killed in the blaze. Mila didn’t know Roland well, but he had always been nice to her when they passed in the halls. It was still a tragedy. And it was still suspected arson. Why it had been shoved by the wayside was beyond Mila and she would make damn sure she got to the bottom of it.

She hadn’t given Nichols much of a heads up, calling the woman when she was already on her way, notebook and tape recorder in hand. If the reports were correct, she was seen having an argument with an unknown person just before the blaze broke out. Mila wanted to make sure she caught the woman off guard in case she had something to hide. Most arson cases in town were owner caused, more often than not because of insurance fraud. How silly. She would always find the truth, didn’t they know this by now? The sun was just beginning to dip low behind the trees when Mila’s louboutins clicked their way up the driveway. Reaching out a perfectly manicured finger, Mila rang the bell and called out. “Hello? Ms. Nichols? It’s Agent Darzi? I called on my way over?”

Erin didn’t have a chance to appreciate the anxiety that brief phone call had given her. Just knew that some Agent Darzi was on her way to her apartment right now with some questions regarding the fire that brought down half of the funeral home. This wasn’t her fault--not this fire, anyway--but how was she supposed to explain herself here? Sorry, some asshole with magic fingers and a vendetta torched the place? Also, please don’t worry about the recent arrest on my record? She probably didn’t need the caffeine but she put on a pot of coffee anyway to busy herself while she waited. When the doorbell rang, Erin ran a hand down her mouth, trying to steady her heartbeat, reminding herself she hadn’t been the one to physically set the building to flame. She wasn’t innocent but this part she couldn’t take all the credit for.

“Agent Darzi,” Erin smiled tightly, nodding her head in greeting, a little taken aback by how young the woman was. Age hardly mattered when it came to whether or not she had the ability to toss Erin right back into that depressing holding cell. “You can just call me Erin. Come in, please,” she insisted, moving aside to let her in. The coffee was already set up on the table and she guided her towards it. “Coffee?” She asked, trying to loosen some of the tightness in her throat and started pouring two mugs before Agent Darzi had the chance to decline or accept. “You said you had some, uh--questions? About the fire?”

Sharmila smiled and entered the apartment, glancing around casually before following her mark towards the coffee. She breathed in deep, inhaling the warm scent before placing her things on the table, making herself quite at home. “Oh I would love some, thanks!” She reached out, letting the cup warm her hands. “I didn’t get a chance to inject any caffeine this morning, so this is a godsend!” She chuckled, attempting to put the woman at ease. Mila knew all too well how stressful law enforcement home visits were and in her experience, you caught more flies with honey than vinegar. “Yes,” Mila frowned, taking a small sip. Dark and bitter, just like she liked it. “I’m so sorry about your losses, I’m sure it’s come as a great heartbreak. Unfortunately, as arson is suspected, we have to do a thorough investigation. You understand. Just making sure everything’s in order!” Mila set her coffee down and began rummaging through her bag, pulling out a few folders. “Now, did you have any insurance policies on the building or business? Unfortunately money is almost always the real cause for these things.” She raised her perfectly plucked brows in a gesture of innocence. “Not that I’m blaming you for that! Just the facts, really. We want to make sure whoever is responsible is dealt with accordingly and if you do have a good insurance plan, we want to make sure you can get back up and running as soon as possible!” She smiled, tapping her pen expectantly on her pad of paper.

The woman sure was eager, wasn’t she? Erin would’ve appreciated the enthusiasm more if it wasn’t her case she’d decided to double check. “Totally understand. You’re just doing your job, here,” she smiled, trying to be gracious about Agent Darzi’s efforts. God, that would be nice, though. Kicking the insurance into gear, getting construction underway, going back to work. Her smile lifted more genuinely at the thought. “I’ve got all of that information right here. All that I could find on such short notice, anyway. Not much from my office made it out.” She tried to ignore the crackling of fire in her ear or Blanche’s screams of terror. Still felt as real as it did two months ago. She cleared her throat and pushed the folder towards her. “The only thing that’s changed in the past few years is the policy owner, from Jack Nichols to myself. There’s a few extra things because of the nature of my business. Equipment’s expensive to replace, but that’s about--”

Erin took one short look at the coffee pot, then another, longer this time--and jolted back with a start. A woman’s face hovered beside her own, obscured and abstract due thanks to the shape of the pot yet horrifying. She looked… dead. Pale skin cracked around the curves of her face, darkening to almost black around the eyes. “Jesus!” She yelped, turning to look behind her, knocking her full cup of coffee all over the place. There was nothing there, and nothing in the coffee pot when she looked again. What the fuck? She jumped again when the hot liquid dripped onto her lap. “I--shit, I’m so sorry. I don’t know--” she started, standing up, limbs shaky from the sudden fright as she grabbed some towels from the kitchen and started to clean. The papers were covered in coffee. “I thought I saw--something.”

Mila nodded, her lips pouting a bit. “Of course, so sorry to spring this on you again, I guess I don’t know what to do when I’m not working so I like to dive in head first!” She reached out and began flipping through the documents. Nothing looked out of order, no expansive insurance policy that would pay for her second home in Cabo. But then there was that mention of an argument...Heated arguments were explosive in cases like this. “Now, I’m so sorry to ask but do you have any enemies? Old coworkers, competing businesses, anyone who would want to see your home burn? There’s a note here-” Mila looked down to her file a split second before coffee and papers went flying. She jumped back, swatting a few stray droplets from her Chanel pants. “Oh! Are you ok??” Mila set about drying off her papers, bristling at the idea that maybe there was something suspicious in here after all, but one look at Erin’s face told her maybe not to jump the gun. Her hands hovered over the papers. “Ms. Nichols, are- what’s wrong? Are you alright? You’re shaking...Here just hand me some paper towels, I’ve got this. No use crying over spilled coffee, right?”

“No, no, I’m fine!” Erin insisted, trying to take a deep breaths. She was just seeing things. That’s all. Stress, lack of sleep, and a trick of the light would do wonders to mess with anyone’s mind a little bit. That’s all it was. Besides, this place was fully warded against anything even resembling a ghosts. Even fires, thanks to Nell’s helpful addition. Blanche had even come to double check them all. They had nothing to worry about. Nothing. “God, I’m sorry. This probably looks… not great.” She had to laugh as the adrenaline slowly started to loosen itself from her limbs. Her nose crinkled at the ruined paperwork and she slid a worried hand down the side of her face. “Whatever you need from me, I’ll be happy to replace. I’ll get the insurance company to send over more copies too, if you need them?” She asked, hoping that her blunder hadn’t made her look even more guilty than before. With the table cleaned, and the coffee pot reflection free, she sat down once more, trying to smooth over this shamble of a meeting. “You were asking about… enemies?” She stiffened, narrowing her eyes, shrugging innocently. “Nope. None that I can think of. I mean, competition for funeral homes isn’t exactly stiff in this town, if you know what I mean.”

Mila knelt down and collected what she could, handing back a few of the more ruined documents to Erin. “It’s fine, really. I would like to have some copies, but maybe...let’s email those over to my office directly?” She gave a small smile. Whatever had spooked the woman seemed to be gone now, but it raised the question in Mila’s mind, what if something similar had happened with the fire in question? That would make it an accident, not intentional arson. She scribbled down a quick note before looking back up. “Luckily all of this,” she waved her folder casually. “Is backed up multiple times. Can’t work in the business of fire and destruction without assuming accidents might happen to you too.” The lamia tried to center herself back into the task at hand, hoping Erin wouldn’t be quite so jumpy for the rest of their meeting. “Are you- oh good lord.” Mila grinned, slapping a hand on her knee. “No, I suppose it isn’t is it? No one plotting for your business, hm? Now…” Her face fell a bit, shifting from her jokes. “There was a witness who saw a man speaking with you just before the fire. Can you tell me about that?”

Oh good, they were both full blown punning now. That was a good sign Agent Darzi wasn’t about to find her guilty and slap some handcuffs on right now, right? The thought was ridiculous of course but after her first go around, Erin wasn’t anxious for another. An easy laugh fell from her and she sat back in her seat, trying to push the image of the woman in the reflection out of her mind. This was fine. “Plotting for my business. That’s a good one,” she pointed towards the other woman. “No, no. Believe me, my life is ridiculously boring,” she answered, lying so seamlessly it almost felt true. More of a wish, than anything. Her nerves had finally seemed to settle when she saw it again--just behind Darzi in the mirror on the wall. There was no mistaking it this time. Erin froze, no longer listening, just stared back at the wretched and angry face locked on hers. The woman’s black lips parted, gaping open as a wail burst from her throat, inhuman and raspy. “MURDERER!” the voice bellowed, pointing in her direction.

Erin flew backwards in her hurry, taking the chair down with her, an icy fear shooting up her spine. What the fuck? What the fuck? Another scream left the woman in the mirror, her finger pointing in Erin’s direction. Suddenly, she was in every part of the room, all at once, in every reflection. Pointing and screaming “Murderer!” at the top of her lungs. It was almost as if she didn’t even see Agent Darzi. Murderer. Guess that was her. Fuck. “Run!” she hollered at the other woman anyway, scrambling over some of the moving boxes on the floor on her way down the hallway.

If she was honest, Mila hoped this woman was innocent. It was always hard to file a case against the good ones, nice people who maybe just needed some extra money or in an accidental passion sent their home or business up in flame. Hell, wasn’t she a little hypocritical at this point? Not that she ever lit up anything important or owned by someone else. “Ridiculously boring can still have it’s sharp edges,” Mila replied, tapping the end of her pen against her leg. Mila watched as Erin’s face went blank, white as a ghost. She was familiar with the look of horror, but it wasn’t aimed at her. Instead her eyes were focused on a point behind Mila’s head. “Ms. Nichols? Are you- what are you-” Before she could finish the question, Mila slapped her hands to her ears. The inhuman screeching echoed around her brain and she cursed her lamia parents for giving her perfect hearing. “What the hell was-” Mila didn’t have to ask. Suddenly in front of her were fractal images of a pale, horrific woman, screaming. Murderer. Mila’s eyes went wide and she jumped back from Erin. She’d never committed a single crime against another person, there was no way in hell she was a murderer. She’d never eaten a person, only animals, and nothing sentient. Her parents had always been adamant about that. Erin screamed at her to run, and while she was hesitant to follow an apparent murderer, she did just that. The alternative was to hang out here with a bloody mirror ghost and Mila wasn’t overly fond of that option. She dashed back through the hall, following Erin’s lead. “What is that thing??” She cried, wondering if this is what Ms. Nichols thought a ‘ridiculously boring life’ would entail.

Erin didn’t look back to see if the agent was following her, just booked it down the small hallway. This was absolutely the part of the movie where she’d be screaming at herself to run out of the apartment but--here she was anyway, fucking off into her bedroom. “Murderer!” The accusing, angry voice yelled again from the mirror above her dresser. From the window next to her bed. Even the half empty glass of water on the table. She was everywhere. Pointing still, directly at Erin. She didn’t know how she knew, or even who the hell this woman was, but she was relentless in whatever the fuck this pursuit was. Justice? Truth? Erin reached for the closest thing near her, a lamp, and tossed it at the mirror. The glass splintered, breaking off into pieces, but the woman only appeared again and again in each fragment, like an inescapable nightmare. “What the f--” Her eyes were wide and she looked for Darzi. “I don’t know! I don’t know. You’re--you’re seeing this right?” The reflection shifted from a two-dimensional horror into a very tangible reality as the woman reached out from the picture frame directly beside Erin. She didn’t have time to dodge the cold hand that grabbed her, wrapping around her throat, holding her to the wall as the rest of her slowly eased out of the reflection.

Panic overwhelmed her better senses, pushing Mila further into the home after Erin. She toppled into the bedroom moments after she heard glass shattering, only to see even more ghastly faces reflected back. “Yes I’m seeing this! But what is THIS??” The ghostly woman had no heat signature, obvious that she wasn’t among the living, but Mila had never seen a ghost. That’s what this had to be, right? It’s not like zombies crawled out of mirrors and attacked people- which was exactly what this bitch was doing. “Oh my god!!!” Mila shrieked, throwing herself towards Erin, unsure what, if anything, she would be able to do here. “Get off her- you- BITCH!” Her hand wound around cold flesh that wasn’t really flesh and she yanked with all the strength she had. It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for anything that might help. God, where was a giant sword when you needed one? “Hold on, Ms. Nichols!!” The woman’s gasping was sending new waves of panic through her. She barely knew this woman, but she refused to let her die, not like this. With no knowledge of whether or not it would work, Mila set her sights on the mirror the ghastly woman was currently climbing out of, raising a stilettoed heel and bringing it sharply down on the glass, sending the woman into fragments. “OK let’s get the fuck out of here!!”

Darzi was on her attacker, fast, and Erin was never more thankful for the agent’s impromptu visit. Her vision was beginning to blacken when she heard the mirror shattering beside her head. The air rushed back into her lungs the second the ghostly woman’s hand dissipated into thin air and she took greedy gulps, stumbling forward into a full out run. “What the fu--” Erin yelled hoarsely, starting and stopping through every turn in her relatively small apartment. It wasn’t big but every reflective surface taunted her with that face, again and again. She didn’t think, just booked it right out of the apartment, leading the way for the agent. The woman was everywhere still. In the windows, the framed stock art on the walls, even the full reflection in the elevator. Relief came in the form of a dim stairwell. No reflections--just concrete, steel and the low glow of the exit sign. She dared to pause, just for a moment to catch her breath, clutching her throat. The woman’s hand had been so cold--like Dale’s had been. A shot of anger piggybacked her sharp fears. “Shit--are you okay?” She managed to ask, leaning against the wall. “Thank you for that--christ, she nearly killed me,” she huffed out incredulously. Still trying to stabilize her breathing and heartbeat, eyes flickering constantly around the room, before landing on the other woman again. “What the fuck was that? Who the fuck--?”

Mila didn’t pause, following Erin out of the apartment as fast as she possible could. Everywhere they turned, there was the woman ‘s face, now staring menacingly at herself too. Fuck. Her heart hammered in her chest as they reached the stairwell, a blank canvas, not reflections in sight. She didn’t even dare pull out her phone for fear the woman would appear in the screen. “Yeah,” Mila replied breathlessly, her hands on her knees. Thank god she was used to running in couture footwear. “Yeah I’m ok...how’s your neck?” Her eyes scanned Erin, looking for any readily apparent damage, but other than the choking incident, it seemed more of a mental fuck than anything. “Do you...What- you didn’t recognize her or anything?” Mila leaned against the cold concrete and rested her head back, thinking. She’d lived in White Crest long enough to know a thing or two about strange occurrences, she knew there were ghosts and werewolves and vampires and obviously the more exotic creatures like herself, but this thing...it was undead. But unlike anything she’d ever experienced or heard of. It wasn’t possessing any one, it came out of a goddamn mirror.

“No, I’m fine,” Erin shook her head, rubbing her neck as if to emphasize the fact. Something was wrong--obviously, but there’s no way that a ghost could have gotten into her apartment, bypassing wards put in by an experienced exorcist. Blanche had even double checked her work to be sure. Was it even a ghost? “No fucking idea,” she raised a brow, her eyes still roaming the walls as if suddenly she was going to pop out again. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. Her face burned as the words repeated in her mind, the woman’s finger and eyes locked on her. No, nope. She wasn’t going to think about it - she had done what she had to. That was all. She hadn’t allowed herself to sink her teeth into those emotions just yet and some murderous ghost bitch wasn’t about to get her to start now. Not with Agent Diaz already questioning her about the fire. Standing straight, she tried to shake off the nerves clawing at her bones. “We should, uh--we should go.” Erin sure as hell wasn’t heading back to her apartment tonight. The stairwell exit opened up to more barren concrete halls. This was fine. For now, this would be fine. “You know, you’ve got a hell of a right hook with that stiletto,” she tried to tease now that the air was coming back to her in shorter intakes. “I’m so impressed, I won’t even bill you for the damage.”

Mila nodded, running a hand through her hair. She hadn’t forgotten what she’d heard, what that thing had been rasping...but murder wasn’t exactly in her job descprition. She eyed the woman carefully, not sensing that she could be a murderer, but then again, you never really knew people and she’d only spent what, an hour at best with her? “Maybe...don’t stay at your apartment tonight,” she offered as they exited the stairwell, carefully checking for any reflective surfaces. “Is there someone who could take you in for a night?” She would offer, but the whole investigation would crumble, not to mention the whole murderer thing. Not that Mila couldn’t take care of herself. “Thanks,” she smiled, popping one of her feet into the air. “Not only fashionable, but a deadly weapon against mirror monsters,” she chuckled. Suddenly Mila felt the earth shifting. Tiny, miniscule grains, rolling against the smooth ground. She stopped in her tracks, throwing an arm out to halt Erin as well. “Stop...I don’t- something’s not right…” Slipping out of her heels, Mila felt the cold tile on her bare feet trembling. Something big was coming, growing, with each spec of...was that sand? “Ms Nichols, I don’t think we’re quite finished yet…is there another way out of here?”

If Mila had caught on to whatever the woman in the mirror had been screaming at her, she wasn’t pressing Erin on it. Not yet, anyway, and she was thankful for the reprieve anyway after such a close call. “Yeah, I’m good, I’ve got people,” she assured her, knowing she’d most likely end up crashing at Skylar and Nic’s again. Sounded pretty nice right about now, actually. She smiled her way, letting the relief trickle into her chest. “I’ll have to remember that. Maybe sharpen the heel on my pumps for when I get back to work--” she froze suddenly, realizing these jokes and this audience really didn’t mix. But Mila was barring her back, a new sense of alarm on her face. Sand? She didn’t know what to think, just knew on some level inside of her, the one had grown familiar with this sort of supernatural fuckery, that Mila was right. “What now?” She nealy grumbled, but there was no time to question it. Sand seeped into the stairwell from every nook and cranny, slicking the floor with a thin layer. The only other way was back where they came from--or up. “C’mon,” she grabbed the other woman’s arm, shielding her eyes and mouth from the sand trickling in around them as she made a run for the rooftop.

They just couldn’t catch a break today. Mila glanced over at Erin and wondered slightly if the woman was cursed, actually cursed. How else could you explain two clearly supernatural oddities attacking within an hour? Even for the Crest, that was pushing it. Taking a step back, Mila felt the sand growing, shifting and forming of its own volition, gearing up for something. This was not good. “Shit.” Holding her heels in one hand and Erin’s hand on her other arm, Mila spun and made for the stairwell again, hoping beyond hope they could get to the roof. Once they were there, she hadn’t the foggiest of what they would do next. How did you fight sand? Mila charged forward, sneaking cautionary glances around corners to make sure they didn’t run into that fucking mirror thing again. Sand poured in on them from all directions, gathering so loudly it was almost overwhelming. Mila threw a hand over her head, trying to shield her face. She’d never been so happy to have a third eyelid, praising her lamia heritage. Mila slammed her entire body weight against the metal door leading up to the roof and blinked against the sunlight, feeling a single grain of sand catch under her membrane. “Fuck,” she grumbled, ushering Erin out before slamming the door closed. For a moment, the sand trickled under the door, a thin layer of moving earth. The lamia rubbed at her eye, attempting to free it of the grating foreign matter. She couldn’t be distracted, not now, not when they were under attack. “Is it still coming?? What do we do now??”

Miraculously, Erin had burst through the rooftop door without getting even one grain in her mouth or eyes, thank god. Her hair, her clothes, her shoes? That was another story. She was still shaking it off as she ran behind a vent, waiting, watching with Mila. “I don’t know, I don’t hear anything,” she whispered, staying still and alert. She couldn’t wrap her mind around what ominous thing was awaiting them on the other side of the door that was capable of sweeping a small beach worth’s of sand. “You alright?” She asked, noting the red eye and the way Mila was rubbing her eyes. It was still quiet though, too quiet, even as the sand continued to blow out from under the door. Erin glanced around, grabbing a piece of rain-battered plywood that had been left up there. It wasn’t much but it was all they had, save for Mila’s heels. “Stay here,” she instructed. “But keep those heels ready?” She tried to smile, but she couldn’t hide how terrified she was of what was possibly waiting for them on the other side of that door. She knew she sure as fuck wasn’t going to wait around for it to pounce though. Taking a deep breath, she paused, then yanked the door open, holding the plywood up, ready to strike. The door opened to--nothing. Erin waited, gripping the wood harder, but the sand just blew quietly on to the rooftop. But nothing. It was quiet, again. Eerily so.

Mila crouched behind the vent, still rubbing furiously at her eye. She couldn’t see well normally, and this was really putting a damper on what little sight she had. Instead she turned to her other sense, letting her bare feet feel the vibrations. Erin’s footsteps echoed through her body, and the soft drifting of sand, but no thunderous rumblings, not like before. She peeked out from her hiding place, her heels at the ready. “Do we need the heels?” She called, wishing there was a way for her stilettos to actually help. “Is it...I think it’s gone? Whatever the hell it was?” Whatever had been moving the sand, maneuvering it after them, seemed to have abandoned it’s hunt. One eye blurry beyond belief, Mila glanced around for any reflective surfaces. “Are we- is it fucking over?” She stepped out carefully, slipping back into her shoes. “I swear, most of my home visits aren’t quite so...eventful.”

The hall was empty, save for the layers of sand wisping around Erin’s feet. For now, the danger seemed to be gone but the foreboding feeling left in its wake was hard to ignore. It felt… unfinished. They’d gotten way too lucky to have run from not just one but two mysterious whatevers that had decided to knock down their doors and mirrors today. Tentatively, Erin stepped forward into the hall doorway, ready to swing if necessary. “I think we’re… okay?” It didn’t feel right to say it either. Her heart was still racing and she kicked some of the sand in the stairwell, as if she was waiting for it to spring back to life. She looked to Agent Darzi, letting out a breath. “I hope not, otherwise I’m going to have to decline a follow up.” She ran a hand down her face, contemplated dropping the plywood, opting to grip it a little tighter. Nodding at the other woman, she kept her eyes on the stairwell. “Are you sure you’re okay?” She asked one more time.

Mila smiled lightly, brushing the sand off her clothes where the grains fell lifelessly to the ground. “Don’t worry, I think if I have any further questions I’ll just email.” They made their way cautiously back down the stairwell, the building looking menacingly...normal. “Me? Oh yeah, just...tired I think.” Tired was an understatement. The pain in her eye subsided, making way for an indescribable fatigue. Then again, she had just run from two mystery monsters, in stilettos no less. “And I’m not even the one who got strangled. Make sure you get some rest, and uh...drink some tea?” Mila shuffled closer to the exit. “And I’ll send my assistant by to pick up the paperwork, I really ought to get home.” She could feel her muscles aching to lay down and honestly, she wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot bath in a room with absolutely no mirrors.

#wickedswriting #erin1 #potw: sand

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bountybossier · 3 years

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float up from dream | potw solo

Second part of this. Content: Emotional abuse mention, physical abuse mention, death mention

Years hardened the edges of Nicodemus, trimmed him down to a sharp and efficient thing that Samson kept close by. He was only alone in the dead of night when he used candlelight to read the books he found tossed aside. The old man was getting older, slowing down. Even so, the young man had seen him take down creatures the same way he had when he was younger. Just a touch more ferocious, a bit more unbound. The younger hunter walked slow behind Samson as they moved through the weeping willows, his brow slightly furrowed. His rifle rested across his sweat slicked forearms.

“Samson.”

“What is it, boy?”

Nicodemus’s jaw ticked. He was nearing twenty and still boy. He rubbed at his jaw as the old man turned to face him. He didn’t flinch as those coal dark eyes fell on him.

“What are we doin’?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed and his head cocked. He lowered his own gun by his side.

“We’re doin’ what we’ve always been doin’. Nothin’ more and nothin’ less. Why’re you questionin’ me?”

The younger man’s head ticked down as he looked at the ground and took in a deep breath. He had been thinking of this moment the second his boots touched the unkempt grass outside their front door. Since he had sat outside when the moon was up and simply listened to the night. Listened to the frog song and the wolf song but made no attempt to silence it. Since he had taken a look at the supposed good word and doubted it being just that.

He lifted his head.

“I--What we’re doin’ is bullshit, pa,” he said. “How’re you not tired of this day in and day out nonsense?”

Samson was in his face in a second, eyes bloodshot.

“How dare y--”

Nicodemus held up a finger.

“It was one, wasn’ it?” He said quietly. “One that killed my ma?”

“Get to your point quick, boy.”

The younger man took a step back.

“It was one and we been doin’ this since,” Nicodemus trailed as he looked off. “Too damn long, pa. Just the fuckin’ one and ain’t nothin’ changed. Just been doin’ the same shit over and over. Half the time, your demons are--”

Samson tried to grab at Nicodemus’s throat but the younger hunter was quicker. Enough pressure and the old man dropped his gun. More and his arm was pinned against his back. The old man tried to speak but anger trampled his words. He was older but Nicodemus was stronger.

“Your demons ain’t out here, pa,” Nicodemus said as he shook his head. “They ain’t been out here awhile. We’re goin’ home. It’s grandma’s birthday or did you forget that one?”

When they came upon the house, the smell of blood and wolf fur was fresh. Eva was dead, headless, and there sat a wolf, not a demon.

“Money counts the same even if it’s just one of you.”

They tried in vain to tail the wolf as they fled the home but grief and rage heavy, the two men were too slow and they returned back to their broken home.

Nicodemus was silent as he cleaned Eva’s blood from the floor. It was a matter of time, he thought, before it all came down to knock on their door. The next time he did, he wouldn’t be there. He could survive without Samson and whatever he did, whatever he hunted, he would do it for himself.

-----

Chlorine burned Nicodemus’s eyes as he opened them underwater. It burned his wounds too and he spat out water as he emerged. Red flowed around him and he hissed as he took in heavy, burning breaths. The woman was there still but she did not move to strike him again. Her image rippled as she crouched in the windowpane in front of him and looked at him with death-blackened eyes. His own burned back at her as his nails bit into the floor.

Death by a thousand cuts was what she seemed to be aiming for but he wouldn’t give it to her.

Not when Samson burned so brightly at the forefront of his thoughts. Not when the demon Samson claimed to be hunting was there all along and a seeming spirit of vengeance stared at him.

Nicodemus wasn’t finished yet.

Slowly, he swam over to the other side and pulled himself free of the pink water. Another cut along his back but then he was through the back door and into the solid dark of the night.

The hum of his mother’s song was alive in his head as he moved sluggishly through the dark and found a place to rest. To breathe. He was a killer and one day he would likely be killed but not right then.

Not until he dealt with his demons.

#wickedswriting #solo #potw: glass and sand #solo got long af so i two parted it sorry #will be on chatzies and stuff tomorrow wanted to get this out first

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laylacooke · 4 years

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Reflected Guilt || Solo

She couldn’t sleep. Tossing and turning. Every time she closed her eyes she would see the same things over and over in her head.

The night she murdered Clayton Andrews.

Over time he had slowly started to reveal things to her. Little tidbits and facts to drive her crazy. To make her feel the guilt, until all she could do was cry herself to sleep, and then he would leave for the night. Or so she originally thought, but with each night he did this, she had grown keen to his presence; sensing that he was still watching her. Even hidden within the shadows, she knew his eyes still lingered on her.

It was the night he revealed he had kids that left her moaning out as if she had just heard the worst news of her life. Even Indy couldn’t take the sound and had scurried into the other room to hide under a blanket left on Layla’s makeshift couch. It was also on this night that she found herself pleading for him to leave her be after apologizing profusely, but never quite getting a reply of any sort.

She knew he was reveling in her torment. And every morning when she awoke, she would feel hungover; head pounding and eyes puffy. Sometimes she would get up to find her apartment in shambles. Other times things would be left untouched, but Layla knew that if she didn’t find some sense of help or solace soon, she was going to give into his requests. And those, in themselves, weren’t of the most pleasant nature.

Clayton had officially made Layla hate herself even more for the creature she was cursed to become. A murderer once a month at the mercy of the beast clawing and digging to get out of it’s prison. But there seemed to be something more sinister lurking not in the shadows per say, but in the background of Layla’s reflection. A creature so damming, that even Clayton refused to linger near the broken teenager when she was in the bathroom or near a window or sink.

And soon, Layla would see that creature for what she was and for what she wanted.

Death.

#death mention tw #solo: reflected guilt #saga: ghost stories #potw: sand and glass #wickedswriting

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natgeoyourshot · 6 years

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Photos of the Week Series: July 6, 2018

Associate Photo Editor Kristen McNicholas has been responsible for looking at daily uploads so she has the first set of eyes on every image that the Your Shot community shares. She starts each day looking through thousands of photographs and this series will be a selection of her favorites from the past week. Each Friday she will be sharing her favorites here!

"This past week was filled with unexpected delight (and a little terror looking down on rock climbers and wasps blowing bubbles) while I was going through the daily edits. This week was a great week for vertical landscapes which I always get really excited about because it is simply a different way to see a familiar scene.

The Your Shot community is always taking creative risks. Sharing visual stories can be difficult when we have seen the same moment over and over. However, I always trust that the community is going to show me a perspective I've never seen before. Keep taking the creative risks and I look forward to seeing what you all share next."

Join the Your Shot community to begin sharing your stories with us.

Photographs by Karl Mesquita, Juan Osorio, Md Rafayat Haque Khan, Candice Brophy, Cailey Fletcher, Carrot Lim Choo How, Ethan Hoffman-Sadka, Dylan Taylor, Ivan Lesica and Piotrek Deska.

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judithxk-blog · 6 years

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Vitamin sea.

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halequeenjas · 3 years

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A Lake of Sand and Glass || Zinnia, Winston, & Jasmine (POTW Finale)

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @zinniarhee @danetobelieve @halequeenjas SUMMARY: A plan has been formed to get rid of Bloody Mary and Sandman forever. Winston and Jasmine perform a ritual with Zinnia’s help after another group lures Bloody Mary and Sandman to the lake, but this does not come with out consequences.

Winston had seen some bizarre shit in their time being aware of the supernatural. It was what ten months now? They’d seen zombies, werewolves, ghosts, ghouls and a hundred other weird, wonderful and downright terrifying spectacles. Yet, as they stood on the edge of the lake with two others that they barely knew, they decided that this was perhaps the weirdest thing that they had ever been privy to. “Okay, I’m glad we’re all sure on the plan.” speaking out loud helped them communicate their thoughts and after everything that had happened with Roland, Winston wasn’t going to just let anyone get hurt by this. They were here to make sure no one else was hurt. “The bait team brings the Sandman and Bloody Mary to the lake, we then you know, we do the magic exorcising ritual and bing bang boom we’re all gucci…” Winston swallowed, it sounded so much more simple then it was going to be. They were sure of it. “Remember, water is our friend and try to have fun. Ha. Joking obviously. I hate White Crest.”

This whole thing with Bloody Mary and the Sandman was definitely a little more intense than anything spirit related Jasmine had dealt with in the past. From the books she was reading, she’d picked up on that most people just banished Bloody Mary, but that still left room for some idiot teens to summon her again. Some further group research indicated Mary and the Sandman were linked somehow. Clearly, no one had actually tried this ritual before and it took some coordinating between her and Winston to come up with it in the first place. “Yep. we’re yeeting both the Bloody Bitch and Sandy Asshole out of existence as the kids would say.” Her tone sounded more confident than she currently felt. Banishments were one thing, but this was entirely new and experimental. The other group was already luring them over so there was no room for hesitation. She laughed at Winston’s joke despite her own nerves. “Oh yeah, we’re having a real party over here.” Any moment now, they’d be ready to begin.

The only reason that Zinnia had agreed in assisting the group was because people she had grown to care about, against her own omission, were now in danger. She guessed she, too, was now in danger-- a reflection of a woman with a penchant for taking down those who had reckoned with death on their own terms. She and Bloody Mary were a lot alike, but apparently, she did not think so. She had little to offer aside from brute force and the ability to get away quickly, as well as assisting in healing any injuries that might’ve come from the excursion, but she needed to help, because if she didn’t, then when would it end? As they walked towards the lake, she tossed Winston a glance with a nod. “You both have interesting nicknames for these beings,” she commented with a low chuckle. She knew enough about magic, had seen it been done-- to others, she, herself was full of magic. She supposed she could get away with aiding the two of them in more ways than one. “Try not to look either of them in the eye, I bet that Bloody Mary figure really likes the eyes,” she said, a previous experience coming to mind.

“The kids say that?” Winston asked somewhat skeptically. They weren’t technically a kid anymore but still the way that slang was changing over the years was beyond Winston and they couldn’t help but feel somewhat older then they felt that they should. Unfortunately Winston was far too familiar with both of these things to feel entirely confident that they were going to be able to just stop this but they had to make an attempt. For the good of everyone else. It wasn’t something that you could just leave to hurt people. From Winston’s research however they had a pretty good idea of how they could bind and banish both these entities. “Fun nicknames and humour are defense mechanisms that stop me from going completely insane in the face of all of this death and destruction.” Winston wondered if Bloody Mary was like medusa. “If I look at her through a selfie camera on my phone do you think I can make eye contact then”? Laughing nervously, they quickly fell silent. Swallowing, Winston looked around for some sort of sign or signal that they were ready to go. “I’m sure we’ll be starting … any minute now….”

“At least that’s what I gather from the internet,” Jasmine said with a nonchalant shrug. She liked to think Nell kept her somewhat up to date on the new slang. Most of her clientele was older so she never necessarily went out of her way to keep up with it. She couldn’t help but laugh at Winston’s remark. “Hey, sometimes that’s all you can do.” At the mention of not looking them in the eye, she nodded quickly. “Yeah, definitely not planning on having a romantic heart-to-heart where we gaze into each other’s eyes with either of them. My taste is a little less dead and sandy.” She could see the other group towards the other side of the lake and saw both Sandman and Bloody Mary with them. She took in a deep breath and said, “Alright, here goes nothing.” She took Winston’s hand in her own and told Zinnia, “For now, we’ll draw in intention from you, too, but if things get dicey, we may need you to keep these bastards in the lake.”

Zinnia blinked at Winston, gaze curious. She wasn’t caught up on the lingo from those who were younger than her-- she had tried her best to stay “in the know” but it seemed as though those who were older having a difficult time in understanding what younger people were talking about wasn’t as uncommon as she had once thought. Still, she forced out a laugh at Winston’s words and gave them a firm nod, “I suppose that is a way to deal with it.” She hunkered lower to the ground, her palms digging into the mud. “I would hope that your taste is far better than dead and sandy-- you’re far too pretty to be involved with the likes of either of them.” So maybe she wasn’t stellar at knowing what not to say. Zinnia narrowed her eyes, then looked behind her to Jasmine. She gave a curt nod. “Do whatever it is you need to do, I’m here to help.” Here to keep my people safe, Zinnia thought quietly. To think she now had people, both Scout and Alcher coming to mind-- Kaden, to a degree-- for Abel, clearly. Though, she wouldn’t mind taking Abel if Kaden were no longer capable. “I think I see them--” Zinnia’s thoughts came to an abrupt stop at the sight of a ghostly figure.

The sound of laughter, as uneasy as it was - well it was at least a little bit gratifying and kept Winston from fully panicking. They were completely far from used to any of this. They wondered when the moment of clarity would come where fighting evil, beating bad guys and saving the day wouldn’t be the single most terrifying thing that Winston had ever had to do. Honestly, they weren’t entirely sure why they kept doing it but despite everything here they were still. “I guess flirting is also a defense mechanism for some,” Winston commented with a quirked eyebrow. Spotting Bloody Mary and the Sandman, Winston swallowed nervously and tried to center themselves as they had done thousands of times before now. They had everything ready, or as ready as it would be. “I definitely see them,” Winston said, their eyes immediately flashing to the floor so they didn’t catch Bloody Mary’s eyes. This was the part where they really had to help. This was the part where they really had to work their ass off to keep two completely figures who were enshrined in folklore from killing them. “Okay, here goes nothing,” Winston raised their hands and began to chant the words of the incantation that they had designed with Jasmine. A combination of exorcist practice and magic. It was probably sloppy, but they prayed it worked.

This was unlike anything Jasmine had ever tackled head on before and the feeling of doubt it brought was hard to ignore. If she messed this up, others would be the ones paying the price. She and Winston had been very careful when creating this ritual, but the fact still remained it had never been tested. How could it be? There was only one Bloody Mary and Sandman. If there had been a successful go of this in the past, neither of them would be here. The humor did help a little. “You’re not wrong,” she agreed with Zinnia as she took in a sharp breath. Here went nothing. She closed her eyes momentarily and let her words sync up with Winston’s. Precision was a must and she was careful with every single syllable and could feel the familiar buzzing that came with exorcisms. It was hard to explain, it was both familiar and unnerving in the same vein. Still, she chanted the Latin phrases over and over again and could feel something happening. Her eyes fluttered open as she peered across the lake. If there was any commotion going on with the other group, she’d be unable to see it in the dark. She could see Mary’s reflection in the water when she glanced at it and the water seemed to be almost vibrating. They were doing something.

Zinnia was careful to avert her eyes. One look at Bloody Mary and their plan could fall right from underneath of them. The sound of mumbling-- no, chanting, caught Zinnia’s attention and she twisted to watch as both Jasmine and Winston began to speak incantations, or so she believed them to be. It was palpable, the energy in the air, and she wondered if this was what it felt like, to be zapped of energy. It felt close to when she’d use her healing. Slow, moving like quicksand. With every move she tried to make, she felt it heavier in her limbs, the exhaustion. They needed her help, though, and this was how she would assist. She focused on the lake, the water rippling frantically with every word that either Jasmine or Winston spoke. Zinnia kept quiet, not wanting to break their concentration. She wondered how they would trap Bloody Mary, because the Sandman was clearly an easy target-- sand and water didn’t go quite well together. Zinnia watched, alert, despite the aching in her head.

Swallowing, Winston’s mind flashed back to the work that they had put into this with Jasmine. It hadn’t been easy. Creating spells never was. Actually magic in general was hardly something that Winston was adept with. Normally you would prepare for something like this with an actual drawn outline. The whole bit in horror movies with pentagrams wasn’t so far from the truth although in it’s own way it was pretty far fetched. But around the area that they had decided to carry this out in Winston had placed cylinders that they had built. They liked to call them beacons but the truth was that they were little more then extensions of Winston’s will. They would extend Winston and Jasmine’s incantation and hopefully truly prevent either of them from escaping. Without missing a beat, Winston kept chanting. They were glad they’d played all those rhythm games and Guitar Hero in college because it made keeping up with all of this a bit easier. A ripple spread out across the lake and Winston blinked and snapped their eyes to their feet as they spotted a ghostly outline.

As they kept with the rhythms of the chant, Jasmine could feel her necklace vibrating against her chest. It was the same one her aunt wore for years as her focal point and she found it gave her more control when performing rituals. While similar enough to an exorcism, the magical aspects of it were starting to show as the lake water began to swirl. Usually, she could feel the air swirling around her during a banishment, but this was different. Her eyes fluttered open though she never lost a beat with the incantations repetitive as they were. By all indications, the ritual they came up with seemed to be working. Mary was reflecting in the lake and the Sandman seemed to be being pulled toward it. They couldn’t stop now. Mary was unnerving, but she wouldn’t look in her eyes. The water seemed to be rising higher around the lake which only pushed her to keep going. Just a little bit longer and this would all be over with. There was no room to let the reflection of Mary that was approaching throw them off their game.

Zinnia watched, her gaze unmoving from the two figures who were drawn to the lake. The low rumblings from either Jasmine and Winston were low enough that she didn’t think either of the individuals could be heard, but something-- a distraction, the slightest sound, had the Sandman’s head swiveling towards them. The course he had been set on towards the lake was now broken, and he was headed towards the trio. Zinnia cursed under her breath before she gave a backwards glance towards the two. She pushed herself off of her perch on the ground and started towards him. What she was going to do, she wasn’t sure. She was quick-- quick enough to confuse something slow like him, but he was sand, and she hadn’t ever fought an individual made of sand before. Careful to not disturb Bloody Mary, Zinnia launched herself at the Sandman, her leg coming to swipe underneath of him. He crumpled to the ground, the sand building on top of each other to recreate the beast she had dismantled. This was going to be a lot harder than she thought.

It was like something out of a superhero movie or a comic was all that Winston could think as they watched Zinnia’s leg dart out, cleave clean through the Sandman’s leg and then just watch it reform as he collapsed for a partial moment. Winston swallowed nervously between words of the chant. They were shocked that they hadn’t made a mistake yet but the adrenaline that was buzzing in their head seemed to be keeping them on task. Fortunately, neither Bloody Mary nor the Sandman seemed to have noticed them, in fact, Winston was almost certain that they were after Jasmine, which was both comforting and … well not. Winston didn’t need to lose another friend to anything malevolent like these two creeps. However, Zinnia was doing a pretty good job of keeping this thing busy, but Winston knew that she wouldn’t be able to keep it up forever. This was something that they were going to need to end and quickly. They were nearly there, Winston knew that much, they just wished that there was more they could do to help. Just don’t look in her eyes, that was all they could do for now. The lake seemed to be responding to their magic and Winston knew that this was all only a matter of time.

By all indication, their weird hybrid of magic and exorcism was working which brought some relief to Jasmine. It felt like it had been forever since she’d gotten a decent night’s sleep with Mr. Sand Creep plaguing her. As if sensing her there, he was making his way toward them. Well, crap. Now wasn’t the time to cower though. Sure, physically speaking, she wasn’t the biggest and baddest to fight, but she was smart and they had a ritual here. He was trying to interrupt them for a reason so she steeled her resolve and stood a bit taller. Zinnia seemed to have chopping the Sandman handled even though he reformed entirely too quickly for her liking. Her free hand wrapped around the amber stone on her necklace to give her some additional focus. Now that the sand was back in shape, it seemed to be coming toward her, but she refused to be shaken. She just said the words even louder hoping it’d make this whole thing go quicker. It felt unnerving to not flinch in the face of danger, but she had to trust Zinnia was going to keep them safe while they finished this. She could feel the pull of their words keep Mary in the lake, soon Sandman would follow her, too.

“Oh, no you don’t--” Zinnia seethed as she twisted around, whisking a branch off of the ground. She cut it through Sandman’s chest, impaling it. It did very little, but the sand began to reform over the branch, now making it a part of him. That might work, it’d give her something to grab onto. Zinnia couldn’t let it get to either Jasmine or Winston-- if it did, their plan would be ruined. She grabbed another branch off of the ground and quickly thrust it adjacent to the first branch. Once the sand formed over it, she gave a swift, quick tug. They moved, but just barely. Zinnia tightened her grip and tugged on the branches, yanking him away from both Jasmine and Winston. The sandman twisted, falling onto the ground further away from the two. Good. Zinnia approached him again, ignoring the way sand began to crawl up her arm as she held onto the branch tightly, dragging him further away. The exhaustion she had begun to feel was weighing heavy on her now, but she had to make sure that the witches weren’t interrupted. At any cost. Zinnia yanked again, one of the branches coming clean through the sandman, making her falter backwards. Zinnia moved forward again, ripping at the second branch and tugged as hard as she could, sending the Sandman flying towards the lake, just a few feet from the shore.

Winston’s fingers twitched as they watched Zinnia take on the Sandman. Watching someone beat the ever loving shit out of something as cemented in folklore as the sandman, with nothing less than literal sticks was maybe one of the most impressive things that Winston had ever seen and they were almost certain that there was a good chunk of experience there. As Zinnia fought the Sandman back towards the lake, Winston could see the beacons hum and resonate with power, it was as if simple technological objects could feel the itch of the magic and were begging to get to work. Technomancy was a touchy thing and Winston had never tried combining it with magic that exorcists used, it was similar but very very different in so many ways. “Get him into the circle so we can banish him.” That was all Winston had time to say before the next round of chanting could begin.

With the Sandman not rapidly approaching her anymore, Jasmine was able to let out a breath she hadn’t realized was lodged in her throat. Her heart was still booming, but they had to move on to the next part of the ritual. The water around the lake seemed to be rising which had to mean this was working. All they needed was to get the Sandman in the circle so that he’d eventually get pulled into the lake with Mary. Thankfully, Winston already called out the directions. She could see the beacons they set up starting to do something. She didn’t understand them, but she trusted them when it came to the magic stuff. This part of the incantation was more familiar to her. Most of it was derived from the normal banishment ritual she used with a few adjustments to fit this situation. Experimenting wasn’t exactly her thing, but dire situations called for dire measures. She kept her focus steady and trusted Zinnia had the Sandman handled. She’d been doing one hell of a job so far.

Zinnia heard Winston’s voice and she flickered her gaze back towards them. She gave a curt nod before she approached the Sandman again, grabbing onto the stick that was beginning to slip out of his chest. She gave him one swift shove, careful to avoid his body, just in case he decided to close around her instead of the stick that was still protruding out of him. He hit the water with a resounding splash and Zinnia quickly backed up, unsure of what the magic would do to her if she were too close. She kept her eyes on the Sandman, and on the back of Bloody Mary’s head as she took careful, but quick steps back towards the other two.

Whoever this was… what was her name? Zinnia? Well whatever it was, she seemed to be very good at what she was doing and Winston was glad that she was on their side and not against them on this one. As the sandman splashed backwards into the water, Winston poured their will, energy and desire into the spell. It had been carefully crafted and carefully designed to lock the pair of them into a magical pocket that would prevent them from escaping again. Winston was frankly exhausted. A combination of late nights working on this and the energy it was taking. Sweat beaded on their forehead and Winston spotted the surface of the lake beginning to shimmer and harden, that wasn’t meant to be happening but Winston wasn’t about to stop now. They couldn’t stop now. They had to keep going. People in White Crest were depending on them to do something and if they didn’t then who knew how it would go?

All Jasmine could think as Zinnia threw the Sandman into the lake is how grateful she was for the internet. Her energy was fading quickly and she was sure they would have been actual toast if it hadn’t been for her keeping the Sandman away. The combination of lack of sleep and the effort that went into exorcisms made every limb in her body feel as if it was full of stones. She felt weighed down, but there was no giving up now. The town was depending on them to get rid of these malignant spirits even if they didn’t realize it. Though her throat felt like sand was still scratching it, she kept her chanting loud and consistent. From what she could see through blurred vision, it was working. The water was higher, but looked as if it was turning solid? Maybe that was just the exhaustion that kept pinching the edge of her eyes playing tricks with her vision. Even if it was solid, they had to keep going. Anything else would mean these two harmful beings would be free to plague the town once more. So she pushed forward, even though every muscle in her body felt as if it was on fire.

The closer Zinnia got to the two, the more she could see their exhaustion. She knew it all too well. Their expressions and hunched figures were similar to her own when she would have to pour healing into an individual or being that came to her while injured. Her lips twitched into a frown as she reached them. Silently, she extended her hand and placed it onto Winston’s shoulder. It was an attempt, and she wasn’t entirely familiar with the way magic really worked, at least, not the kind that Winston was pouring from their tongue. Hopefully the connection would help. She stared across at the water, watching as the water continued to vibrate. The mumble became a song about what was taking place, and Zinnia found it hard to focus on the Sandman as he began to stiffen.. She wondered if this was it, if the two were actually going to do it.

Bones feeling like led, Winston had to admit that usually they didn’t like being touched without warning. But when Zinnia did it in that moment, they were shocked by the energy that shot through them. Their back went stiff, their body reinvigorated with new life as an almost unbelievable well of energy was suddenly open to them. They had been previously concerned that they just didn’t have the energy that was required of them, but with whatever the hell was in Zinnia now available to Winston they felt that energy overflowing from them and expelling itself. It flowed into the spell like a river that was flooding past the barriers of a dam and Winston could see the Sandman dissolve into the water faster as the water began to solidify. Winston wasn’t sure if this was doing what it was meant to be doing. But what they were sure of in that moment was that without Zinnia this would’ve all certainly failed.

They were all together now and Zinnia’s presence seemed to be giving them the last bit of energy they needed to complete this ritual. They were so close and Jasmine pushed herself to keep saying the incantations strongly despite how weak her body felt. This was the last leg and they’d come too far to fail now. The energy was swirling through the air around them and she saw the Sandman disintegrate into the lake. There was the familiar feeling of relief, but they weren’t quite done yet. One more verse was all it’d take. She repeated the words that felt like sand on her tongue and watched as the lake seemed to glass over somehow. The final words left her lips and she found herself wanting to sink into the ground, but they needed to make sure this worked. “I think we did it,” she said with the edge of exhaustion prevalent in her tone. Her running shoes became covered in mud as she approached what was the lake. It didn’t look like water anymore, but rather glass. That wasn’t supposed to happen. She frowned, but it seemed both spirits were trapped beneath the surface. “It looks like they’re trapped, but the lake isn’t doing so hot.”

Zinnia’s skin felt alive, buzzing with electricity. The longer she stood there, her hand on Winston’s shoulder, the more she felt like she’d dissolve into the earth below her. She tried to focus, tried not to think about other things. If she kept her mind clear, maybe that would help. She had run into spellcasters, into witches, they all operated differently. If she hadn’t owed a favor, she rarely helped them, her own skin too important to protect at the risk of divulging what she was. The Sandman and Bloody Mary, however, they needed to be taken care of. If this were the way to do it, then Zinnia would comply. She had done her fair share of taking out those who needed to be dealt with, but Bloody Mary did not take kindly to reason, no matter the extent of how innocent the deceased had been. Zinnia blinked a few times, watching as the lake was shiny and reflecting. Jasmine’s words cut through her daze and she glanced over to her, removing her hand from Winston’s shoulder. Zinnia followed Jasmine slowly, her gaze fixated on the lake. “Is that not what you meant to do? What was supposed to happen?” She asked, unsure.

Swallowing, Winston sank to their knees by the edge of the lake and tapped it. A dull, hollow noise rang out as the glass echoed with the rapping of their fists. “Well, I mean, I’m sure that we trapped Bloody Mary and … and the Sandman,” Winston was out of breath and somewhat flustered, this whole thing had been draining and it felt like there were weights tied to their ankles, “but … I ... “ their brain was moving at a million and three miles per hour as they tried to work out how exactly this had gone so wrong. “I don’t know why it’s turned into glass, the amount of energy we transferred would be more then enough then to turn this into glass but the truth is that there’s nothing in the magic that we did that would lead to this and I’m not really sure that it makes any sense for it to have transmutated into glass. Like … obviously I’m not an expert on alchemy but this is beyond the scope of the magic that we just used.” Winston swallowed and frowned. “I just… I don’t get it.”

It seemed to Jasmine that all of them were equally as perplexed by the lake turning to glass. As far as the ritual went, Winston was right, nothing they’d written out seemed to add to this outcome. At the very least, Bloody Mary and Sandman would be gone forever now. That was what really mattered though this could certainly turn into an ecological disaster. There’d have to be some sort of fix that they’d work out later. As it was, Jasmine’s legs felt like jelly and she had the familiar sensations of fatigue that usually came post exorcisms. She let out a resigned sigh and took a few steps closer to the lake. She clicked her heel against the shore only to hear a slight clunk as it clicked against the glass. “Well,” she started with hands on her hips, “There’s not much we can do about the lake now. At least, Bloody Mary and Sandman are gone. Fixing the lake will be our next project I guess.”

The exhaustion began to bloom in the set of Zinnia’s shoulders. She hadn’t realized how much energy she would need to give Winston in order to make their spell work, but she had more than enough to supply. She reached up to rub the back of her neck as she looked onward towards the lake, searching for any sign of movement, any sign that Jasmine’s and Winston’s enchantments hadn’t worked. “Whatever you did, it worked.” She looked behind her to look at Winston. She forced a smile, doing her best to make it look lively. “For now, this is what needed to happen to ensure everyone's safety.” Her own safety, too, was a major catalyst for her involvement in the banishment to begin with-- she was a target, of course. “I don’t believe I’ll be of much assistance with the lake.” Zinnia smoothed her hand against the back of her neck. “I’m glad, however, we were able to work together to get rid of these beings.” She looked between Jasmine and Winston, making a note of them-- they were more powerful than she had considered.

Winston curiously wrapped their knuckles against the reflective surface of the lake, the glass echoed as their fists bounced against the surface of it. “You were kind of amazing,” Winston admitted looking at both of them, “I know that this was a team effort and I definitely couldn’t have done any of this without you guys.” Winston had known Jasmine for years but Zinnia was completely new to them on this. “Thank you for helping me with the energy and thank you for helping me with the spell.” Winston leaned back and sat on the edge of the lake, taking a long deep breath and sighing gently. “We really did it, we really … we really just destroyed Bloody Mary and the Sandman. Before this month I didn’t even know that they existed but somehow we’ve managed to destroy two of the most iconic folklore myth things … ever. Fuck.”

#wickedswriting #winston #zinnia #a lake of sand and glass

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chasseurdeloup-retired · 3 years

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Of Monsters and Moose || Arthur and Kaden

TIMING: 2 months ago, during Sand and Glass POTW LOCATION: Moose Caboose PARTIES: @arthurjdrake and @chasseurdeloup SUMMARY: Bloody Mary decides to pay Kaden and Arthur a visit. AKA Sometimes your pixie roommate sets you up for a really bad blind date

The message on his phone was a surprise. Arthur wanted to meet him at Moose Caboose of all places for lunch. Kaden wasn’t certain why, especially there of all places, but he figured he’d find out. He had to figure if he was reaching out, there was a decent reason. It’s not like they were close but he had proven to be trustworthy. Enough. Kaden was thoroughly certain that Arthur was not just a man but a phoenix despite his denial. Maybe he’d have a chance to prove it. Subtly, of course. It’s not like he really made it a point to hunt phonexies. For one, they were rare as shit. And two, they weren’t usually the type to harm humans. And three, they weren’t exactly easy to kill if what he’d read in books were true. He wasn’t sure if they just sprung back to life from the ashes like a flaming zombie but he didn’t particularly want to find out and get on the bad side of a fire wielding bird, fragile as they were supposed to be. He took a seat at the restaurant and waited and wondered. Ever so often he noticed a flash or two of something out of the corner of his eye. Likely just people moving back and forth. “Hey,” he said, spotting Arthur as he took a seat. “What was it you wanted to discuss? It sounded sort of urgent. But uh, I guess only so urgent if we’re meeting, well, here.”

The moment Arthur’s phone had pinged with a message from Kaden Langley suggesting they meet at Moose Caboose two thoughts initially crossed his mind. The first: suspicion. After all, the last time they’d spoken Kaden had been rather accusatory regarding his own theory that Arthur wasn’t as human as he appeared to be. He was right of course, but that certainly wasn’t something that he particularly wanted to confirm. The second: surprise considering he really didn’t get the impression Langley liked him enough to even be interested in meeting up to discuss pie. But as ever, curiosity would kill the cat - or bird. Arthur glanced at his phone re-reading the message he’d received from Kaden while walking towards the booth Kaden was seated in, framed by a stuffed moose surrounded by pickled pumpkins with varying degrees of scarily carved faces. Grey eyes lifted as Kaden arrived accompanied by a look of puzzled interest. “Sorry? I wanted to discuss? I’m not sure--” he paused looking back at his phone and turning the screen towards Kaden to show their last conversation several months back followed by a more recent conversation initiated by an obscure message from Kaden earlier in the afternoon. “But I guess I was wondering the same thing.”

“Yes, you. You’re the one who invited me here.” Kaden thought the other mean was supposed to be smart, what had happened? Did he really not remember? He showed up, he had to know something. Kaden’s brows furrowed as he looked at the phone. ‘Meet me at Moose Caboose, pie man. We need to talk.’ The fuck? That was his name and information. But he had never seen that message before. “I didn’t send that,” he said, shaking his head. Part of him wanted to grab the phone and scroll through, check it closer, make sure it wasn’t a lie or a trick or magic but that seemed like a bad move. What if he just grabbed it and shook it? No, still bad. He sighed. “Well I got a very similar message from you so I don’t know what to make of that.” Kaden pulled out his phone and went to show him the message only… It wasn’t there. “Putain?” He scrolled through it furiously and there was nothing, just the conversation from months ago. “Ah, putain,” he repeated when it sunk in what probably happened. The pie comment. “Rumpleskuffs,” he said, grumbling. “Pretty sure my p-- my roommate sent that. As a joke.” He sighed before noticing another strange glint in something nearby. Odd. “Guess you might as well stay,” he said gesturing to the seat in front of him. “I’ve had worse company. How’s the girl? Was it Kat? She alright?”

“You didn’t? Weird…” but Kaden seemed genuine in that statement and his apparent confusion. He stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other wondering just what Kaden was playing at here scrolling through his phone for some kind of evidence? Arthur blinked twice, “I’m sorry Rumpleskuffs?” Kaden had a room-mate called Rumpleskuffs? “Uh… Oh. So you didn’t want to talk about pie.” Well, that made this an interesting situation then, glancing between Kaden and the empty seat there was a half-a-second pause uncertain which way that remark should be taken. Folding his hands on the table, Arthur gave a small nod in confirmation. “Katherine? Yes. Fine, still suffers with some nightmares but talks a lot about the brave prince charming that came to destroy the evil monster. Kids… Pretty resilient huh?”

“We can talk about pie if you want, I guess. I’ve been making a lot but I’m not sure why you’d care.” Kaden was fairly sure that Arthur didn’t need to know why he was making so many, either. He didn’t love talking about feelings and bullshit with people he was close to let alone with near strangers. “Yeah, Rumpleskuffs, he’s a-- it’s a nickname. Weird guy. Likes pie a lot and messing with me.” He wasn't sure why he was worried about the likely phoenix knowing about his pixie roommate but he was. Maybe he just didn’t want to explain it or be judged for it. Wasn’t sure. Also felt like a bad thing to announce in public. “I don’t know how possible it is to grow up in this town without nightmares,” he said. “Glad to hear she’s otherwise okay.” He gave a small smile. “Not sure I should be anyone’s prince charming, though. Warn her about that one.” His brow furrowed as he noticed something moving in his glass of water. Odd.

A part of Arthur wanted to point out that really he didn’t care all that much but the rational part of his brain recognised that antagonising a hunter probably wasn’t the smartest of moves to make. So opted instead to say, “oh really? Is there another pie contest or something?” Rumpleskuffs? He rolled the name around in his head a little bit, “weird name that… How’d he get the nickname Rumpleskuffs? He isn’t a fae or something is he? I don’t know what their obsession with pie is… Or maybe it’s just the ones I’ve met but they all seem to share it.” His fingers curled a little under his chin in thought. “I dunno, I think if you’re stubborn enough it’s possible either that or you’re just lucky. One or the other.” Despite everything a smile edged its way onto his features, “she’s hardly going to pay any attention to me on that one plus you kind of look like that Flynn dude from that cartoon so I doubt much of anything will change that.” But Kaden was looking over his shoulder and naturally Arthur turned to glance behind him, finding only his own reflection. Weird. “Everything okay? You seem a bit- I dunno, distracted?”

“Not that I know of,” Kaden said with a shrug. Even if there were a contest, he didn’t have time to give a shit. The excess baking wasn’t for anyone else but him, not really. He froze when Arthur instantly pegged Rumple as fae. Putain. “I’m, uh, not sure. Just, it, yeah he’s a little fae. Mostly.” He wasn’t sure why he wanted to hide it. Shame mostly, to be honest. Alright, sure, he was dating Regan who was fae but that was partially because he hadn’t known initially. This was worse. Stupider, even. Maybe he should just accept his fate and get over it. Or rather is fae-te. He was a magnet for fae and fae bullshit. “Maybe so. But they’d be pretty hard pressed,” he said. This town was so full of living nightmares he couldn’t imagine skipping over all of it and coming out of this place without any scars of any sort. “Like Flynn who?” His forehead creased as he tried to imagine it. A cartoon prince who looked like him and fought monsters? He couldn’t imagine it. “Huh. Odd. Can’t picture it. I’m pretty sure no one would call me a prince either way.” He sighed and took a sip of the water the waitress left at the table. As soon as he went to take a sip, he swore he saw a figure in it, something dark and moving. “Merde!” he shouted as he dropped the glass from his hands, water spilling everywhere across the table. “Shit, shit, I’m sorry I thought I saw something in the wa--” He caught a peek at the glass and saw another flash of something and stumbled back out of his seat, catching himself on the edge of the chair before he tumbled to the floor. What the fuck was that?

For a hunter it seemed to strike Arthur that Kaden wasn’t the most apt at concealing his discomfort in a situation such as being caught in a lie or an omission of fact. “Not sure?” there were several ways to test whether Kaden’s apparent flatmate was a fae, but Arthur didn’t feel that right now was the best time to comment on it. “Perhaps, either that or find a decent enough spellcaster versed in the whole sphere of memory magic. That would usually clear up any issues considering if you can’t remember an event it can hardly give you nightmares hm?” But if the kid was happy enough and relatively untroubled then who was Arthur to interfere with how her parents - his great great times seven or something of the sort grandson chose to raise her. “Flynn Rider- Rapunzel- The- You don’t know? Oh huh…” he trailed off shaking his head “yeah okay probably better you don’t then.” Yet his attention was promptly diverted by the sudden commotion of water being spilled that had Arthur jumping to his feet in a flash at the same moment Kaden almost tumbled onto the floor. He peered at Kaden’s line of sight fixed on the glass and blinked as something seemed to shimmer and shift in the reflection “Oh bloody hell- Not again.”

Kaden did his best to act like nothing strange had happened, that he hadn’t just nearly fell from his seat, startled by a fucking glass of water of all things. “Sorry that was, I thought I--” It was then that he noticed Arthur was standing. He’d jumped away from the water like it was acid. If he was what Kaden suspected he was, it was likely that it was similar. Kaden didn’t get a chance to narrow his eyes or even question it further. “Not again? What do you mean not again?” he asked, brow furrowing. The reflection in the glass seemed to answer for him. As he looked into it, he saw a woman with a knife. Then felt a sting of pain across his cheek. “Putain!” he shouted, and clutched his face. He felt the blood running along his palm. What the hell? He pulled it away to examine his hand. Yeah, that was real alright. Real and red and painful. Kaden dared to lean in, get a closer look. “Murderer,” the spirit growled. The creases in Kaden’s forehead deepened and he saw a knife push forward towards him out of the reflection towards him. “Shit!” he shouted as he dived out of his chair, finally hitting the floor. “What the fuck is she talking about?! What’s going on?!” he asked Arthur. By now the whole restaurant had their eyes on them, there were whispers all around and lots of confusion. Kaden didn’t exactly care. But he did wonder if now was the time to tell people to leave.

Too many things happened at once, the accusatory glare and the sign of something strange lashing out of the upturned glass of water. A twisted ghostly visage one Arthur had seen not several weeks back in his very own kitchen attempting to drag Freyja down the stairs by her hair. “Oh shit” the panic was clear, though now really wasn’t the time to explain. “NO DON’T!” he yelled out instinctively as Kaden leaned in to inspect the glass right as another swipe of the knife followed one that could’ve certainly taken an eye if not for Kaden’s speedy reaction. “The reflections, she’s in the reflections” it was right as the words left his mouth that he saw the same figure manifesting in the glass panelled window, immediately, Arthur shot in Kaden’s direction, moving to backhand the glass off the table into the very panel the ghost had started to appear in. The whispers were silenced by the shattering of glass, glistening fragments spilling left right and center. A baleful shriek followed the sound and Arthur moved back over to Kaden extending a hand out to where he’d fallen “I know you have fuck all reason to trust me, but I need you to listen to me now - we need to get you out of here because she won’t stop until your head’s on a platter.”

“What?” Kaden sputtered as he worked to right himself onto his hands on knees, avoiding the glass shattered around him. “Me? What about me? How--” He was struggling to piece together all of the disparate pieces of the puzzle together in his panicked state. Ghost. This was definitely some sort of ghost or spirit. Reflections. Was this-- There was no way. “Don’t tell me this is Bloody fucking Mary,” he said in a hushed tone to the professor as he took his hand, letting him help him pull him off the floor. “Murderer,” rang out again, from over his left shoulder. Kaden looked back and saw the same woman in the mirror, ragged and dark and angry. Her knife reached out and this time Kaden ducked, putting his hand over his head. “What the fuck does she want with me? She’s got to be really fucking mistaken because I’m not a goddamn murderer.” There was chaos in the restaurant now, customers watching them and looking around them for the source of the commotion. A few of them had seen the reflection and pointed towards the mirror. Some of them seemed to think it was a show. Most of them were annoyed for the interruption. “Excuse me, we’re going to have to ask you to l--” the waiter started. “Way ahead of you,” Kaden said before ducking out. “How the fuck do I avoid all reflections? It’s nearly goddamn impossible.”

“Not now,” Arthur answered with a shake of his head as Kaden righted himself glancing at the hunter. For a moment there was a strange and sudden urge to laugh but no sound escaped him, only a grimace of acknowledgement and mild determination while backing up. “Would it make it momentarily better if I lied and said no?” But further words were cut short as the ghost swiped out from the window seemingly keen to totally ignore Arthur’s presence in the room next to Kaden. It sparked an idea, and Arthur shifted between Kaden and the next window using himself to block the ghost’s reach for Kaden. The waiter that had served them but moments prior looked as though he were about to have an aneurysm on the spot at the shattered window panel and it was the least Arthur could do to offer an apologetic look and passing remark of “sorry, I’ll pay for that later yeah? Claustrophobia, my friend doesn’t do well inside.” Eventually they made it outside but the parking lot posed an entirely separate issue and Arthur had to run through through options. “The park, open field right? Just round the block… If we get there we can probably wait her out… I don’t think you’ll be able to do anything to her… She’s not a normal ghost.”

Kaden wanted to be annoyed at the bullshit explanation to the waiter, but he didn’t have much of a chance. It’d have to fucking do because they had to get the hell out of there. “A park?” It made sense, he had to admit. There shouldn’t be a whole lot of reflective surfaces surrounding him there. He’d just have to avoid any water nearby. And if his suspicions on Arthur were correct, he’d be just as keen to avoid that as well. “Okay, park. That’s-- Go, let’s go.” He reached into his wallet and shoved a twenty dollar bill on the table before running out, ducking and dodging like it might help. “I know who the fuck Bloody Mary is! I’m a--” He stopped short, didn’t want to scream it out in the middle of the street that he was a hunter. Seemed like a bad fucking plan. “Just trust me, I know.” He started running in the direction he indicated, past the cars and show windows. Shit, fucking shit. He tried not to look but he had a feeling it didn’t matter one way or another if he checked his reflection. “Let’s get to the fucking pa--” His words were cut off by something grabbing at his ankles and dragging him back along the concrete. Kaden screamed and tried futilely to fight off the invisible, intangible object pulling him and scraping him along the sidewalk. He tried to grip the edge, keep from going any farther, but it wasn’t doing much good. Putain.

Arthur’s mind in a spur of the moment decision making process felt that a rather bullshit explanation seemed perfectly reasonable in comparison to telling their rather human waiter from what he could see that bloody goddamn Mary was here to try and kill them. Not them. Kaden. What was it about almost every instance they ran into one another that ended up in something going absolutely sideways? Breaking outside Arthur took off down the street high-tailing it after Kaden with half a mind to smash the windows of the cars they passed. After all, what was a bit of public property damage compared to sparing someone from meeting a rather bloody end at the hand of an equally murder orientated spirit? “Okay! Okay right-” and so they set off, Arthur mainly focussed on running; moving his feet one after the other even as the beginnings of a stitch started to cramp his side. Who knew that a lifetime of office work and preference for milk chocolate brazil nuts during a marathon of Clone Wars did not an athlete make. It was such complainant thoughts and panicked interspersed contemplation regarding what the hell they were going to do next that almost caused him to trip over Kaden as the man crashed to the sidewalk being dragged in the complete opposite direction.

“Oh shit- shit! Hold on!” Park. Right. Grass, bushes… Rocks. Rocks! With little other thought Arthur dove to a nearby bush rummaging around in the vain hope of finding- There his fingers curled around the rough texture of a rock about the size of his fist before scrambling back to the street and hauling his arm back to lob the rock straight through the nearest window of a smart looking mercedes. The glass shattered and its alarm blared but Arthur was already grabbing a piece of glass, little care for the jagged edge cutting into his palm as he brandished it towards the spirit speaking with a courage he didn’t admittedly feel right there and then. “Let him go Mary. He isn’t deserving of your wrath.”

White glass like eyes belonging to a gaunt face framed by stringing black hair snapped away from their intense focus on Kaden for but a moment before returning to the hunter with a snarled hiss, the shrill sound akin to nails scraping down a chalkboard “murderer.”

Kaden could feel skin scraping off his palm as he tried to wrap his fingers around any piece of concrete he could grab onto. He felt some release, the dragging stopped, but it was in exchange for the familiar sounds of glass shattering, the sharp pain of car alarms blaring in his ears. Still, he wasn’t going to complain too much about having a chance to scramble up from the ground. “Why does she keep saying that?” he said, voice laced with panic and confusion. Of course he wasn’t deserving of her wrath. Did she really think all killing made him a murderer? He wasn’t. That wasn’t how this worked. He’d never killed a human. Not once. Fucking spirit had to be mistaken. Even then, he felt like he should cover himself with his jacket, just hide. Like it might eliminate his reflection, make this go away. “We have to get out of here,” he said, grabbing Arthur’s arm and leading him towards the direction of the park, crouching behind the other man as best he could, hoping it might shield him from the spirit’s wrath. They had to leave. If not just because of the spirit but because he wasn’t looking to pay for this fucking broken car window. Somehow he didn��t think Alain was up for doing him any favors as of late. A wail rang through the night as black hair and a glint of silver flashed in the reflection of a shop window followed by a flash of pain along his arm. “Repent,” it bellowed. Putain de merde. “Repent for what? I’m not a murderer. You have the wrong person. Leave me alone!” That park had to be close. It had to be.

“Because that’s what she thinks you are and she’s not-” Arthur didn’t have a chance to finish the sentence as the spectre wailed; seeming to grow frustrated with the constant interruptions of this interloper. The frustration grew even more apparent as Kaden moved behind Arthur out from its line of sight and reach.

“You protect the guilty,” the accusation was harsh and grating and punctuated by a wild advancing slash that Arthur tried to block, but instead slid off and caught his shoulder clean, rending flesh and causing him to cry out in pain.

Stumbling back a step but keeping Kaden behind him he caught himself trying to ignore the stinging ache of his shoulder and where it was fast staining his jumper crimson. Arthur stared back at the spirit with a mixture of defiance and pain but also using the time to keep walking backwards. Just keep it talking. Use the time until they got to the point they could make a final run for it. “So what if I do? Bit hypocritical wouldn’t you say? You’re no better than them in the end.” The ghost lunged again but he was more prepared this time; dodging to one side and glancing behind him in the process towards the gate that was about ten metres away. Just a little further and they could run.

Shit, she was attacking Arthur now, too? That-- He wasn’t a murderer, then, was he? Kaden would have to figure that one out later. Honestly, she was clearly fucking confused so he wasn’t sure it was worth conjecturing one way or another. “Come on,” he said as the two of them backed towards the gate. “Any day now.” He didn’t like the idea of giving this bitch of a spirit any more opportunity than they had to. They were close, almost there, when she lashed out one more time. Arthur dodged and Kaden tried to duck, too, but he caught another edge of the blade slicing into his back. He screamed out but he turned on his heel towards the gate anyway, pushing past the pain. He wanted to make sure that was the last of it. He could manage it once he was something closer to safe. At the sight of the gate, Kaden practically slammed into it with his shoulder. It gave way without much protest and he kept sprinting into the middle of the field. Once he was pretty damn sure there was no shot of his reflection betraying him, Kaden collapsed to the ground and winced at the pain across his cheek, along his back, the various cuts from the various shattered glass. It took him a moment to catch his breath, collect himself enough to form words. “Thanks,” he managed to say, looking up at Arthur as he pulled himself up off the ground. “Your shoulder. You need first aid.”

There was no putting it off now and as the gate hinges squealed and grated open, Arthur legged it after Kaden into the middle of the grassy expanse of the field breathing heavy when they both finally came to a stop and took stock of their situation. Finding nothing malicious stalking them Arthur turned and sank down onto a nearby bench grimacing a little as he picked at where the fabric stuck to the slash; roughly several inches long but not too deep, “it’s not too bad.” And in all honesty it wasn’t, certainly wouldn’t kill him. Instead, Arthur looked back to Kaden assessing the damage the spirit had managed to do in their escape down the street. “Are you okay? That spirit seemed… Kinda intense in wanting to get her hands on you.”

“I’m fine,” Kaden said with a grunt as he pushed himself up off the ground and onto the bench next to Arthur. “That spirit seemed fucking confused is what she seemed like.” He winced a little as he felt the cut on his face. It stung, but it might not even scar, more surface level than anything. Which was nice. “Going after me. Going after you. Isn’t she meant to target murderers? Putain de merde. Someone fucking lied, I guess.” He shook his head and looked back to his companion. “You sure you’re alight, though?”

“Confused?” Arthur echoed side-eyeing Kaden for a moment trying to process the logic behind where the other man was coming from considering what they both knew Kaden was. A hunter. Someone that rather literally existed to balance the scales of existence of supernatural beings. “I mean there’s a fair justification in her going after you... Not that I’m saying she should” he added quickly “just… like you do mur- uh- kill people that aren’t human. Which is murder...” Leaning forwards Arthur rubbed his hands together. “I think she also goes after people that just get in the way of her target ‘cause I’ve never killed anyone in my life.” Or more correctly, in this life. “Uh yeah, though I’m not sure how we’re meant to get back home unless we just… Wait and hope she goes to chase someone else or something.”

“Killing monsters isn’t murder.” The words left his mouth like a mantra, without thought. Kaden wasn’t sure he believed it or not. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to think about what those words even meant anymore or if they held any weight in any shape or form. Either way, he had to hold onto them. If he didn’t-- He just had to. “Guess so.” Must have meant Kaden got in the way of someone else. Right? It had to. There was no other option. He couldn’t be a murderer. That wasn’t something he could live with. And so he wouldn’t. “Seems like that’s the. Guess I owe you dinner, huh?”

“Even werewolves or people that just so happen to have less normal aspects of themselves? Not all supernaturals are monsters - Regan’s a good example of that no?” How many times had Arthur had this conversation with hunters or slayers over his lifetimes? Too many to count but it always boiled down to the same gritted determination of belief that monsters of all shape and size were evil and that somehow their deaths was justified lighting it under the simple guise of monstrosity. It was interesting in a way, seeing how some people tried to justify their actions in their own mind to help them live with the actions and decisions they made on a daily basis. “If an evening out with you is always gonna end up with one of us almost dead or mauled by some beast… I think maybe next time we stick with an afternoon drink - lessens the chances a fraction hey?”

“We’re not talking about Regan right now.” Hell, Kaden was barely talking to Regan right now. And the less he thought about whatever was happening in those woods with Deirdre, the better. And he wasn’t going to try and sort out his feelings on the matter or the growing list of exceptions he was making while sitting on a park bench nursing his wounds after running from a fucking spirit that was trying to kill him through a goddman mirror. Not going to happen. It was bad enough he broke down with Morgan in the woods after that shit with Alain and the bugbear. He was not going to have another fucking moment like that on a park bench. No, thanks. “Spirit must have been mistaken,” he said flatly, with a tone that indicated he wasn’t debating this. Kaden sighed, trying to let go of some of the tension he was harboring. “Worth shot. Even if I’m not sure that all the monsters of White Crest take a break while the sun is out.”

#wickedswriting #writing #chatzy #arthur #arthurjdrake #Of Monsters and Moose

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silveraccent · 4 years

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Enter Sandman || Grace & Kaden

TIMING: Current (POTW) LOCATION: Grace’s apartment PARTIES: @silveraccent @chasseurdeloup SUMMARY: Kaden comes to help Grace figure out the source of all the sand in her apartment. Metallica helps them understand what’s going on. Some feels are included.

There wasn’t a whole lot that Kaden felt like he was getting right as of late. All his efforts to help seemed to be in vain. So when Grace asked for help with a seemingly mundane task, he couldn’t come over to the apartment complex fast enough. It might be stupid but if he could jsut succeed in one thing, just help one person out maybe he could fet his head on straight again, figure this shit out. Alright so she hadn’t asked for help so much as advice, but Kaden was beginning to become an expert on windows. He had certainly repaired and replaced enough by now. Sealing one? Piece of cake. Plus, he was curious about this sand situation. What was sand doing on a fourth floor apartment anyway? Toolkit and sealant in hand, Kaden knocked on the door and waited for her to open it. “Hey. Not a pie but might be more useful in the long run,” he said, offering her a smile. “How are you doing?” He hoped it was a causal question. He worried it might not be. Didn’t hurt to ask, right?

Their last interaction being a bit more disheartening than she had first planned, Grace wanted to make a better impression-- to show that she was doing better. However, the situation with the sand, regardless of having made an effort to clean time and time again since her return to her apartment, was no use. The only explanation was the window carrying its grit through obvious cracks in her window. Though, when she had gotten it replaced, she hadn’t anticipated there being anymore issues. It was possible that the company Regan had referred her to wasn’t that great, and that maybe she should reach out for a refund. Instead, she was pulling the door open to see Kaden. She stepped aside with a smile, “I mean, the pie can wait-- I’m tired of sand in between my toes.” Grace closed the door behind him as she turned back towards the window. “I’m… doing better, actually.” She wasn’t sure if it was the truth, or if she was lying for his benefit-- there was something clearly wrong with him. There was a hopefulness to him, but it was shrouded in anxiety. “Healing right up,” Grace motioned to her ear before she approached the window. “How are you?” She asked, waiting for him to lie to her.

“Putain de merde, it’s that bad?” Kaden peeked inside and sure enough, sand. Everywhere. It looked like some sort of beach side house. Only that was far from the case. He stepped inside and scuffed a little with his shoe. It didn’t exactly reveal any information about it beyond it was definitely without question in fact sand. That didn’t stop him from crouching down, setting his tools aside to pick some up in his fingers. No, nothing strange. Still. Beyond the fact that it was here at all. “You are?” he said, perking up a bit as he looked up at her. Oh. Maybe he shouldn’t sound so shocked. “I mean, good, that’s good.” His brow furrowed a moment as he stood up again, gathering his things before walking to the window. “You’re sure?” he asked hesitantly. Maybe he should accept the lie, or truth, whatever it was and move on. Hell, she had, she was questioning him. “Uh, been better. I’ll be alright. Let’s take a look at this window, shall we?” He trekked over to the pane of glass in question and started inspecting. The creased in his forehead deepened the longer he looked. It looked… fine. Just fine. He’d just look harder.

Grace watched as Kaden began to investigate the sand. She didn’t know why it was happening, or how. No matter how many times she cleaned, it never seemed to help. It was beginning to get into her bed, too. In an attempt to keep Ruthie’s tank clean, she had moved him into her bathroom, away from any windows. Still, there was sand, even then. “I am,” Grace said after a moment. Maybe if she said it enough times, she’d start to believe herself, too. It’d be easier to convince herself she was okay if she were to say it out loud. Her journey to forgiving Regan had been one that developed purely out of stubbornness at Regan’s unwillingness to accept that she was going to forgive her, but it was bound to happen sooner or later-- Grace was bad at holding grudges, even when somebody had hurt her to the point in which Regan had. Kaden’s deflection caused a crease in Grace’s brows and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Okay, I mean I guess that’s why you’re here, not for anything else, right?” She tilted her head to the side as she looked at him as he began to look at the glass. “Are there any cracks you can see? Maybe I missed something,” She said as she squinted at the window.

“Hey, I asked how you are,” Kaden said as he continued to run his fingers along the sealant of the window. Putain, it felt even and normal. “I swear if there’s not even a single thing I can get right for once,” he mumbled under his breath, entirely to himself. What if he tore the sealant out or just did it again anyway? That would help. Fucking hell he just wanted to help. Before he let the urge to punch the window get the best of him, he sighed and turned back to her. “Was there something else you wanted to talk about then? You’re making it seem that way. Go on, lay it on me.” It was a bad day when talking was going to be the thing going right for him. It sure wasn’t his strong suit. But he might as well try, it couldn’t be worse than the perfectly sound window he was there to fix. He pushed his hair out of his face and checked the window closer. There had to be something wrong. “You’re sure it’s coming through here? Because I can’t see anything. There’s no reason for this.” He scrunched up his face a moment. Maybe he was looking for the wrong thing. A normal solution to a supernatural problem. Putain de merde, he hoped that wasn’t the case. Increasingly he was thinking it might be.

The longer silence warped the space between them, the more Grace felt his sudden anger. She involuntarily flinched away from him, despite the fact that he hadn’t made a move. Gripping the edge of her window, she tried to focus on it. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but wasn’t sure how. She typically tried to ignore it, tried her best to focus on something else. Maybe she was a horrible empath, her inability to allow people in extending to the matter of when somebody needed a shoulder. “There wasn’t really much,” Grace said as she pressed her fingers into the wall. She wondered if she pressed hard enough, it’d crumble away. “It’s the only place, I think. I don’t know. Maybe the ceiling? But it’s not popcorn or anything, it’s just.. Paint.” She looked up at the ceiling as if to make her point before glancing back over to Kaden. He didn’t seem upset, not visibly, so her asking him if he was okay, she wondered if he’d chalk it up to her just being particularly observant on the recent activities that concerned Regan. “Are you okay?” She asked, voice uneven.

Kaden saw the flinch and looked around a bit to see if there was anything that might have startled her. There was no sound, he knew that much. If there were, he would have heard it of all people. Especially over her. He grit his teeth, trying to stave off the sudden guilt he felt over the thought. He hadn’t even caused it, not even remotely directly and he still had a feeling it would take a while for that to subside. He sighed and decided he was just going to check the stupid ceiling. “You got a step stool or ladder or something? I mean I could stand on your table but I don’t think you want that.” He looked down at the sand again, picking some up and examining it in his palm, hoping there was some answer here, a clue, anything. “Hmm?” he asked, his head jerking over to look at her. She seemed a little… upset, perhaps? Unsure at the very least. Definitely concerned. “I’m alright. For the most part. Why are you asking?” He could feel tiny pricks of defensiveness creep in and he nearly winced at himself. “It’s been a rough week. Well a rough few weeks actually. But I’ll figure it out, I always do. Anyway, it would be nice if we could fix your sand problem, give me one stupid victory this week, alright?”

“I have a chair,” Grace offered with a half-smile, half-frown. She padded over to the small kitchenette and grabbed a chair from the dining table and set it in front of Kaden. “It’s not that safe, but the ceiling isn’t too high, right?” She asked as she tilted her head back to look up at the ceiling. She gripped the back of the chair as she watched him fiddle with the sand that was on the ground. She wondered if she’d ever permanently get rid of it, even after more stopped accumulating, or if she’d be stuck with it for forever. Grace tilted her head to the side slightly as he spoke, “I’m just asking. You checked up on me, but is anybody checking up on you?” Something told her that nobody was. By his agitation, his frustration-- his restlessness. She was sure that even if she hadn’t had the abilities that she did, his emotions would be easy to pin. “I don’t doubt you can’t fix it, but it’ll be hard to fix it if you don’t know where it’s… fucked up.” Grace squinted up at the ceiling. There were no visible cracks.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said with a shrug. “Definitely not the most dangerous thing I’ve done in the past two days, it’s fine.” Kaden climbed up and didn’t have too much trouble brushing the ceiling. He ran his hands along it, trying to see if there was anything to drag up. Nothing but dust. “Putain,” he said with a cough. “Who knew ceilings could collect dust.” He coughed a few more times, his lungs trying to clear themselves. “That’s it, though,” he said before climbing back down, “no sand. It’s strange.” He pursed his lips and tried to think of possible connections, explanations. He knew Bloody Mary was hanging around but she had shit all to do with sand. Unless, you know, you figured glass was made from sand. At insane temperatures. No, didn’t seem likely. He was snapped out of his thoughts by her question. “I don’t know. Maybe?” he sighed again. She was barely older than Blanche. She didn’t need any of this bullshit. But he also didn’t want her to keep asking. “A few people have. I don’t know. There’s just a lot. And not much anyone can do.” He rubbed the back of his neck and decided how much he wanted to let her in, how much he wanted to dwell on any of it just yet. “I don’t know how much of my shit you want to deal with. But thanks. For checking,” he said, giving her a half smile. “This helps. By the way. Just trying to, you know, doing normal shit. Helping. Whatever.”

“You’re going to make me insecure about my ceiling,” Grace countered back, squinting up. When Kaden wiped his hand along it, she quickly tipped her head down to avoid any dust falling into her eyes. Grace made way for him to get down and let go of the chair. She wasn’t sure why there was so much sand in her apartment, or the hallways for that matter. All she knew was that she wanted it gone. It didn’t seem, however, by Kaden’s expression, that he knew where it was coming from. Grace watched Kaden carefully, her gaze searching for any telltale features on his face, to see if he would make an attempt to lie-- she’d be able to call him out on it, though, she would be able to feel if he were lying to her. It felt different for certain people, but usually if she paid attention to their mannerisms, their moods, and their words, it was easy to pick apart. For the most part, however, Kaden seemed to be telling the truth. There was certainly a lot going on, all of which she wasn’t sure of-- not that it was any of her business. She wasn’t the type to usually prod, but with somebody who was harboring this much emotional turmoil, it was hard for Grace not to ask questions. “You sound like a broken record,” Grace commented with a laugh, “like me a few days ago, I mean.” Grace crossed her arms over her chest and dug her fingernails into her forearms. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m… being invasive, and honestly I don’t want to invade, but…” She frowned, “I know there isn’t much I can do, so if there is something-- and I’m glad this,” Grace motioned to the window, to the ceiling, “that these things are helping.” Grace wanted to help, she just didn’t know how to. She wasn’t sure if she could. Whatever Kaden was currently going through, it seemed like it hurt. “Sorry we can’t figure out where the sand is coming from,” She muttered, turning back to the window to inspect it again.

“Look, I’d bet you anything mine is worse but I don’t have to check it for sand.” Yet. Kaden wasn’t so certain this wasn’t the sort of thing to spread throughout the town. Like the eyeballs in the pipes. Guess he should invest in some good dustpans and brooms just in case. He leaned on the chair and avoided her glance for a minute before replying. “I’m sure I do. But I can’t tell you about any of the shit with Regan. I really can’t.” He shook his head and rubbed his brow with a free hand for a moment. “As much as I think you deserve to know. Considering.” Considering her injury and possible death is what started the spiral in the first place. “Keep being stubborn, though. I’m not going to stop you.” Hell, it would do Regan some good to have a reminder of why she was bothering, some tether to the world beyond banshees. And he wasn’t enough. Which was fine, he didn’t think he could handle being her only anchor. It was draining enough as it was. “I don’t know, I’ve made a lot of mistakes recently. Fucking sucks. I feel pretty shit about it. That’s the short version. I’ve done more hurting than helping and it sucks.” His tone was casual and so was his mannerisms but it was masking the guilt churning in his stomach. Any one of the things on his plate would be enough but it felt never ending. “Hey, it’s not your fault. It sounded like a simple fix. I didn’t anticipate, uh, this,” he said, gesturing to the room and all the traces of sand. “Is there anything else you can think of? We must be missing something.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Grace frowned. She didn’t want to be pushy, not with Kaden, not with anyone. In regards to Regan, she wanted answers, but it wasn’t right for her to expect Regan’s boyfriend to divulge any information, especially when Grace barely knew him past their conversation about what was actually worth it and pie, and well, now, this. She dropped her arms from and began to fiddle with a loose string at the hem of her shirt. “Well, you wouldn’t be able to anyways.” She smiled at him, this time one that reached her eyes. There was a sadness in his eyes, and in his voice-- she wondered if it could be interpreted as pity, or if it was something else entirely. She shook the idea that it might be pity-- Kaden didn’t seem the type to offer it so freely. “Oh.” It sounded more like a noise than a word, but she didn’t bother to reiterate it. “I mean, if you’re making mistakes, there’s bound to be a way to fix them, right?” It made sense now, why he was pleading to fix something, to put something back together. She eyed him curiously, wondering what it was he could possibly be messing up-- he worked in animal control. Then again, he had Regan for a girlfriend, and even though Grace wasn’t entirely sure what Regan was, she knew it wasn’t human. “There’ll be things you can fix, and things you can’t fix…” Grace started, eyebrows pulled together, “and sometimes it’s harder to recognize, but the things you can fix, they’re usually the smaller picture things, and that’ll get you to the bigger picture thing, right?” Her words were stolen from her Grandmother, but Kaden wouldn’t know that. “It’s sort of like when you break a mirror. You don’t go for the bigger pieces first, you go for the smaller ones first, because those will hurt you the most later on.” Grace shrugged, “but I don’t know what you’re going through, so I mean--” She let out a harsh laugh, “it could mean nothing to you.” Grace bit the inside of her cheek as she tried to avert her gaze from Kaden, unsure if her words would do more to piss him off, console him, or to make him roll his eyes. At his question, she shrugged, “Uh.. no, but every time I come in and see more of it, Enter Sandman keeps playing in my head.”

“Is being stubborn a requirement for living in this building? Is that it?” Kaden huffed out a laugh but he did genuinely appreciate it in his own way. He wasn’t sure he liked anyone who would so easily bend over backwards or never try. Annoying as it could be to deal with sometimes. “I don’t think I can give my friend his leg back.” He’d tried to keep his voice flat and unemotional, but there was a small dip at the end. Shit. Guess he wasn’t as good at pretending to be okay as he thought. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to bring himself back off the edge. “Sorry. I… Sorry.” He didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. Too late now. “I-- I do get what you’re saying, though. I think.” He inhaled deep and let out a long exhale of breath, slowly. “Some of them can be fixed, though. And I’m trying.” He was probably taking on too much but there was no stopping him now. He didn’t need fae magic to bind his promises when he made them. It had been that way before Regan but he put even more care into them now. Still, her insight, what she said, it sounded… it sounded like she knew first hand. And it wouldn’t surprise him if she did have something in her past that was similar to his mess. The more and more he talked to her, the more the mirror she was talking about was right in front of him. “It means something, though. I get it.” He never thought he’d miss being at a morgue of all places but he had for a while now, it had been weeks since he’d stopped by. He was beginning to realize it wasn’t just Regan he was going to miss running into there on quick coffee runs and lunch breaks. It was a good group over there, Grace and Cece, too. “Enter Sandman?” he asked. “Isn’t it Mr. Sandman? You know, the so--” He stopped dead and blinked. There was no way. Was there? No. That was… it was just an urban legend, right? Then again, he knew better than to dismiss any legend or fairy tale, most had some origin in supernatural reality. “How… how have you been sleeping?” he said, turning to ask her.

“It must be something in the water.” Grace knew that Kaden was familiar with Blanche, maybe more than herself, and it was clear that both she and the other girl were keen on turning to their stubbornness rather than letting something just run them over. “Give your friend his what--” Grace asked, surprise coloring the tone of her voice. She had been caught off guard by his words, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating. It didn’t seem as though he had been. She swallowed thickly and looked down at the ground. Anger flared in him again, and for a moment, Grace had wished she had been like her grandmother-- because maybe if she was, she could ease his pain, even if it were artificial. Instead, she just felt too much, despite distance put between herself and those she cared about. Regan was an example of that. “I just didn’t expect it, is all.” Grace pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She wasn’t sure what to say now, wasn’t sure if her typical morbid sense of humour would save the conversation or make it worse. Grace bit back the urge to mention something about a lizard, and instead offered him a consoling smile, or what mirrored one, “I mean, it can’t be your fault.. It’s not like you know, you… chopped it off or something.” Grace looked at him and wondered what had happened. It wasn’t her place to ask or inquire. The loss of a leg, that was something big, something that she wasn’t sure she wanted to know about. She had her own loss to worry about. The mood in the room overturned into confusion, into something entirely different from the previous anxiety that was beginning to weigh Grace down. When Kaden asked his question, her brows furrowed, “I never really sleep well, that’s nothing new. Why?” There was recognition now, she could even see it on his face. “Kaden, what?”

Kaden shifted in his stance a bit, his mouth pulling into a thin line as the guilt creeped back up from the pit he’d tried to bury it in for the time being. “I didn’t chop it off, no. But I did-- it’s my fault. I hesitated. In the field. And i invited him out there, I--” Deep breath, pull himself back in. “It’s my fault. At least some of it. I should have known better, been better.” Fuck, he wondered if this was too much. He saw the parallels of his position with Regan’s. He did. And he believed he was more at fault than she was. And in that case, the stark reality that Grace was in the same position as Alain hit him full force. Shit. He didn’t need to shove this in her face, force her to deal with more of this shit. It was bad enough he was a walking reminder of what happened by virtue of who he was dating. Two minutes. Could he get two minutes where he didn’t make everything worse? He rubbed his temples before shoving his hair back and out of his face again. “Yeah, well, I know it’s insane. But you said Sandman. And I’ve got to wonder if just maybe it’s actually… well, that.” Right this was going to go over well. He had no idea where she stood with the supernatural beyond being blasted by a banshee scream. “I know how that sounds, I really do but you know this town is fucking weird, right? You have to. And I’m not saying that it’s for sure but… I don’t know, maybe.”

His words caught her off guard once again. She wasn’t sure how to approach the subject of somebody’s leg being torn off of their body. Grace did, however, want to know what kind of animal had dismembered his friend. She stayed silent, though, pushing her own curiosity away. Now wasn’t the time. She could tell by his expression, the set of his shoulders-- the anger that rolled off of him, that silence was what he needed. Her brow furrowed at his change in expression, his change in emotion. It was like whiplash. Grace reached up to rub the back of her neck, pressing her index and thumb into the sides in an attempt to ease the ache that had been created by the bounce back and forth of Kaden’s emotions. “I don’t know what happened, but I doubt it was your fault.” Grace repeated herself. She didn’t want to toe the line of interfering, not when it was clearly something above her head. Instead, she decided to focus on the idea that Sandman could be wreaking havoc on her apartment building. Grace paused for a moment. “Sandman.” She tested the name on her tongue, it felt odd, felt like something she should be telling a small child, not a full grown adult. Anything could happen in this town, she reminded herself. She had helped, well, not helped, but seen reanimated corpses defeated, had seen fog fish with Nell-- had seen Renee’s ghost. “I-- I guess,” Grace stammered, suddenly unsure. “I mean, it was a joke, but…” Grace picked her brain for her Grandmother’s stories, “People go into a deep slumber, right? My Grandma used to tell me she would call the Sandman to put me to sleep.” Grace fumbled with the loose string at the hem of her shirt. “Somebody in our building, they wouldn’t wake up-- their roommate found them cataonic and they were taken to the hospital, it happened the day I got home.”

“Thanks for trying to absolve me. Wish it were that simple. But thanks,” Kaden told her, with an attempt at a smile. He noticed her pressing against the back of her neck. “You okay over there?” he questioned, tone of concern in his voice, more than he maybe meant to be there. Damint. If he kept adding to the list of people he cared about, he’d never stop, would he? Putain. The look of disbelief on her face after he suggested an urban legend as something more than that didn’t give him a whole lot of comfort, either. But she wasn’t giving him that look Regan did sometimes so it could be worse. And she seemed to be entertaining him at the very least. “I know, I know. But, well, it rained fish in town once. For weeks. This would be downright normal in comparison.” He nodded along with her story, all sounded right to him. The Sandman. He tried to pull from his well of knowledge from training. It was hard to say if what he knew about the Sandman was from stories or studies. If it was studies, it wasn’t in depth. Why waste time on legendary monsters when there were too many run of the mill ones to deal with on the daily as it was? “Wait, what?” he said, startled at what she said next. “They were catatonic? And wouldn’t wake up? Putain de merde.” He rubbed his temples again, trying to decide where to go from here. “Alright. Okay. I… I don’t know if this is right or real or what to do if it is but better safe than sorry. Do not let his sand come in contact with your eyes, got it? I don’t care what you have to do, wear goggles, a mask, whatever. Is there anywhere else you can stay? It might be the whole building, shit.” He was pacing by now, trying to think. “If it’s the building, you and Blanche and Ari can’t… Putain. Fuck. Grace, this place might not be safe. Do you have somewhere else to go?” He’d asked before but he was pretty sure she might not and he was already trying to run through solutions in his head. “Maybe we can get a shop vacuum or a ventilator or…”

“Oh, uh.” Grace quickly dropped her hand. “I’m fine.” It sucked when her company was just as observant as her, if not more so. Maybe she had been too tired in the hospital to notice it, or maybe it was the mix of all the other individuals that were crowding her, she couldn’t be sure-- however, now it was evident. Kaden had some serious issues, issues that were enveloped in what she assumed boiled down to not only Regan, but his friend with the lost leg. “Just a headache. They happen now.” Grace half-lied. She had noticed a constant ache in her head since the scream, but what she was experiencing now was purely due to Kaden’s back and forth. She was grateful for the change in subject. Kaden’s determination that what had been plaguing her building had been the Sandman was loud, loud enough to drown out whatever turmoil he had previously been undergoing. Grace blinked at him. “I think so, that’s what it sounded like.” She could’ve misheard, but she wasn’t sure. It seemed fitting for this town, and after everything that she had been through-- after everything that others had been through, it was hard to argue against it at this point, but the Sandman? “Wear a mask to sleep? Uh, I don’t, I don’t think so.” The last thing Grace wanted to do was impose on anyone, especially when it was clear that both Blanche and Ariana had their own issues to tend to. The last thing Grace wanted to do was insert herself, to make their problems bigger. Her stomach began to churn. She could see the worry in Kaden’s eyes, could feel it on him. It was beginning to make her think of this as a bigger issue than it was. “You just named the two people that if I had to ask anyone-- it’d be the most convenient.” Grace wrapped her arms around her frame and bit the inside of her cheek. She could go to the office, sleep on the floor. No. She wasn’t ready to go back, not yet. Just because she was on her way to forgiving Regan didn’t mean she was ready to approach the morgue. Grace swallowed thickly, Kaden’s unease burrowing into the frown now pulled at her lips. “If I’m not safe, they aren’t safe either, right?” Grace asked, and she suddenly felt worry for her friends.

“Okay.” Kaden wasn’t going to press the matter, especially not if it was related to that. Bigger issue was the Sandman, anyway. It wouldn't matter if she was feeling okay or got headaches if she went to sleep and didn’t wake up. He paused his pacing to rub his chin, lost in thought for a moment. “I know, I’ll maybe talk to them, too. See if they have options. Or if, I don’t know, you could check to see if they’re sand free. But I’m worried the issue might be the building.” His mind wandered to one very empty apartment at the moment. “Regan hasn’t been staying at her place for a while, I don’t think she’s going to be back anytime soon.” Right. Hey, Grace, go stay at your boss’s place, you know, the one who busted your ear, while she’s off living in a cabin in the woods being depressed and ritualistically torturing herself, it won’t be a problem. Putain. “Or, uh, maybe not. I mean, I have a couch but... “ It was a small place and he was worried she wouldn’t feel comfortable with that. Which would be more than valid. “I can ask if I can stay at her place and you take mine? For the moment? I don’t know.” This all sounded insane. And if it seemed intense and overbearing to him, someone who believed in this crap, how must it sound to her? Fuck. “It’s entirely possible I’m overreacting,” he said with a sigh. “But you said the sand keeps coming, right? Even after getting rid of it?”

“I think Blanche mentioned that there was sand in her apartment too, but I can’t remember.” The last few weeks had been a blur and getting out of the hospital had only added onto what Grace found hard to remember. She tightened her grip on her frame as she watched Kaden. His anxiety was palpable and it was making a sweat break out on the back of her neck. Taking a deep breath, she excused herself from him to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water for the two of them. “Regan?” Grace asked over her shoulder. The thought of staying at Regan’s place while she was gone, it was laughable. “I don’t think she’d like that very much.” She isn’t even talking to me. Won’t talk to me, Grace thought. She approached Kaden with the glass of water and tentatively held it out for him to take. “That’s--” Discomfort bloomed in Grace’s chest. The last thing she would want to do would be to take somebody else’s space. She already felt guilty at the idea of asking either Blanche, Nell, or Ariana for a place to stay. “I think--” Grace began, but instead took a sip of her water. She needed to realign herself. His anxiety was beginning to make it hard for her to think logically. “Uh, yeah. No matter what I do, it’s there. It won’t go away.” She looked at the window where sand lined the sill, as well as the ground beneath of it. “It’s possible you’re overreacting, but--” Grace bit her lip. “I don’t really want to test it out.” Maybe Kaden’s anxiety was winning.

“Right, okay,” Kaden sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Kaden would definitely have to warn the other two. And possibly Regan about where he was staying. He thanked her for the water when she brought it over, didn’t realize how much thirst anxiety worked up. “I mean it,” he assured her, looking her directly in the eyes. “If Blanche and Ari need to stay there at all, too, the offer’s open to any or all of you. If this building is the problem, I don’t want to see any of you hurt.” He really wasn’t sure when his list of people he cared about grew so long. It was almost to the point of weirding him out. Protecting people? Trying to? That made sense to him, though. Guess he’d take it. “It’s not like you’re putting me on the streets, I spend half my time there any… way.” The sentence spilled out without him thinking about it and left his lips before he could even reconsider it. That was obsessively not true at the moment. Fuck. Though to be fair, no one was spending any time there. It’s not like he was imposing. “It’s up to you. If you have nowhere else to go, you’ve got me.”

It had been awhile since Grace felt cared for. At least, cared for in the form of an adult. With her Grandmother gone, and her relationship with her parents nonexistent, Regan was the only adult that had really come into Grace’s life that she felt the relationship had any meaning. Now, there was Kaden. She hadn’t anticipated it, but the more they interacted, the more she looked up to him as an older brother-- somebody she could rely on. The thought was terrifying. Grace didn’t want to think about relying on anyone, not when they had their own issues. “I appreciate it.” Grace murmured, immediately finding discomfort in the way that Kaden maintained eye contact. She could tell he meant it, not because she could feel the compassion in his words, but because the look on his face told her that he meant it. “I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Grace finally said. She didn’t have anyone, not really. Maybe four people now, but all of which she was terrified of inconveniencing. “It won’t be putting you out?” Grace asked after she took a sip of her water, her throat suddenly feeling dry at the thought of allowing somebody to help her.

“Then you can go to mine. Just let me know when.” This wasn’t how he expected to help, but Kaden was sure that he was at least trying to do the right thing. And that was worth it. Past all the other bullshit happening, this was worth it. “It wouldn’t be putting me out at all.” He wasn’t sure he was prepared to spend the night at Regan’s by himself just yet. But that didn’t matter. He’d get over it. He should probably ask her first but he had little doubt she’d argue with him. Not now, anyway. “Hopefully you’re not allergic to dogs. He’d come with me but I can’t exactly make it smell less like him.”

#chatzy #para: enter sandman #para: kaden #potw

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kadavernagh · 4 years

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The Gloaming || Regan & Deirdre

TIMING: Before POTW LOCATION: The training clearing in the Outskirts PARTIES: @kadavernagh and @deathduty MUSIC: The Gloaming - Radiohead SUMMARY: Regan and Deirdre train after a recess of a few weeks. It continues to go poorly for both student and teacher, and promises are exchanged.

Even though it had been a couple of weeks since Regan made the trudge through the woods into the practice clearing, she had no trouble picking out the familiar landmarks -- trees with gnarled roots, something dead buried about three quarters of the way there, the bones still surrounding the huge tree stump. It felt almost alien walking around at this size, seeing over bushes and stepping over rocks. Not experiencing them as terrifying, even deadly, obstacles. No, there was nothing to fear. Not anym-- chittering, scurrying movement. A squirrel ran across the path and she shrieked at it, jumping backwards, until the creature fled into a tree. Her slow heart quickened and she tried to focus on the ground ahead of her, the giant steps she was able to take now. As the woods spilled out into the open field, she frowned down at the rows and rows of glass jars. All the breathing exercises in the world weren’t making her any better at this, and every time she thought she had her emotions trapped in a closed fist, they leaked out like sand.

Screaming. She’d done so much of it when she was small, even on purpose. And just when she thought she wasn’t capable of hurting anyone or anything at that size, a squirrel exploded all over her. Regan took a seat in the leaf litter, glancing down at the burns still running across her arms. They were healing faster than they probably should have been, but still not as quickly as she would have liked. Crunching of foliage. Behind her. Regan braced herself for a hawk or a squirrel or-- but when she swerved her neck around, she just saw Deirdre’s graceful approach, heralded by pinpricks across her skin. Poised as always. She didn’t seem too annoyed that the past couple weeks of training had been missed. “It’s just you.” Regan breathed out quietly. “I-- hi. I’m sorry I was, uh, unavailable for a while.” Meaning 5 inches tall. Deirdre knew, but the less said about it, the better. “The paper even published an article about the disappearance of the screaming moose, you know. I still can’t believe people bought that story to begin with.” Slowly, Regan pulled herself off the ground, and brushed her pants off with a wince. “What’s the lesson today? More breathing exercises?”

Deirdre tried to tell herself that the absence was good, that in the weeks Regan was tiny, she should have more than enough time to work out the flaws in her training technique. She’d even hounded her cousin for advice, who was both disinterested and amused, but ultimately unhelpful. Maeve, her cousin, seemed to find insulting the fact that they were still on jars and bottles and breathing exercises more pressing than offering advice. The way a banshee was to be trained had been passed down her family for generations; they should be on the animal slaughter, self-mutilation, and drowning by now. Not the jars and bottles. But Deirdre wanted to believe that there could be no more harm, she owed it to Regan. And yet, there was a piercing shriek that chased woodland creatures away and left Deirdre with the impression that Regan wasn’t just getting some warmups in. The grimace it summoned was wiped from her face as she finally approached the clearing, a crate of more bottles propped against her hip. “You know, if you were practicing your meditation like I told you, you’d be able to cut through whatever post-tiny anxiety you’re feeling and sense me approaching.” Did Regan even go through her breathing exercises when they weren’t together? Did she do her daily meditations to help center and control her emotions? Deirdre walked to the end of the clearing, setting up her bottles in their pointless pyramid shape, an act which made sense when her mother was teaching her how to aim her screams, but was useless for the under experienced Regan. At least they looked nice.

“I heard there was a petition to declare the screaming moose an endangered species, something about over-hunting.” Deirdre smiled, walking back to Regan. “It did get a remarkable three signatures, so I’d like to think there are some limits to huma---people’s stupidity.” She coughed. “More breathing. Some screaming. If you’re good, maybe a hike to find the best carcass we can. But we’re not ignoring the fact you were tiny, and missed lessons when you were already---” Deirdre stopped herself. To admit Regan was behind seemed both wrong and harsh, especially when all responsibility fell to the teacher. “---when we’ve already been having some trouble with it. At least, with the emotional aspect. I heard you shriek earlier, and if you’re getting startled by rustling leaves then there’s a lot of work to do. If I can remind you, emotional control is the basis of this training. And---” Deirdre stopped herself again, letting out a frustrated sigh. She pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes, and did exactly what she was trying to teach Regan to do. “I’m sorry,” her voice died to a gentle lilt, “I’m glad you’re okay, and I’m happy to see you again. I was worried about you and...well, I did miss you. And these lessons.” She opened her eyes. “How are you, emotionally?”

“I am practicing!” Regan shouted back at Deirdre’s chiding, before remembering just what they were there to do -- the whole point of practicing. Something inside of the crate shattered. Of course it did. She closed her eyes for a moment, and lowered her voice. “Sorry, I just-- I am. Practicing. I was distracted, thinking about the--” She was not going to admit that a squirrel startled her into screaming. Best to stop talking while she was ahead; although, with Deirdre, she never really felt like she was ahead, not for long. To give her an ear is to give her a vein, she reminded herself. But more and more, it felt too late to pull back.

“Do you want help with the bottles?” Regan asked, watching Deirdre stack them tall. She seemed to enjoy it; maybe it held the same ritualistic comfort that setting out all of her autopsy tools each morning held for her. She sat still instead, knowing that even being near that much glass would almost certainly spell disaster for the bottles, and not in the way she was intended to break them. “Yes, well, I’m sure after today, no one’ll be concerned about the mysterious absence of the screaming moose. The whole town probably appreciated the break though. I wonder what that reporter from the paper has to say about all of this. It sounds like he’s feuding with that moose tour company-- you know the one, unfortunately.” Regan had appreciated the break, too, despite her recent insistence that she needed a grip on this as quickly as possible, and the reason the break had been taken. Deirdre… seemed less than pleased.

“Already what?” Regan challenged, rising to her feet. Behind. That was the word Deirdre was about to say. She could feel it in her marrow. Of course she thought that way; she started this nonsense when she was eight. What Deirdre eventually said wasn’t much better. And Regan wasn’t going to be distracted with the thought of a carcass dangling like a carrot from a stick. She wasn’t. But, well, that did sound nice, and-- no, focus. “I was preoccupied over the last few weeks.” She turned to look at the woods, where that squirrel had darted in front of her. Rustling leaves, then. She wouldn’t correct Deirdre, in this case. The truth was somehow far more embarrassing. Pressure swirled through her lungs, tightening her intercostals, and she closed her eyes. Counted to three. Breathed in, out, like Deirdre had taught her. It barely helped. Regan focused instead on making sure her jaw was tightly closed. Deirdre looked frustrated, though Regan wasn’t sure who that frustration extended to. She hadn’t been expecting the apology, but more than the breathing, that made the pressure creep back into the shadows.

“I thought we were here to control our emotions, not discuss them,” Regan said, eyeing Deirdre pointedly. She crossed her arms, frowning as scab rubbed against skin. “I missed…” Not this. Not breathing exercises and intentional screaming and hearing Deirdre freely toss around words like fae and banshee. “I missed feeling like I could take control of my life again. Even slowly. Too slowly. And I missed seeing you.” She paused, feeling the words out in her head first, measuring them for a lie. “I missed spending time with you,” she sighed toward the ground. “How have you been?”

But, again, they weren’t here for emotions. Regan brushed the dirt off her pants, thankful again to be wearing normal-sized clothes and not cheaply made doll garments, and looked over at the stack of bottles. They were already as good as broken. All of them, with a single scream lacking any sort of direction or focus. “It’s not working, you know. I’m telling you that it’s not working. You know I’m not lying when I say that I’ve been practicing. I-- whenever I feel that heaviness in my lungs, I do the breathing exercises. And I think of you saying nothing more will break. But things still break.” Sometimes living things, though they explode rather than break. Regan met Deirdre’s eyes. “Did you talk to them? Your relatives?”

Deirdre winced, she knew it was wrong of her to be frustrated. Regan was behind, but that wasn’t her fault. Admittedly she was on some level of denial Deirdre didn’t even think was possible, but being a banshee wasn’t a spiritual crusade, she didn’t have to open her heart and accept the truth to learn how to swallow a scream. “Distracted about…?” She eyed Regan curiously, while the truth of her being a bad teacher dug into her flesh, she could at least settle on trying to be a good friend. As much as she wanted to teach Regan with kindness, care and patience, all of which she was denied in her own childhood, she couldn’t run away from reality. “We learn to control our emotions by understanding them, discussing them. If we let them fester, they have nothing better to do than build up, and come rushing out.” She smiled gently, a tightened fist at her side the only clue of how that lie twisted in her stomach. She learned to control emotion by denying them. Her mother held her head under water, made her kill everything she liked, beat and scolded into her that feeling was useless. She learned to rid herself of them, and ridicule those that were clearly too weak to be like her. For all she knew, every banshee was raised the same. And yet, for all her practice, there was a truth she could not deny.

“You missed seeing me?” Deirdre’s eyes grew wide, her fist unclenched. Her slow beating heart dared to thump loud against her chest. She was a woman with emotions. She felt happy to know Regan cared at all about her, sad to think of how much she was failing her, scared of the future she couldn’t predict. All her mother’s work was seemingly undone the moment she was freed from her constant commands. And if her mother was a poor teacher, how could Deirdre ever dare to think she’d be better? “I--uh--I’ve been good.” Deirdre grimaced at her lie, her mind had been plagued with unanswered questions and internal conflict. Everyday she ventured to ask if her mother was right, and if she turned too far away from her duty, and every night she could not be given one correct answer. The irony of asking Regan to control her emotions when she could hardly control her own was not lost on her, but she didn’t comment on it.

“But it….” Deirdre trailed off, following Regan’s eyes to the stack of bottles she just set up. Cracked already. They’d endured Regan’s wrath on the way there, but now they stood too frail for practice, as if a strong enough breeze might just shatter them. All Regan had done was raise her voice. This time, she made poor work of trying to hide the frown on her face. It was hard to play the part of a motivator when obvious failure stared back at both of them. “It went--” she turned back to Regan, mulling over the pros of lying to the cons of telling the truth. “...poorly, actually.” Deirdre slumped, “my cousin didn’t tell me anything new. In fact she was...less than kind about the lack of progress.” She painted speaking to her family as the salvation their training needed. She was sure there must have been some better technique she was just forgetting---she told Regan as much. By now, she was having trouble hiding the fact that she wasn’t trained this way, that it wasn’t all breathing exercises. “But there’s still Ireland!” She tried. “I’m sure there’s---I haven’t spoken to my mother about it yet. My cousin hasn’t exactly trained any banshees before.”

“Understanding and discussing emotions?” Despite herself, Regan found her mouth curling into a wry smile. Anything that smelled a little like psychoanalysis dredged up years and years of dinner discussions with Al. He had always been of the opinion that the mind was more interesting than the brain; Regan, the reverse. Emotions couldn’t be quantified or autopsied on a stainless steel tray. The thought that talking about them could give her the “magical” control she was seeking, and return her life back to her, was almost laughable. Had Al been here, he would be rolling on the ground, hands clenched to his stomach, as laughter spilled out of him. Her smile dipped as the image in her head became clearer. Would she ever see his amusement again? “Fine,” she exhaled, looking toward the ground, “I’ll discuss my emotions with Kaden. Is that what I should do?” Her animal loving boyfriend would just love hearing her thoughts on that post-squirrel, wouldn’t he?

Regan studied the frown hanging on Deirdre’s face as she said she was good. It almost looked a little bit painful. Like she’d lied. Apparently she was still better at that than Regan was. Her frown only deepened as she surveyed the cracked bottles. She burned with shame; somehow, it felt like she’d just received a poor grade on a test back in middle school. Not that she ever received a truly poor grade. Regan braced herself for Deirdre’s disappointment, but it never came, not verbally. She only hoped Deirdre hadn’t turned it inward instead. Regan let a long sigh hiss through her teeth. Regression from a few weeks of not practicing probably should have been a concern, but could you really regress if there hadn’t been any progress to begin with?

Poorly. The word was like a funeral bell in her head. Deirdre had said so many times -- nearly promised -- that her family could help turn things around. That they had techniques, ways to speed up the training or heighten its effectiveness, teachings that Deirdre apparently received in a very different manner. Ways for Regan to have her life back into her own hands, even if they did stay cold. And, apparently, Deirdre’s family held no answers, no words of wisdom. And Deirdre seemed equally as stung by this. “My lack of progress.” Regan muttered, noting that Deirdre didn’t put a pronoun in front of the statement. Had they blamed her as the teacher? For a moment, Regan was slapped with the ridiculousness of this situation, that there was even a family that handed down techniques on controlling impossibly loud screams. “This isn’t your fault. You’re-- it took me a long time to see it, but I believe you now, that you just wanted to help. And always wanted to, in your own way. I think we both know that you aren’t the problem in this equation.”

Was Ireland just another false lead? And was she really such a bad student in this bizarre context that they had to go chasing them? Yes, she was. She knew the answer to that.

The word banshee felt like an icy blade in her stomach, even though Deirdre insisted on using the terminology she grew up with. Regan was still wholly uncomfortable with it. “You mean she hasn’t-- is this what you do? Your family? Train people?” She shook her head. That wasn’t important right now. “I know your mother trained you. And not-- I mean, it sounds like she--” Regan wanted effective and she wanted fast; she wanted to be able to navigate the world with the ease Deirdre seemingly did. But based on previous comments Deirdre made about her mother’s training methods, they didn’t sound like something Deirdre would want to revisit with her. “Are you sure your mother is the right person to ask?” Regan dug her heels into the dirt, shifting her weight between her legs. “Are there others? Ones who have used this method?”

Deirdre had meant herself, obviously. That Regan would venture to share her feelings with her, as friends might. She wasn’t sure if her expression had twisted to display that disappointment, she had tried so hard to fight it. This wasn’t about her pride, frail as it had come to be, this was about helping Regan. “Yes,” she said softly, “talk to Kaden. Talk to him often, even when it seems pointless or silly. The people who care about you can help carry your emotions with you. It---it helps. And if it helps, you’ll get to controlling your screams better.” It seemed hypocritical then, that she’d hoped Regan would speak to her when she didn’t have the courage to dredge up her own insecurities to be scrutinized. And even still, she could sense that Regan wasn’t convinced talking helped---Deirdre wasn’t either, but she had the vaguest notion of an idea that it would help Regan, whom Deirdre was convinced held everything too tightly to herself. “It can help...if anything, calm your worries. And if you’re not worried about anything, if your mind isn’t anywhere else, you’ll be able to focus properly.” That, at least, was founded in some of her mother’s teachings, though her ideology spoke of having the mental fortitude to deny, devalue and banish emotion altogether. But as she tried to think of more words to sound convincing, her posture slumped, and her confidence ruptured. She was no more sure that having emotion helped than she was about the bottles and jars and breathing exercises. Where she’d always had a road map for her life and actions, all she was left with was a path washed over and a swirl of unintelligible doubts.

And then Regan had said it, that she knew she was only trying to help, and Deirdre’s gaze snapped up from the uneven dirt below. For a moment, she considered it was a dream. For all she did, for all she knew she did, no one had ever recognized her actions as help. For every dead lost pet she found, for all those fated to die she graced with the explanation of their passing, no one ever understood. She blinked, expecting the vision to shift and reveal she’d been in her bed all along. She remembered every instance of Regan refusing to speak to her, the knife at the morgue and the mounting differences between them that set Regan with unease and compared them to this one moment, still and understated. As if she might have missed it under the rustling of leaves and the soft chirping of wildlife. She thought about asking Regan to repeat it, and then thought better of it. “You---” she opened her mouth and then closed it. Her fingers twitched at her side. Her duty dictated that she bear responsibility for all her actions, that if Regan could not learn control, that was the fault of the teacher. She was raised this way, and knew only how to make blame hers. It was comforting in a way, if the fault laid with her then it was under her control. And what was under her control could be fixed, could be made malleable to her will. “Then what is? You? Our ‘condition’? It is easy to pin blame in one place--less to think about--and I am allowing that place to be me. Do you remember that day at the morgue?” She wondered if Regan did, but she couldn’t have seen the horror that etched into her own face, that was for Deirdre to be plagued by. “I was raised to do exactly this. I should do better, and in knowing that, I commit to doing better.”

Deirdre steadied herself. Perhaps it was the ease at which she could regurgitate all that she’d been taught, the confidence in which she spoke words that were not her own, or it was mention of her heritage, for which she felt unimaginable pride. Regardless, her meek demeanor inflated suddenly. “We do, more or less. We train our daughters.” Banshees were just too rare to be found out of their considerably large family, which they took great care in monitoring so no banshee went unaccounted for. So cases like Regan’s were simply the horror stories they told their daughters to scare them into caution. “Our lineage is thousands of years old, all well documented; passed down.” But where her pride began with her family history, it shuddered at the mention of her mother. “My mother taught me,” she admitted quietly, as if speaking of her might summon the woman here. “She must know what she’s doing. But my great-great-grandmother spoke of this. She was the one who told me about it.” Deirdre paused. “In--uh--her journals. That I read. Because she’s dead.” Her great-great-grandmother did have journals, and she was dead, so in some way, Deirdre reasoned that she wasn’t exactly lying. “I’m just going about it wrong. Maybe I’m using the wrong breathing exercises or there’s something else. I just--It’s not your fault, Regan. There’s clearly more I haven’t looked at.”

“It’s clearly me,” Regan mumbled, not willing to meet Deirdre’s eyes. She wasn’t sure if they would be full of blame or of defeat. “This is the first time in my life that I’m not an exceptional study at something I’m pursuing. You can stop blaming yourself.” Regardless of what Deirdre was allowing. That didn’t matter. Regan sagged under the weight of her own disappointment. Sure, this wasn’t something she liked thinking she’d be good at -- or even liked thinking about at all -- but failure wasn’t an option, it never was. “Of course I remember that day at the morgue. It was going well until-- actually, it was never really going well. But I remember.” But something Deirdre said gave her pause. “What do you mean, you were raised to do this? You’re not exactly my mother,” Regan said drily, then added more quietly, “she’d be horrified by all of this.” As would Reilly. Even Al, despite his overactive imagination and love for the fantastical.

“All lineages are that old. It’s just impressive you’ve kept track.” Regan took note of Deirdre’s muted tone at the mention of her mother -- clearly a relationship with complexity that rivaled her and her dad’s. Wait. Deirdre’s mother hadn’t taught her about the method they were using now? Her eyes snapped to Deirdre’s, confusion written on her face. This whole time, she’d believed that Deirdre knew exactly what she was doing, even if she hadn’t taught anyone before. That this was some tried and true method passed down from generation to generation within her family. However, it sounded like that wasn’t the case, and that her future was hinging on, what? A journal that belonged to Deirdre’s great-great grandmother? Regan’s heels dug into the ground in frustration as that information socketed itself into place. “You’re telling me that… this training that we’re doing now is just something that an old journal mentioned?” She couldn’t completely remove the sting from her voice, though she hadn’t intended to lash Deirdre with it. “I thought you’d -- I mean, I knew you hadn’t done this before, but I figured you at least had second-hand experience. You seemed so sure this would work and, Deirdre, I don’t know that old journals are the right thing to put so much hope into.” Foolish. That was the word on her tongue. And she wasn’t sure which of the two of them was the greater fool right now.

Regan’s arms flopped down, her hands and fingers falling loose at her sides. Deirdre always spoke of Ireland as if it had all of the answers. As if she could go there and everything would make sense; she’d return as the perfect teacher, and Regan would suddenly become teachable. But Regan’s hope in this was becoming increasingly slippery. “You’re certain there’s more?” She asked cautiously, looking over at Deirdre, as fear and pressure began to lap at her lungs. There has to be. There has to be. This wasn’t working, though, and she couldn’t imagine what could change that. Regan looked over at the crackled bottles. The spray of blood and viscera from the exploded squirrel flashed through her mind, the way she felt it dying and coming apart beneath her fingertips. The heavy weight and guilt she carried from its death, despite the countless non-human animal dissections she’d participated in throughout the years. Ironically, that horrible moment had probably been the most in control of this thing that she ever was. She approached the stump and heard the crackling of grass below her shoes. Not even from today. There was a coat of shards all around the surrounding grass. “I blew up a squirrel. I put my hands on its sternum and ribcage and I screamed. It was barely recognizable after that.” Regan kept her mouth closed to hide her strained teeth. Why couldn’t she get this right? She dug some of the glass further into the dirt with her foot. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to kill it.”

“It’s not your---” Deirdre bit the inside of her cheek, forcing her sentence to an end. No matter how much she said, how much she tried to refute it, she didn’t think Regan would let it sink in. She was a rock, and Deirdre often felt like the crashing tide, trying to carve a surface that would take generations to see a shaping. A coast would be weathered eventually, but not now, and not even tomorrow or the day after that. “It’s not your fault,” she assured softly anyway. “And I mean--my family are guardians, of sorts. This is what we do.” This is what all fae did, technically. But as Regan wouldn’t wrap her head around any other ideas Deirdre tried to explain, that truth also wouldn’t make sense. Other lineages of banshees did not last as long as her family’s, as pure as her family’s, but this was another point she did not explain. It wasn’t so much that her family line was old, but that they upheld their traditions since their beginning. Regan wouldn’t understand, she told herself. But if it wasn’t another banshee that would, then who? “It--” she stiffened, shifting her weight. The acid in Regan’s voice was sharp, and carried through the air with cutting force. Though it laid with confusion, Deirdre couldn’t take it any less personally. “I mean---my great--” She screwed her mouth shut, tensing. “My grandmother taught me like this.” At times. “And my mother used it too.” It simply wasn’t her only tool. “Old journals--the teaching that’s been passed down through my family--is exactly the kind of thing to put hope into. It’s what we have, Regan. And it works, it has worked. It’s documented.” Except not this exactly, or not that she knew of. But Ireland, she told herself, Ireland would have the answers.

“There has to be, Regan. There must be more.” They did not need to break for this. Her family couldn’t have all been torture and sacrifice. Deirdre’s resolve could only be heightened as Regan went on. “You blew up a squirrel…?” Her first week of training ended in putting her hands to a sheep, and screaming. That was how she had been trained, over and over again. But Regan didn’t like it, she didn’t want that. For Regan’s sake, there had to be another way. “It’s okay. That---I mean, it happens. That happens.” And she knew what she sounded like. Blowing up squirrels was just something that happened? She bit the inside of her cheek again, trying to stop herself from telling Regan that it was a good thing; good practice and good demonstration of power. “I’m sorry,” she said instead. “It's not your fault. It's not—you know that saying about cracking a couple of eggs? Banshees just blow up a couple of squirrels before they—" Deirdre winced. "Bad joke, but it's...true, in a way." She sighed, reaching out to comfort Regan, but her hand hovered awkwardly above her shoulder; never knowing what lines she could safely cross and others that would push Regan away. "There'll be something in Ireland, Regan. There'll be a way. I promise."

Perhaps this worked for Deirdre, but with each passing day, it was becoming increasingly clear that it wasn’t working for Regan. Maybe she just-- did she need to try harder? Did they need to meet more? Did she need to spend every waking moment while not at the morgue screaming at jars until they didn’t shatter? Is that what Deirdre had done? “I’m clearly still doing something wrong,” she muttered, arms folding across her chest. She winced at the sensation of fabric against her burned skin. Nothing more will break, Deirdre had said. Regan tried to bury herself in those words as they echoed through her ears. Deirdre was so sure there was more, that there had to be, over in Ireland, something that would make this all work as if by -- and she shuddered just thinking the word even in an abstract sense -- magic. Maybe, for once, Regan could choose to actually believe in something that she hadn’t been presented with yet. Or at least believe in the possibility.

Regan braced herself for Deirdre’s reaction to the squirrel confession. Since it’d happened, she thought confiding that information to Deirdre would spell the end for their weekly meetings. Why would Deirdre ever want to waste her time like this? Surely no one in Deirdre’s family made the horrible mistake of accidentally exploding poor woodland creatures. Given the near-alien culture Deirdre came from, Regan half-expected it would be a serious family taboo, or something.

But, no.

“It happens?” Regan’s eyes snapped to Deirdre’s, her mouth hanging open. “How on earth does that just happen, Deirdre? That’s not supposed to just happen! I killed a squirrel! In the most horrific way possible! And, sure, one might argue that it deserved it for trying to bury me like an acorn, but no person should be capable of doing what I just-- what if I’d been regular-sized? What if I was lying on Kaden’s chest? What if I was holding Nadia’s hand? What if--” For a regrettable moment, she pictured herself giving Al and Reilly a tearful greeting after so long, wrapping them in a hug and then-- her face blanched. Her own phantom scream ricocheted through her body and rang in her skull, but the woods were silent. It felt like her chest had just cracked open with anguish, as raw misery swept over her. Deirdre made some kind of poor attempt at a joke, but Regan couldn’t focus. She took one soldiering step forward to escape Deirdre’s hand, and she just stared straight ahead at the stump. Stared hard at it, until the knotted wood and leafy weeds around it proved easier to latch onto than the afterburn in her mind of her brothers’ scattered organs. Their dying, horrified faces. This couldn’t be a thing that just happens. Cautiously, she opened her mouth. When a scream didn’t burst out, she spoke with cold and steady determination. “I promise I’ll do whatever I have to do to get this under control.”

Two promises that she didn’t intend either of them to be released from.

#wickedswriting

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cryxmercy · 4 years

Text

Death Becomes Her {POTW}

Serendipity comes in the strangest forms.

When: Current time, very late evening Who: Mercy and @mor-beck-more-problems (Morgan) Where: Morgan’s dream of the day she died

TW: blood, gore, implied character death, body mutilation, injury, body horror

The black sockets where Coraline Adams’ eyes once were stared at Morgan from the pavement. She opened her mouth, slowly, stiff and weighted by the iron melded into her flesh. Blood fell over her scorched lips and rushed down her chin. “Are we the same?” She asked.

Morgan could not speak. There was no compulsion to eat, nothing dragging her forward into the dark red muscle exposed around Coraline’s cheeks or the glisten of her nix scales on her arms. Nor was there any fear to run away. Morgan’s body had forgotten movement altogether. She could only stare as Coraline’s ruined body asked her again, “Are you like me?” The burns spread on her face, ripping apart from her mouth and outward. Red exploded from the body, showering Morgan in blood. The world spun and without warning, the ground was suddenly beneath her. She was on Main Street again. The pole was in her stomach, so sharp it made tears start fresh. She wriggled in place, harder than she had been able to in life. Maybe this time…

“How is this balanced?” Coraline Adams was next to her, hairless brow wrinkled with curiosity. “Don’t we deserve more than this?” There seemed to be more she wanted to say, but Morgan felt a strange prickle on the back of her neck, like someone was watching her. “Hello--?”

The black water stretched out endlessly on all sides. Still as glass, yet Mercy could feel it lapping at her ankles. There was no sun, no moon, no stars. And yet there was light. It came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. There was no land. No mountains or shorelines in sight. Yet Mercy could feel sand and rocks beneath her feet. There was only a distant fog that drifted slowly. She wanted to move. To walk, to run… to flee.

Never run from anything immortal, a familiar voice whispered in her ear. It only attracts their attention.

Mercy smelled burning flesh. ‘Are you like me?’

Mercy turned towards the new voice, but there was no one there. “Like who?” Then the world shifted in a rush of sound, and the lake was gone. Concrete was beneath her feet now. Feet that were still soaking wet, and left dark, inky footprints when she finally started to walk. The streets were empty. Foggy, like the lake. Mercy walked for awhile, but stopped when figures appeared up ahead. They were talking with each other. One was impaled. The other was burned. None of this frightened Mercy, and she approached calmly. Too calmly perhaps.

“The gods don’t care what we deserve.” She looked at the woman with the pole through her middle. “You should pull that out.”

Morgan turned as much as her body would allow, straining through the smoke on the empty street for a sign. This was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be here, she was supposed to be home, she was supposed to be fine, not trapped here again, and this--what was it?--didn’t belong in this nightmare plane with her. Then a voice spoke and a tall woman emerged from the smoke. She towered over the shadowy wreckage like a statue. This was stupid, Morgan didn’t even have any gods. And if there were any, she was growing confident that they didn’t care at all when it came to the undead. She looked down at the rebar in her stomach, then back at the woman, so strange and hard along her face, even otherworldly. She reminded Morgan of old paintings she’d studied in school, icons of Roman goddesses and pre-raphaelite witches. She wasn’t familiar enough to have come from her subconscious, but where was she from, then? “I can’t,” she replied, as if it were obvious. “I’m kind of stuck to the ground. And bleeding everywhere.” But that was beside the point, right? “Who are you? I don’t even know you.”

Mercy wasn’t supposed to be here either. Foggy streets in modern times were hardly ever the background for her dreams. She wondered if she was alright, back in her bed at Arthur’s house. Or if she tossed and turned in her sleep. She wondered idly if she would wake him with her restlessness. But the dream pulled her back in. She looked down on the unfamiliar woman with the same neutrality she always wore for the dead and dying in her dreams. But this wasn’t her dream. Was it? Maybe it was, and she didn’t know it. She’d seen more traffic accidents than she could remember. Maybe this was one she’d forgotten? But why? She didn’t know this woman. Nothing about the accident stood out as extraordinary. Other than the woman - pretty, with soft brown hair and kind eyes - who wasn’t dead. When she should be. “It happens.” Mercy moved to squat beside the impaled woman, snagging a finger in the fabric of her bloody shirt and pulling it to one side to peer at the wound. “Mercy,” she answered. “Do you want help?”

Morgan hissed and wriggled as the woman examined her wound. “Don’t!” She turned again, looking for Remmy or Deirdre, but there was only Coraline Adams, her bloody mouth gone slack, the raw scorches on her forehead wrinkled with distress. “You don’t even know who I was,” she said to Morgan. And at last it occurred to her that she didn’t even know what Coraline sounded like. So whose voice was she speaking with? Morgan flopped back onto the pavement. There was something painfully ironic about being confronted by someone named Mercy. “You wanna help? Are you gonna un-kill me, Mercy?” She asked, laughing dryly. “Or un-kill her?” She sniffled and gestured her head towards Coraline. “Are you gonna care about any of us for the gods? Are you my subconscious’ supernatural avenger?”

Mercy glanced at the woman’s face, wanting to tell her it could hardly hurt much worse, but did as she asked and let the wound be. She followed her gaze to the other figure standing nearby, burned and bloodied and hovering far too close to be anything other than a figure of horrible importance. Mercy had had too many dreams to think otherwise. The question was, why was she dreaming of this? Of an impaled stranger and her scorched watcher? She turned back to the woman stuck on the pole as she sagged to the pavement. It was ironic indeed, the thought that ran through the woman’s head about Mercy’s name. She was likely the first person in a very long time to understand without being told, and she didn’t even speak it out loud. Most did. In the end. When they cried for mercy. So an eyebrow raised slightly at her other comment, Mercy’s first reaction other than neutrality. “I’m not a necromancer. But did I kill you?” She frowned, looking at the burned woman. “Did I kill her? I’ve killed so many....” Mercy shook her head and frowned. “That’s not how gods work.” She looked at the impaled woman again. “Your subconscious? This is my dream.” But she sounded very, very unsure.

All at once, Morgan was so confused her mind forgot to conjure any pain. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to place the woman. She was good with faces and she’d passed through a lot of places, but she couldn’t pin down anything about her or why she would invent someone like her who wouldn’t just give a straight answer. “Raising from the dead isn’t the same as un-killing, we know that.” She said. “What do you--? I died, Mercy! I died stupid and helpless on the street and my friends had to watch! There’s no fixing that, anymore than there’s any chance of fixing Coraline!” She looked at the burned nix again, tears welling up. “I don’t know what I’m doing, what I think finding out who killed her is going to change. She’s still going to be dead, and she’s still going to wind up nowhere and forgotten, and everyone else this alchemist asshole hurt is still going to be hurt. There’s no magic undo button for any of this. So what counts for mercy or balance there, Mercy? What do we do for her?” Morgan was so worked up in trying to force answers out of herself she only then realized Mercy’s question. “What do you mean your dream? Are you--real? How are you--?” Shit. “Fuck, I’m not even supposed to be asleep! Zombies don’t sleep! What is this?” She began to thrash around the pole in her, grimacing with effort. She couldn’t stay here, wherever here was. “Am I dead again?”

Mercy let herself be observed, not minding the other woman’s perusal. She was just as confused at the stranger’s presence in her dream as the stranger seemed to be. “I guess that depends on your definition of death,” Mercy said a bit too casually. “I’ve died many times. And I’m still here.” Too many times, she thought. She wrung her hands, which didn’t shake as they had started to do in the waking world, and looked from the impaled woman to the burned one and back. “I’m just wondering why you’re in my dream if you’re dead. Usually, it’s someone I’ve killed. Or someone I know that’s died. Never a stranger.”

Mercy wasn’t unsympathetic to the woman’s plight. There was a reason she was here after all. But as she spoke, Mercy frowned. It still didn’t make much sense, but death was something she knew well. As was revenge. “People are only forgotten when we stop telling their stories.” She looked at the woman as she spoke. “And if this person - this alchemist - who hurt her is still out there, in the real world, then you find them, and you make them pay. Pain for pain. Suffering for suffering. Life for life. Death for death.” The Fury shook her head, blonde hair obscuring part of her face. “It won’t bring them back, but it will avenge them. That is what you do for her. So that no one else suffers her fate.” Mercy frowned again as more questions followed. “I’m dreaming. This is… my dream. I’m… aren’t I?” She looked around. “Yes, I’m real. I’m… I live in White Crest… I’m… at my- at Arthur’s house… in the guest…” The impaled woman started to thrash, and Mercy turned to watch as something registered. “If you’re a zombie, then just pull yourself free. It’ll grow back.” She shook her head. “The truly dead don’t dream. Are you in town too? Is this… are we… dreaming together?” Mercy didn’t like that idea. Not one bit.

Well, at least Mercy’s way of measuring justice and balance matched up with Morgan’s. Equivalent exchange didn’t have to be pretty to be fair. But a life for a life didn’t answer what to do about someone who had taken more than their share. What did you do for someone who had taken two, maybe even four or eight lives? For parts, for the fun of it. Morgan didn’t see how Mercy’s presence wasn’t connected to this place her mind had built for guilting.

“This is my death, my personal crime scene, my recently acquired baggage,” Morgan said, gesturing to each in turn. “Maybe you brought the gothic fog with you, or maybe it’s my brain saying thanks but no thanks, I was too busy dying to remember how many cars were piled up in the traffic accident. Either way, I think the majority says you’re creeping on my turf. And, you know, maybe I would just ‘pull myself free’ if I wasn’t stuck.” She tried again, grimacing as blood began to burble out of her back and stomach. “White Crest. That’s...yeah. That’s here. You’re here, in White Crest in my hea...oh. Right. Um, yeah, I’m...there too, on the east end of town. At home. Or at least, I better be. If I am somehow fucking cursed after dying, I swear to the fucking stars--” She gave up on freeing herself once again and fell back to the ground. “This is some big, fucked up magic.” She mumbled. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I already have to worry about whether or not my girlfriend and I are going to make it home each night, and there are two bodies killed by a fucking alchemist psycho that are somehow my responsibility! If you’re okay can you just, help me or leave? Shit, you are okay, right? My brain’s not...hurting you? Making you sick? I don’t know how this works.”

Mercy knew many ways to make people suffer. She knew how to keep someone alive for days on end. She knew how to draw out a death, until they were begging for it. She knew more ways to kill than most people even knew existed. So she would’ve told Morgan to make this person suffer by taking them apart piece by piece and selling them off to the highest bidder. But that was just what Mercy would do.

“Keep your death. I’ve got plenty of my own.” It wasn’t said unkindly. Mercy was simply... confused. “Our memories keep things we don’t always remember. But no… I think you’re right. This is you. But why am I here?” Mercy had little time to contemplate the thought as the woman - Mercy still didn’t know her name - tried to wiggle off the pole again. To no avail. “Fucked up is right,” Mercy agreed. The woman’s list of problems was… hell, it sounded like she’d had a shitty few weeks. Mercy could empathize.

“That sounds shitty. And… I really hope it gets better. Look me up in the real world if you want revenge on that bitch. Though if it makes you feel any better, I was drowned by a demon-squid, died… went to some fucked up limbo… before coming back a few hours later just before Dr. Oblivious wanted to autopsy me. She did put me in the fucking freezer. Like a turkey. Can you believe it? And then my- ex-fiance-… my… friend. Arthur. Whatever the fuck you call someone you almost married 200 years ago… we went on a fucked up magic carpet ride through my memories to undo a spell to save a baby werewolf from certain death, and got all sorts of mind-fucked on that one. Oh... and I was blind for almost a month before that.”

Mercy gave the pole a tap with her hand. It wasn’t budging. “You want me to cut you loose?” She pulled a rather large, curved knife from her boot. “‘S’just a dream, right? And I’m… fine? I honestly don’t know at this point.” Mercy waved the knife again, offering her help to get Morgan off the pole.

Mercy’s story was so unbelievable, even with all of Morgan’s knowledge, she wondered again if this wasn’t some interdimensional limbo, or some mind spell gone horribly wrong. But the energy of the universe did not look at her the same way it had before. It would hold her just enough to keep her here, striving against everything else in the world, but no more. Something much bigger than her existence was bending the world to its will, catching them up in its grasp. Which meant Mercy, in all her strange, improbable glory, was real. Morgan gaped for words, mouthing absently like a fish until she managed to sputter, “I...don’t know how to unpack that. Except, my subconscious definitely doesn’t have the imagination to invent...all that. I...wait, so this means you’re someone who can...find people? Or kill them, or--?” It was too strange, too unlike everything in her miserable mortal life, for something like this to just fall into her lap. She looked at her with open faced bewilderment and hesitantly reached for her hand instead of her knife. She moved some inches off the rebar before something snagged on her insides. The pain was so sharp and sudden she was beyond screaming, beyond help. “W-what--what’s--” Then her wrist erupted with pain and she fell back, no longer to the hot pavement of the street but an endless freefall, the world turning darker and darker around her. “Mercy!” She cried. But the only face she saw through the dim was Coraline Adams, still burnt and smiling her sad, toothless grin.

Mercy felt the tug of reality pulling at the edges of her consciousness. She’d had too many dreams not to recognize the signs that this - whatever it was - was all coming to an end. For now at least. But perhaps not it was also a beginning. Of something unexpected. Serendipitous, even. In a strange, twisted way. “Then don’t. Not yet. Later… when you’re not stuck in your own head, think about it then.” Mercy tucked the knife away when it was clear it wasn’t needed. She still squatted next to Morgan, watching her with a curious but intent expression. “Yes,” she nodded. “I can find them. And kill them. And whatever else they might deserve.” And from what Mercy had gathered from this very odd conversation, the person that woman on the pole was looking for deserved all that Mercy had to offer. And then some.

She idly wondered if people knew what a Blood Eagle was anymore. Perhaps she should find out.

But the dream was ending. Mercy stood, the bloody glass on the pavement crunching beneath her feet, glinting like rubies in blinking of the traffic light. Mercy could only smile softly - and a bit sadly - as it all faded away. The burned woman and the impaled… the dead and the dead again… all gone as Mercy too, was swallowed once more by the dark.

#wickedswriting #chatzy #potw #p: morgan #p: death becomes her #//let me know if I missed any tags up top!

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