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#I am once again drawing Edgar without his glasses when will it stop
vargaslovinghours · 3 years
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Don’t make me turn this dream around
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discoscoob · 3 years
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Partners in Crime | Loki x Female Reader
Loki (Marvel) x Doctor Who
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You go undercover and infiltrate the TVA in an attempt to rescue Loki from the shady organisation.
Part Nine | Part Eleven | Chapter Index
Words: 5.2k
Warnings: descriptions of Loki’s death in Infinity War
Read on AO3
You had ran back into the TARDIS and straight to the wardrobes, you dressed in a formal black work suit with a white blouse and a pair of black court shoes, a far cry from your usual style but since you had decided you were going undercover you thought you might as well look the part. You had covered the scrapes you acquired on your jaw and cheekbones during the battle of New York with some concealer and applied some light makeup to complete the look.
 You straightened out your suit jacket and checked your hair was neat enough by gently patting it with your palms to feel for flyaways, as you made your way back into the deserted control room. Your eyes landed on the Doctors jacket, as you passed it, noticing it was still discarded on the seats, since the Doctor hadn’t took it with him when he left.
 Despite already knowing the control room was empty, you glanced around just to be sure before you fished into the inside pocket of the suit jacket and felt around for the wallet containing the psychic paper. While you were feeling around you felt your fingers brush against the sonic screwdriver, you decided it might be useful so you pulled it out and slotted it into your own pocket before you returned to hunting for the psychic paper.
 You discovered that the Doctor wasn’t kidding when he said his pockets were bigger on the inside, you dragged out a yo-yo, a pair of retro 3D glasses, the yellow water pistol you used in Pompeii and a stethoscope before you finally managed to find the wallet containing the psychic paper. You discarded all the random objects on the seats along with the jacket before you turned on your heel and made your way out of the TARDIS.
 While you were in the unlit room the TARDIS had landed in, you blindly felt around for a light switch, until you remembered you had the sonic screwdriver, you used the small blue light on the end of it as a torch, it wasn’t very effective but it provided some visibility and from what you could see, you were in a maintenance closet.
 After slipping the sonic back into your pocket, you carefully pushed the door handle down and slowly cracked the door open and peaked out of it with one eye, exactly like you had done earlier. This time you were looking along the ceiling for any visible security cameras, from your position you could not see any.
 The corridor was once again deserted, so you proceeded to pull the door open wider and poked your head out to look both left and right. The decor was dated with an orange and brown patterned carpet which you might have found in a cheap hotel in the 70s and the walls were painted a creamy coffee colour.
 Swiftly you slipped out of the maintenance closet and gently pulled the door shut behind you, while still vigilantly looking up and down the abandoned corridor, now you had to decide which direction to go.
 To your right you were closer to the end of the hallway where there was a set of mahogany double doors with frosted glass panels, while to your left, the end of the corridor split off into two other separate corridors, after weighing up your options you decided to head towards the double doors. 
 The room you entered was spacious and well lit by large round lights that covered the entire ceiling. In the centre of the room there were retractable line divider belts in place which lead to a glass incased service desk, where you could see a bored worker was slouched in their seat. You took a deep breath and straightened your spine before you began to walk through the winding barriers towards the desk.
 Once you arrived you looked down upon the chubby, middle aged man who had not yet acknowledged your presence as he hunched over the desk, reading a colourful comic that was spread out on the surface in front of him. Your eyes nervously travelled around the room again as you double checked no one else was there before you hit the shiny, gold coated service bell with the palm of your hand.
 “Have you had your consultation with Miss Minutes?” The guard, who wore a name tag which informed you he was called Edgar, idly addressed you without looking up from his desk.
 “What?” You asked, already beginning to feel your nerves spike.
 “Every prisoner must have a consolation with Miss Minutes before standing trial for their alleged crimes.” Edgar explained, as if he was reading from a script.
 “Oh... I- I’m not a prisoner.” You nervously laughed, you were here to break Loki out, not get yourself arrested too.
 The guard finally lifted his eyes to you and took in your appearance and formal attire, you pulled the psychic paper from your pocket and held it against the glass, willing it to show him something that will grant you access to the prisoners.
 “You’re a psychiatrist?” Edgar questioned, appearing dumbfounded.
 “Yes.” You nodded confidently, as you returned the wallet to your breast pocket, “I am here to evaluate one of your prisoners.”
 “You’re in the wrong department.” He informed you as his eyes cast back down to his comic, you waited for him to tell you where to go, but he remained silent.
 “Which department do I need to go to?” You prompted him.
 “The prisoner department.” 
 Another pause. You rolled your eyes.
 “And where is that?” You tried to remain patient but getting information out of this man was like pulling teeth, you could feel the frustration building in your chest.
 “Down the corridor, to the left, take the elevator to floor VG2.” You were already making your way back through the winding line dividers by the time he was halfway through his sentence, you would have ran if you weren’t meant to maintain a professional cover, alas, you were confined to speed walking.
 As quickly as you could, you made your way down the carpeted corridor and turned left until you arrived to a pair of elevators with metallic gold doors. You pushed the black round button on a panel between the two elevators to call for one. You tapped your foot as you impatiently waited with your hands clasped in front of you. 
 The ding prompted you to lift your head just as the elevator doors began to slide open, your whole body halted to a stop mid stride as your eyes locked with a pair of familiar frosty green ones, which stared right back at you, holding just as much surprise. 
 You and Loki were completely frozen as the pair of you did nothing but stare at each other for a solid moment, which felt much longer than it actually was. You took in his appearance, the bulky collar he was wearing around his neck along with a loose fitting, beige jumpsuit which had an orange TVA logo printed on the left side of the chest. 
 Loki was the first to break contact as his eyes fleeted with panic to Mobius, who was stood next to him, but luckily he hadn’t noticed you as his attention was focused on studying a brown paper file which he held open in the palm of his hand.
 Quickly you jumped out of view and pushed your back flush to the wall between the two elevators before you heard Mobius tut with a sigh.
 “Don’t you just hate when the elevator stops on a floor and no one is there?” You heard Mobius say, there was no response from Loki before the doors slid back shut. 
 You rolled back off the wall with a sigh of relief and put your hand over your racing heart to calm it after almost getting caught. You looked up and followed the floor numbers above the elevator as they lit up, indicating which floor it was at, until it stopped in order to find out which floor Loki was being taken to and memorised it as you pushed the button to call another elevator. The doors to the other one opened and you stepped in and selected the floor which Loki was taken to. 
 With a ding the doors parted to reveal a concrete corridor, much different to the one you were on earlier. It was filled with people dressed in uniforms, some in plain brown suits and others dressed head to toe in black combat armour carrying weapons, you were wary of those ones. Your heels clicked against the hard floor and the sound echoed off the walls as you slowly made your way further down the winding corridor. You tried to not appear too inconspicuous as your eyes shifted around in search of a familiar face.
 You passed several dark wooden doors, any of which Loki and Mobius could have disappeared behind and you would have no idea, it wasn’t like you could go searching behind each individual one without drawing attention to yourself. 
 “Excuse me, are you lost?” A petite woman with a friendly disposition approached you, obviously having noticed the way you were aimlessly wandering without any direction. She had warm eyes and showcased her pearly white teeth with her plump glossy lips stretched into a kind smile. You instantly felt comfortable in her presence, so you were confident enough to be somewhat honest with her.
 “Yes actually, I’m looking for Mobius and I can’t seem to find him.” 
 Her eyes widened with delight at the fact that she knew exactly where he was and could help you as she pointed to a pair of double doors a few paces behind her. “I saw him go in there with one of the prisoners not too long ago.” 
 Your eyes shifted to the double doors and you noticed there was two security guards stood in front before you looked back at the friendly woman in front of you, “thank you,” you smiled.
 “No problem at all.” She told you as she began to make her way towards the elevator.
 Once she was gone, you searched for a corner to hide behind which also gave you a perfect view of the double doors as you waited for Loki and Mobius to come out. 
 A few minutes passed before you saw the door open and Mobius stepped out without Loki, you watched him disappear down the corridor before you rushed to the double doors, you were quickly halted by the security in front but you maintained a calm exterior as you reached into your pocket and showed them the psychic paper, they studied it for a moment as your heart raced with nerves, before one of them grunted with a nod and granted you access. 
 You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding after you shut the door, with your back turned to the room you just entered.
 Heat flourished through your stomach at the sound of Loki’s voice saying you name, as a smile curled at the corners of your lips before you turned around to see him.
 In the dimly lit room, Loki was rising from his seat, his face was illuminated by a holographic projection that was playing against the wall furthest from you, as he began taking quick strides towards you.
 Before you could even say anything, you felt his palms rest on both your cheeks as he pulled your face towards his own and greeted you with a hungry kiss.
 “If I might interject.” Loki’s voice filled the room and interrupted your kiss, as you pulled your lips away from his and glanced over his shoulder at the projection, which displayed footage of Loki.
 “What is that?” You asked him as your eyes bounced between his face and the projection.
 “Never mind that,” Loki shook his head dismissively and grasped your hands in his. “I can’t believe you’re here, you’re alive.” Loki once again gently grasped your face in one of his hand as he stroked his thumb against the apple of your cheek.
 “Thanks to you. You saved my life.” You smiled gratefully at him as you brought your own hand up to rest on the back of his but he retracted it just as you did and you pinched your brows together with confusion.
 “No thanks to me,” Loki corrected you as he shook his head and took a step back from you, “I am the reason you got hurt in the first place.”
 “Loki, it wasn’t your fault...”
 “It was. It was me. I am the one who shot at you.” Loki admitted and you remained silent as you let the information sink in.
 “Almighty Thanos... I, Loki, Prince of Asgard... Odinson... the rightful King of Jotunheim, God of Mischief do hereby pledge to you my undying fidelity.” The projection once again caught your attention.
 “Thanos...” Your eyes drifted back to Loki, “when is this from?” 
 “It... it’s...” Loki tried, but your focus shifted back to the projection as a deep voice filled the room through the speakers.
 “Undying? You should choose your words more carefully.” You realised the new voice belonged to Thanos, who was now displayed on the projection, his larger frame dwarfed Loki’s, proving just how intimidating he was. 
 Loki had his arm extended above his head as he clenched a dagger in his fist and held the tip to Thanos’ throat, but the mighty titan encircled Loki’s arm with his large hand, making it appear no larger than a twig, he twisted his arm and the dagger fell from his palm as he raised his other hand to Loki’s throat.
 Your face paled and stone cold horror surged through your thumping heart as Thanos began to lift Loki off the ground, causing his body to thrash around violently as he tried to struggle free from the deadly grasp.
 “He... he’s killing you.” Your voice trembled as you watched helplessly, you turned you face away when it became too difficult to keep watching, wishing you could also close your ears to the unsettling noises that filled the room.
 “You... will never be... a god.” Was the last thing you heard Loki say through the speakers before you almost jumped out of your skin at the sound of a door slamming shut with such force it overpowered the noises from the speakers.
 You turned around to find Mobius with his back to the doors, a curious smile played on his lips as his eyes shot back and forth between you and Loki. You instantly stepped back towards Loki and encircled your arms around his and pulled him closer to you, keeping him in an unyielding hold. 
 “So I’m assuming this is some sort of rescue mission slash prison escape?” Mobius casually spoke as he began to walk further into the room. 
 You and Loki shuffled back together, ensuring you maintained the same amount of distance from him as he moved around the sparsely furnished room. 
 “Something like that.” You mumbled with your chin held high in defiance but Mobius appeared unfazed as his eyes fell to Loki.
 “I’m afraid he won’t get very far wearing that.” The agent brought his finger up to point at his own neck in order to demonstrate that he was talking about the collar, which was secured around Loki’s neck, you raised an eyebrow and tilted your head curiously.
 “Then, I guess, it’s a good job I brought this with me, isn’t it?” You smiled, knowing you had the upper hand as you pulled the Doctors sonic screwdriver from your pocket and held it in front of you.
 Loki’s own lips lifted into a triumphant smirk once he realised what you had held in your hand. You pointed the blue glowing tip to the electronic latch of his collar, a low-pitched buzzing emitted from the sonic before you heard the latch click open and with a quick shake of his head, the collar easily slipped from Loki’s neck and landed on the floor at his feet.
 “Ah, shit.” Mobius sighed under his breath, with his gaze focused on the discarded collar.
 “This is nothing personal.” Loki told him as he raised his palm, Mobius hardly had time to react before green mist was shot in his direction, his legs gave way beneath him as he collapsed to the floor unconscious.
 “Is he dead?” You worried as you took a couple steps towards Mobius’ body.
 “No, he’s just sleeping.” Loki assured you as he conjured some rope out of a shimmering green light and he strode towards Mobius.
 “This will buy us some more time.” Loki told you as he pushed Mobius’ limp body on to his front and began tying his wrists together behind his back, before he tied his ankles together. 
 You watched wordlessly until Loki rose back to his feet then walked towards you, he clasped you by your shoulders and looked down at you intensely.
 “I have a plan.” He told you.
 “Loki, what was that projection?” You worried, no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t wipe the horrific images from your mind.
 His eyes cast down and he stroked his hand up and down your upper arm to offer you comfort, “It’s a lot to explain, but right now we need to get out of here and I need you to do something for me.”
 “Anything.” You said without hesitation.
 ***
 “Oh my god...” Your hand shot to your throat, “why hasn’t my voice changed? I still sound like me.” 
 You were currently looking into a handheld mirror, which Loki had conjured for you, getting used to the fact that the face staring back at you wasn’t your own. You ran the tips of your fingers over the facial hair above your lip and gently pulled it between your forefinger and thumb. 
 Loki had transformed you into a double of Mobius, as a green shimmer ran down the length of his body and he changed from the prison jumpsuit into the same TVA uniform he had been wearing when you first met him in Pompeii.
 “I can’t change your voice, you will have to refrain from speaking to anyone. We just need to get out of here and back to the TARDIS. It should be easy enough.” Loki explained as he fixed the collar of his jacket before he crouched beside Mobius and riffled through his pockets until you heard the jingling of keys. Loki threw them over his shoulder at you and you managed to catch them as you cradled your hands together with your palms open and the keys landed right in the middle.
 “We will lock the door behind us,” Loki explained and you nodded as he approached you. 
 “I don’t deserve any of this after what I did to you...” He saw you open your mouth to cut him off so he rushed to continue, “when the elevator doors opened and I saw your face, I thought it was a figment of my imagination... When the TVA captured me, I wasn’t sure if I would ever see you again or if I would ever find out whether or not you made it out of New York alive. I have lived with the weight of my actions on my shoulders, ever since the mind stones influenced faded but I have never felt anything even close to how I felt when I saw your injuries and I knew I was the one responsible for them. I will do whatever it takes to gain your forgiveness.” 
 “Do you really think I would be here, looking like this,” you gestured to your form disguised as Mobius, “if I hadn’t already forgiven you? You weren’t fully in control of your actions on that day but you were fully in control when you saved my life, despite knowing that using your magic would attract the TVA’s attention, you put yourself at risk to save me and now I’m doing the same for you.” 
 A hint of a smile appeared at the corner of Loki’s lips before you took his hand in your own, “now let’s go before he wakes up and alerts everyone that you’ve escaped.”
 You let go of his hand just as your other reached for the handle of the door and you lead the way out with Loki following behind you. You acknowledged the two guards on either side of the door with a silent nod as you looked at the keys on the keyring and realised you didn’t know which one fit the lock on this door.
 You glanced at Loki for help, hoping your wide and confused eyes were enough to make him understand your predicament since you couldn’t use your voice. Loki subtly raised his finger to point at the key you needed and you quickly locked the door, before you made your way down the winding concrete hallway, towards the golden doors of the elevators.
 Your heart was already leaping out your chest after your blunder with the keys, but apart from a few nervous glances towards Loki, no one really paid the pair of you any attention and you were relieved to see that the plan was working.
 The familiar ding alerted you to the fact that the doors were about to slide open. When you saw a curly haired woman, dressed in a brown suit decorated with an orange sash, exiting the elevator, you stepped aside and offered her a polite smile, with the intention of letting her pass by, but she stopped in front of you and Loki and stared at the pair of you with suspicion. 
 The polite smile faded from your face, as your pulse once again began to quicken under her scrutinising gaze, you chanced a glance towards Loki in an attempt to gage how he was handling the situation, your inner panic spiked when you noticed the worry hidden in his eyes as they bounced between you and the woman stood before you.
 “Agent Mobius, where are you taking the Loki variant?” She questioned you. 
 You focused hard on trying to maintain a calm exterior while you were internally experiencing a meltdown as panic rose through your chest and your mind raced with the millions of possibilities for how this could go wrong, since there was no way you could answer her, you had no idea how to get yourself and Loki out of this situation.
 “I have decided join your little club and help protect the sacred timeline, Mobius and I are about to head out on a mission.” Loki answered for you and you sent him a grateful look, once the woman turned her attention to him.
 “Mobius, you know variants aren’t allowed out on missions without my clearance.” She crossed her arms over her chest and sent you a disapproving look.
 “You already gave me clearance.” Loki answered and the woman rolled her eyes before turning to him again.
 “That was the first time and you ended up running away with a genocidal Time Lord.” 
 “The Doctor?” A confused crease formed between Loki’s dark brows.
 “He destroyed the Time Lords.” She said, the tone she used made it seem as though her answer should’ve been obvious.
 “Well, if they were anything like you, I can’t say I blame him.” You had to bring your fingers to your lips to stifle your laughter.
 “Mobius!” You jumped at the sound of ‘your’ name and stood straight as you looked to the authoritative woman before you. “Wait for me in my office, while I return your variant to his cell.” 
 Your internal meltdown only worsened and you glanced at Loki again hoping he would offer you some sort of sign that he had a plan, his eyes were twitching back and forth as he stared at nothing in particular, you could practically see the cogs turning in his mind as he raced to come up with a plan. When the woman’s gaze flicked over to him, all evidence of his plotting was wiped from his face and his lips stretched into a sly smile.
 “Lead the way, Your Honour.” Loki hit the button to call the elevator, since it had already arrived earlier the doors slid open instantly. He held his hand out and offered the woman to enter the lift first, as she did Loki glanced at you and subtly nodded his head towards the corridor, directing you to follow that direction.
 Trusting that Loki knew what he was doing, you began to back away until you turned around and started walking down the corridor. You didn’t let the fact that Loki called her ‘Your Honour’ go unnoticed, you realised that was Loki’s subtle way of telling you who she was so you would be able to find her office. As you walked down the corridor you glanced at the engraved gold plaques above each door, until you stopped in front of one which read ‘Judge Ravonna Renslayer’ before you proceeded to enter.
 Inside, the office was dimly lit and lacked any windows, you realised that you hadn’t seen any windows throughout the entire building and it only added to the mysteriousness of the entire organisation. The walls were made off sculpted dark wooden panels and the floor was covered in an orange and brown carpet, similar to the one which decorated the corridors upstairs. 
 A single stained glass lamp, which stood on the large wooden desk in the centre of the room, was the only source of light. Behind the desk was a large, red leather chair and in front of it were two smaller brown leather seats. The surface of the desk was kept neat, a stack of files perfectly piled on top of one another sat in the centre, apart from those and the lamp there wasn’t much else on it. 
 On the far back wall, behind the desk, to the left and right there were two book shelves neatly filled with large leather bound books of various colours. Between the two book shelves, there was a wall, decorated with the wooden sculptures of three heads, you found them rather ghastly to look at so you diverted your eyes back to the surface of the desk as you lowered yourself into one of the seats in front of it and waited.
 The only sound that filled the room was the constant ticking of a clock as each second passed and you were beginning to find the repetitive sound irritating, your leg bounced up and down with nerves, as you hoped with all your strength that Loki knew what he was doing. You had no idea what you were going to do if Judge Ravonna Renslayer walked through that door and expected you to speak with her.
 You glanced over your shoulder when you heard the sound of the door click open, hoping you would be greeted by the sight of Loki, but your heart dropped and an array of colourful language raced through your mind when the Judge entered the room instead.
 “Agent Mobius.” She formally greeted you and you stood from your seat and offered her your hand to shake as a form of greeting, since speaking would blow your cover, although you doubted you would be able to last long without saying anything.
 The Judge just stared at your hand for a moment, with confusion behind her eyes, before she swatted it away and stepped closer to you almost making you jump when her arms slid around the back of your neck and she brought her face inches away from yours.
 “No need to be so formal when we’re in private, Moby.” Her breath fanned across your lips, as she whispered seductively and you could hardly control the way your eyebrows shot up to your hairline as you gulped, completely thrown off guard by the unexpected turn of events.
 Your mouth moved like a fish out of water and you didn’t know where to put your hands, but when she let out a snort of laughter and took a step back, you tilted your head with suspicion. A green shimmer illuminated the dull room and Loki was stood before you, still laughing to himself but at least now he was looking sheepish about it, as you glared at him with your arms crossed over your chest.
 “I’m sorry, that was cruel,” he held his hands up defensively, “but your face... or rather Mobius’” 
 “Now is not the time for games.” You scolded him as you swatted at his chest. 
 “There is always time for games.” Loki answered defensively and you affectionately rolled your eyes.
 “What did you do with her?” You asked, curious about how Loki safely escaped from the Judge.
 “Transformed her into me and put her in my cell before I shifted into her form.” Loki shrugged like it was nothing.
 “Will she look like you forever?” You worried.
 Loki shook his head. “Once we leave, my magic will leave her.”
 “Let’s get out of here.” You said and Loki shifted back into the Judges form as you made your way out of her office. 
 This time you successfully made it to the elevator and to the floor that you had left the TARDIS on without any interruptions. You lead Loki down the deserted corridor towards the maintenance closet, just as an alarm started blaring throughout the entire building.
 “Do you think that’s for us?” You looked at Loki with worry.
 “We’re not going to stick around long enough to find out.” Loki answered as he grabbed your hand and started running the rest of the way to the closet.
 “Stop them!” A guard dressed in black armour shouted as they burst through the double doors at the end of the corridor, leading a group of other guards behind them. 
 “I guess that answers your question.” Loki mumbled as the pair of you ducked when they began shooting their weapons at you, Loki moved to ensure that he was shielding you as he reached for the handle to the closet and ushered you through the door once he opened it.
 You pushed through the TARDIS doors, with Loki hot on your heel, relieved to be in the familiar control room but you still needed to get the TARDIS out of the closet before the TVA guards followed you inside.
 Without hesitation Loki was immediately at the control panel, figuring out how to pilot the ship, some sparks flew off the console when he flicked one of the switches and he ducked while you let out a yelp, before he stretched his arm out and reached for the leaver, the one the Doctor had told you was called the Time Rotor Handbrake, and the TARDIS began trembling as it dematerialised. 
 Loki and you both held on tight to the console to maintain your balance, before the tremors subsided and you both let out sighs of relief, knowing you were finally safe.
 Loki and you shared a glance and with a flick of his wrist you both transformed back into yourselves before you fell into each other’s arms. You snuggled the tip of your nose into his neck and he planted a gentle kiss on the side of you head.
 “I’m never letting you go again.” Your voice was muffled as you spoke.
 “I’m not going anywhere.” Loki promised.
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teriwrites · 3 years
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2020 Writing Wrap-Up
Something that I do every year on the 1st is go back through absolutely everything I’ve written throughout the previous year and compile it into one massive word document. Everything from outlining notes to unfinished short stories to my NaNo project wind up in that file, where I like to read back and reflect on what I’ve gotten done through the year. 
Every year, I end up having written more than I expected, and this year was no different! 
Total for 2020: 203,119!
This is the first recorded year (I think it’s year 4 that I’ve done this for?) in which I’ve cracked 200K! It’s also the first year I’ve ever actually followed through on my resolution to share some of my writing online! So as rough as 2020 has been, I still somehow managed to break some personal records in writing. Which probably has everything to do with the fact that I joined this community earlier this year, and it’s been incredibly encouraging and supportive!
I also branched out a bit more this year in a few ways. I worked on some poetry and prose, which is not something I’ve put a lot of time into before so tends to be a challenge. It’s nothing that I’ll be posting anytime soon, but it was fun to work on in the moment, which is especially important in such a wild year as 2020.
One snag that I definitely hit was the fact that I have a lot more unfinished work than most years. A majority of the short stories I started working on never got finished. But I can’t even be too upset about that, because I totally loved being able to read back on even the fragmented pieces I ended up with. And while I do think a large part of that (for me) is discipline over inspiration, I’m willing to accept that, sometimes, things will remain unfinished. And it’s okay to stop working on them. 
My overall focus shifted a bit this year, too, which was interesting. I worked more on longer things than most years - started out the year by finishing my first draft of Castle on the Hill, continued making some edits and reworking its outline, did a large part of Beneath Alder Creek’s first draft in November. Right now, I’m working on what I expect to be a novella by the time I’m done with it. It’s a big contrast to the usual, short and snappy short stories that fill most of my previous wrap-up files. But I still definitely write those sometimes, and it’s nice to be able to try stretching and testing my own boundaries. 
This is the part of my wrap-up where I go ham throwing in some of my favorite out-of-context quotes from a variety of different things I’ve worked on. Some of them might be familiar, a lot probably won’t. I’m going to post it beneath the thing so this doesn’t become even more absurdly long!
Some of the ~highlights~ of 2020:
First Thoughts in the Morning: wow the sexual tension between me and the alarm clock right now. Later Reflection: wtf? (a literal note on my notes app that I included because I Cannot remember writing any of this and it made me laugh)
Edriele’s gaze trailed down to the woman’s armor, and her stomach twisted. “Where did you find your attire?” The woman glanced down in surprise, as though she’d forgotten she was wearing it. “It was fitted to me when I gained my ranking. I suppose it draws attention, but after my confrontation at… you mean to ask me whether I’m impersonating a Knight!” “The thought had crossed my mind,” the Sister replied dryly. (novella WIP)
“Do you need to make a stop at your house before we head to the chapel?” Leslie asked as they started off. “What for?” Winnie asked. Leslie looked pointedly at the tip of her galoshes poking out from beneath her dress. With another roll of her eyes, Winnie sighed. “Oh, I suppose so.” (Beneath Alder Creek)
When the third meeting for the Society of the Hidden Immortal Tribe was called for the decade, I knew heads would roll. Gathering the entire society together took months. Everything had to be hush-hush; that was the entire point of spreading ourselves out. Plus, every time a letter arrived in the mail, it was a reminder of the idiot who had decided we needed a name change. Everybody agreed that being deemed the ‘S.H.I.T.’ was humiliating, but nobody could agree on a better title, so it had remained the same for nearly a full century. That was the problem with living forever. You always had more time to make decisions, and, in the end, nothing ever got done. (S.H.I.T.)
When she leaves, I’m not sure I remember a word of what she’s said. But as the stresses of the semester wash back in, and my mind clears like being pulled out of a dream, I suddenly understand how one could crash upon the rocks without realizing they’d ever changed their course. (A Modern Siren)
When Georg arrived later, he found Klaus leaning forwards onto the table, staring vacuously at one of his textbooks. "Studying hard?" he taunted as he approached and dropped into the seat Ingrid had been occupying. "I talked with Ingrid," Klaus explained. Georg's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise, but he quickly recovered and looked pointedly at Klaus' posture. "Go that well, then?" "She said I'm arrogant and completely self-involved and that I never take what a girl says into account whenever I'm on a date." With a haunted gleam in his eye, Klaus stared up at his friend. "I think she's right." "Well then it's a good thing somebody pointed it out," Georg offered, and he turned to his work. (Castle on the Hill)
Takemoto Hana rested a hand over her face. She couldn’t see the swirling of darkness over her head, but she heard the whine behind its words. With a wry smile, she asked, ‘Do you not know how to brew tea?’ ‘Of course I know how to brew tea!’ The dark spirit’s voice boomed with a defensive defiance that rang false in the funny little woman’s ears.  (The Funny Little Woman)
“None of us want to be here right now,” Edgar called out to the hall. “None of us want to go back through the handbook and listen to the steps of proper etiquette in immortality. But it seems that, once again, it’s necessary.” “Dammit, Dave,” muttered the man next to me. I said nothing, but I couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. Dave was… how do I describe Dave? To call him an idiot would be underestimating his craftiness. To call him a genius, I’d have to ignore all of his dumb antics. Cruel was too strong. Misguided was too innocent. Mischievous fit best, but even that fell short. Dave was a trickster god, if ever one existed. (S.H.I.T.)
Ridiculous, he told me with a self-conscious laugh of someone who didn't expect to be believed. I smiled, but I didn't join in. (The Little Roads)
“Hey, where did Alina go?” Lorelai asked. Zoe shrugged, but Jaiden cleared his throat. “I think you crossed one of her boundaries, Lo. She specifically asked not to involve her girlfriend in this, and then you did anyways. I know we needed the help, but friendships have to be built on mutual trust, my dude. You should’ve at least let her know your plan before you went behind her back.” The two women stopped and shared a look. “Hey, Jaiden,” Zoe asked. “Do you know the capital of Canada?” He shook his head. “I dunno, Ontario?” “Amazing.” (Mirror, Mirror)
"We had a bet going over whether you'd make it in time," Hans told him. "Did you win or lose?" Josef replied. Hans flipped a 5-Deutsche Mark coin over to Peter, who grinned as he pocketed it. "I'm glad you have so much faith in me." Josef's voice dripped with sarcasm. (Castle on the Hill)
Taliesin reached over his head and grabbed at one of the low-hanging bows, picking leaves from it. “I’m not sure.” Winnie stopped. “What do you mean?” “I mean that I don’t know.” (Beneath Alder Creek)
While she attended to these, the man beside her began to stir. Ella could see him out of the corner of her eye, attempting to push himself up into a sitting position. ‘You may want to lie back down,’ she told him, scrubbing uselessly at her skirt. The man continued to sit up anyways, pressing a hand against the side of his face. ‘Am I killed?’ ‘No, but your savior may be.’ Ella threw her skirt back to the ground. ‘When the Madame sees the state of me, I’ll be spending my future afternoons off making a new dress out of the fabric scraps.’ A frown crossed the man’s face as he considered her words, followed by a scowl of understanding. ‘You work for them. The bourgeoisie.’ (Cinderella)
Ingrid took the seat and began digging through her bag for a book. As she did so, she explained, "There were no other tables open in the building - even in the quiet section upstairs - so I figured that I would just ask the first person I recognized if I could sit with them, and well... here we are." "Don't worry about it," Georg answered when Klaus found himself dumbstruck again. "Just ignore the oaf, he'll leave you alone." Ingrid shot a grin at Georg, and Klaus suddenly wondered whether it was a good idea to have the two of them sit together. (Castle on the Hill)
Up ahead, I could see the glass walls of the bus stop. Usually, I waited for the bus leaning against the metal frame of the stop, leaving the seats inside open for children on their way to school. But the seats were empty now. I still avoided them. (Flo’s Magical Emporium: The Pandemic)
Now, I ask that you do not feel too much self-pity. For as easy an error as it may be to mistake a visiting aristocrat’s son for the hired help, the true talent in such a display causing his immediate departure lies within you alone. And to think that the meeting was the work of your father’s tenuous sway over the court! Well, I am sure the time away will do him some good, lest you begin to consider that you’ve ruined his position as well as your prospects. (Dearly Detested,)
Edgar was at the front of the lecture hall, and standing beside him was Dave, smirking as though at some private joke that only he was in on. He was wearing sunglasses, despite the dim lighting of the room, probably because he thought he looked cool. I rolled my eyes. What a tool. (S.H.I.T.)
 The work is different now. Countryside pathways winding through the forest lie forgotten for years without the familiar steps of a traveler. Off beaten paths in the city are never unknown for long, and sometimes streets that were once crossed by thousands a day fall back into obscurity. (The Little Roads)
“How much time will you give me to think on it?” she asked suspiciously, wrapping her arms around herself as though afraid they’d reach out to him if not kept in check. “You have all the time in the world,” the golden man said. “The boy’s, however, runs out with every passing second.” He extended his hand. (Beneath Alder Creek)
You ever met a rich person? Not comfortably wealthy. Not ‘my Uncle Kenny is a lawyer’ rich. Not even ‘widow answering the door to her manor on a hill dressed in fine silk’ rich. No, I mean proper, so-much-money-you-literally-can’t-spend-it-fast-enough rich. They say it isn’t worth Bill Gates’ time to pick up a $100 bill off the floor because he’ll have earned more in the time it takes to grab it. That kind of rich. They seem to be bred for times like these. Their houses are a source of endless entertainment – movie theaters, bowling alleys, personal gyms with a view of the sprawling landscape they overlook like cruel dictators. There’s no need for them to leave during a pandemic; they have access to the equivalent of a luxury resort most families have to save up month to visit. Necessities can be stockpiled in one of the useless extra spaces in the house. I mean, I once had to hide out in a luggage room for a contract. That’s right. An entire room dedicated to holding luggage, bigger than some of the apartments I’ve rented. I thought their residential labyrinths were my greatest source of grief. But social distancing? I’m one bad contract away from retirement. (Bounty Hunter During a Pandemic)
Shaking his head, Detlef pulled a new sheet from his notebook. “Look, I’m just saying, if we can get the satire right, we can be a modern Jonathan Swift.” “I don’t want to be a modern Jonathan Swift, I want to be a student actually passing his debate course!” Peter snapped. (Castle on the Hill)
Moonlight illuminated the German’s fair hair and pale skin, the effect more malevolent apparition than man. (Face on the Other Side of a Dark Window)
Back then, he’d been known for commissioning the exact same portrait of himself every hundred years, hanging them in a hallway in his manor and trying to pass them off as his line of ancestors to any of the locals. It had been a far less skeptical age, and Dave had earned himself a small band of worshipers before Jeff Goldblum himself had been forced to intervene. (S.H.I.T.)
Clara stood before the board of advisors assisting with her thesis. She was one, very intense paper away from her M.A., and she wasn’t about to risk it all by being too proud to ask for help. When she’d made the appointment to meet with them, she expected a series of questions surrounding her topic. Instead, they’d opened by offering her a job. “You want me to steal from the school?” Dr. Pye wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. Next to her, Dr. Pritchard said, “Don’t think of it as theft, dear. It’s merely redistribution.” Clara hadn’t amassed tens of thousands of dollars in debt to be lectured on the definition of robbery. “Either way, it involves me sneaking into the Chemistry department and taking a huge risk to get you some new toys to play with.” (Origins: The Ghost)
“Why is undermining Pryderi so important to Queen Ceridwen that she would risk breaking a timeless alliance just to dismantle them?” Her stomach twisted into a knot, protesting against the answer. “There are few members of the Dusk Court that we know by title.” A shadow passed over Enid’s expression. “The Lord of the Undernell is second only to the Queen.” “Great deeds build the reputation of one in their own court. Cruelty builds it in both.” Taliesin buckled under Winnie’s weight as she suddenly leaned against him. (Beneath Alder Creek)
“Why are all my friends so quick to endanger themselves?” I muttered as I packed up Midas’ crate. Natalie swiveled around from the candy aisle. “So you’re finally willing to admit that we’re friends?” “Save it.” (Flo’s Magical Emporium: The Pandemic)
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hg80summer-blog · 3 years
Text
Untitled or (The flute of Azathoth)
(This story is conceived and finished during the Fall of 2018)
Newspapers as a dying medium had struggled for a while by now, and the descent into the complete and utter abyss of extinction seemed to be accelerating in a jaw-dropping velocity. There was no wonder why her press was struggling financially, every newspaper outlet was, hers was just more severe. She was now standing in the line, waiting for her coffee, and that bastard of a teenager standing in front of her was texting on his phone while blasting loud and obnoxious music out of that headset around his neck, which kinda defeats the purpose of a headset. She was beyond annoyed, of course.
“Kid.”
The kid raised his head up, saw this middle aged red-haired woman standing right in front of him.
“What?”
“Would you mind turning off the music.” She said, tried to be as kind as possible, “This is a coffee shop, not a public park, nor it is the subway, though you really shouldn’t be doing this kind of stuff in those places either.”
The kid turned off the music, visibly fuming, but didn’t say a word.
She smiled. Proud of her own work, of talking a kid out of his annoying and selfish behavior. The line before her had shrunk, and now finally after a 20 mins long wait, which for sure would be the reason that she would be late for work again today, it was her turn to order the coffee.
The guy behind the counter was visually disgusting. Obviously of his teenage, pimples and blemishes were all over his cheeks, two bloodshot eyes suggested an intense binge the night before, or the influences of pots. Droopy nose, dull gazes, and a messily worn uniform, all permeated the sense of purposelessness and a faineant. She chuckled to herself, found that description of the cashier formed by her own head to be extremely amusing.
“Miss!” The teen was almost shouting at that point. “What can I help you with today?”
“Um...” She came back from her daze, “A cup of coffee will do. Lots of cream lots of sugar.”
As she held the hot coffee with both of her hands to help combat the chilling weather of the recent days, the front door was pushed open and a gust of breeze rushed into the store. Then the door just stayed open, and the cold air just kept pestering her scarfed neck. Finally, after a few moments of tolerance, she turned her head to see who was so irresponsible to not even close the door on their way in.
It was a sickly obese man sitting in a wheelchair, trying to get through the narrow doorway of the coffee store. The staff came to his help, but his scooter was just way too big to fit in. His oily face was filled with anger and the expression of dissatisfaction and discontent, his floppy arms were flying in the air, and his mouth was uttering the voice of complaint. Those who had suffered greater for a better cause, and now there is this fat guy standing in front of the coffee place wailing at the waiter because the door was too small for him and his enormous scooter. She tittered at the concept, took another sip of the coffee.
They didn’t put enough cream in it. It was bitter. 
* * *
“So. Are you free tomorrow?”
She raised her head.
“Hilbert.” She sighed.
“Are you that disappointed to see me?” The man languidly leaning on the glass panel of her cubicle was wearing a grey sweater, and always had been wearing a grey sweater.  Ever since the first day she met him, he was wearing a grey sweater. He pushed his glasses up with the back of his hand, “What are you working on right now?”
“Editing the report of that one ghetto.”
“How is it.”
“It’s um… it’s alright.”
“It’s interesting. It’s not… great?”
“Well, you know.” She turned her gaze back onto the screen.
“Listen, you care for a drink?”
The blue light illuminated her face, drenched her expressionless features with a somber tone. The cubicles of their publishing house were all so small and squishy, and dark as well for some reason, the light just couldn’t reach here it seemed. She often compared this place to that torture chamber in Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, where a pendulum axe was hanging above the stomach of the tortured inmate, and as time run off it would slowly descent and brings the inevitable doom to the poor soul, presenting the most gruesome death to any spectator too sick to not turn their eyes away. Weren’t they the readers? The idea popped up in her head just as her gaze locked on the statistics provided in the article that she was editing. The article was riddled with grammatical errors and faulty statistics, to the point of near incoherence. The writer of the piece was this overweight old fart, who practically lived in the publishing house since he owned no property whatsoever besides all his stationeries, the old fashioned typewriter of his and a seldom working printer, along with all those borderline trash hoarded in his own dorm room. He divorced a decade ago, lost his house to his wife, estranged with his son and daughter, and had been diagnosed to be severely diabetic. Though he had one thing to be proud of -- being the oldest employee of this publishing house, working here for at least twenty-something years. She found that funny, very funny. The old fart had lost all his abilities to write an adequate article for the press, but the house would never fire him just because he was the most senior member of them all. The reader was the sick one. She realized. When the reader read that short story, they were the one expecting the axe to cut the man in two, and even though in that story of Poe’s, the man escaped, but if theoretically the axe did come down and the man did got split into two parts, the reader would not turn away from the gore, because they yearned for it.  
“I presumed you don’t have anything to do this afternoon.”
“No.” She then realized he was still there. “I am free.”
“Care for a drink in my place?”
“How is your work?”
“It’s um… it’s alright. I need to review a play before I could go any further though, so that is bummer.”
“Tea?” She pulled out her draw, “Got some bags here. I could get you a cup if you want.”
“No thanks… listen…”
“Ey.” The receptionist, April, walked to her cubicle, with a commanding tone of voice and an everlasting despise on her face, “Someone was at the door. He said he came to see you.”
Obsequious sycophant, the harlot blew our boss under the desk. But it was rather a pleasant surprise. She had no relatives around this state, let alone with this city, nor did she have any friends laying around, so someone coming to visit her during work was actually a change of pace that she was not expecting.
“He said his name was John.”
The bench in the front door bore quite a bit of history actually. This press house was fairly old after all, but before its time, the building was actually a police station for the local towns. The bench was there for those who were arrested to have a rest before being dragged into whatever room that was needed for them to be dragged into. Unlike those things, the bench remained.
“I got you some tea.” She said.
He took the cup with the coaster, took a sip, and an expression of disgust emerged on his face.
“You never liked my tea, uh?” She said. “You never liked it, not even for a day.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said that quite often, actually.” She sat down on the other end of the bench, “How is ma?”
He frowned at the question, took another sip of the tea. It was bitter. She knew it. She made it that way, and she wanted to say she made it that way unconsciously, but it really was not that convincing, not even to herself.
“She was feeling better.” He said. “She is feeling better.”
“Like how? Has she gone back home yet?”
“She is feeling better.”
“Is she still in the hospital?”
“You should be asking her that instead of me.”
“What do you mean I should be asking her?” She said, unintentionally raising and heating up her voice.
“I mean you should go ask her how she is.” He said, then he took a huge gulp of the tea, swallowing it with a painful and totally not exaggerated countenance.
“You do not like the tea. I see.”
“I did not say that.”
“You did.” Anger brewed within her, and slowly but surely she was edging on the cliff of an outburst. “You hate my tea. You always had. Now stop jumping all over the place. I know how much of a busy gentleman you are, and coming to visit me was merely the byproduct of a trip or something. How is ma doing? Answer me!”
“DON’T YOU TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!” He suddenly yelled out, almost spilling the rest of the tea, “I AM YOUR BROTHER!” Acerbate, his eyes bloodshot, and veins walled off his forehead like the defense lines from the battle of Stalingrad. He composed himself in mere seconds though, then made a deep breath, “Do not raise your voice at me.” He said, trying to be as calm as possible.
Silence dawned.
She stared out the front door. The long cold breeze blew through the empty but littered street. The press house located at the unheeded corner of the city, so of course vacancy and dead silences were the prevalent frequenter. The winter was longer than before, and harsher. The blanket in her house couldn’t even provide enough warmth for her to fall asleep without being bedeviled by nightmares and long dreams, which was why she was planning to go shopping for a quilt this afternoon to get her through the winter.
“Have you cleared the payment of your house?” He suddenly asked.
“Yes.” She said, still gazing at the street.
“So you own a house now.”
“An apartment, to be exact.”
“How is it?”
“It’s um… it’s alright.”
“It’s interesting. It’s not… great?”
She turned her gaze at him, and didn't answer.
A short pause. He looked at his watch, “Shoot, gonna go. The plane is flying in two.” He stood up. “Thanks for the tea.”
“You are welcome.”
He walked out of the building with festinate steps.
She picked up the cup he left behind, not a drop of tea was left behind.
As she was walking back to her office, or cubicle, she was stopped by the receptionist sitting at the front desk, once again.  
“Ron wants to see you. Like right now.”
She definitely swallows. She thought to herself.
“Thanks, April.” She said with a smile on her face. “I am going, right now.”
When she came back from her boss’s office, she saw Hilbert was still standing around her cubicle.
“Why are you still here?”
“Tea break. Where else can I go in this dreadful place.”
Truly it is a dreadful place. Not just this place. The city in general. What a hell hole. What an absolute hellhole. A place where gun shooting can happen so regularly it became one of the mundane. A place where sunlight was toxic and rains were acidic, umbrellas became a necessity on every day of the year. A place where morality is nothing but a piece of shredded newspaper flying across the empty blocks, so the homeless people will stab those who offer alms and helping hand, and bosses will force their female, or male who give a rat crap, force their female employees to suck their phallic one, and fat people would roam around the street while someone else starve to their lurid death. This place is dreadful. Truly dreadful. She could feel her spine split open from the middle, and raised into the sky like the skeleton of the birds' wings, so she could crash through the window of their press and leave this place once and for all.
“It’s alright.” She said, sat back down in her cubicle, and started to pack things up. “I need to finish my work now, you should get going as well.”
“Yeah… yeah… of course.” He said. After a small pause, he turned and about to leave.
“Hey. Hilbert.” She stopped him.
“Yes?”
“Where are we gonna meet for the drinks this afternoon?”
* * *
His house was as dilapidated as ever, with its shoddy door frame and chintzy carpets, molded corners and peeled off ceilings. Just like before.
"Is Bourbons on rocks okay with you?" He pulled out some glasswares and a bottle of Bourbons, cheap.
"I am alright. I don't drink no more."
He was pouring the liquor, and her words paused him, "When did that happen?"
"Happened a long time ago."
He resumed pouring a glass, clearly for himself, "Well, what can I help you with then?"
"A cup of hot coffee will be alright."
"Sugar and cream."
"Yeah."
The backyard still had that one tree in the middle. It had shed all its leaves, and what remained of it was only a wizen skeletal contour of its former self. There was a working table right underneath it, clearly, a birdhouse was in the making.
"Dickinson kept bugging me about this birdhouse. Really don't know where the obsession for birds came from." He said, walked up to the table. "It's almost finished by now."
"I can give a hand." She really did not want to, but the fact that he brought up Dickinson and the birdhouse kinda made it no longer a viable option.
"That would be so nice of you."
The squirrel on the street looked anemic, lack of food source might have already taken a toll on it. What a pathetic sight. It just oozed with dreariness, which made it quite fitting for this place. This abhorrent city, abhorrent place, where the winter is so goddamn long.
“Someone is getting laid off, let me tell you that.” He said, cutting down the pine board as he was speaking. “Someone is gone, that is all I know. The house was not profitable, they had to kick someone off. For sure wouldn’t be that geezer sitting in the back of the office all the time being as unproductive as possible. Bunch of schmucks, am I right?”
She didn’t answer. She simply helped him attach the board onto the tree with some deck screws, then she just stood aside, watching him nailing down every single one of those holes.
“I need to visit ma.” She uttered.
“Oh? You planning to take out the rest of your yearly vacation leave already?” He said, “You know there is still Christmas.”
“I don’t need to take out anything.”
Just as he finished cutting the corner of the birdhouse floor, he realized. “Oh my lord…” He moaned, then he drank all the remaining Bourbon in the glass in one gulp, “What have they done? How could they…”
“I need to visit ma.” She interrupted him, calmly, “Would you be so kind and drive me to the airport this Sunday?”
“Sure, when are you gonna be back?”
She handed him a bunch of finishing nails, “Nail them.”
He did. Then he just stood there, looking at her. She remained unmoved, stared back at him with a gaze just as bleak as ever. “Are you serious?” He asked.
She handed him the last bit of nails.
“You are for real. Are you just gonna leave all these behinds?”
“Like what? What will I be leaving behind, Hilbert.” She raised her voice ever so slightly, and the tone of anger would not go unnoticed.
He still seemed determined to convince her, but after a ponder or two, he stayed silent. He couldn’t even come up with an excuse. The sheer incompetence of it bemused her.
There was no proper answer besides silence, so he nailed down the floorboard with the rest of the nails.
“Would you hand me the roof?”
She did. He put the roof to the side with some more deck screws.
The birdhouse was finished. They stepped back a little, observing their work.
“Well, you would at least be leaving something behind now.” He said, tittered.
She found that humorous. She truly did, but she didn’t laugh, not even a chuckle.
On their way out, Hilbert invited her to dinner, and a play. It was the play he was supposed to do a review on, and it would be performed in the local theatre on Thursday night. He said he got two tickets from the press, but he had no one to go with, so he was thinking of selling that ticket to earn some extra cash. Now that she was leaving, he wanted this to be to their farewell event. As she was imaging burning the theatre down, she accepted the offer.
The play’s name was John.
* * *
She walked out of the theatre with a face of complete shock. It was a mind contorting catharsis. She felt sick, so she bent down and tried to puke out whatever the dirt and smut that was in her, but she hadn't eaten anything since yesterday, so she gagged on dirty airs, and choked on her own cold dark pride. Now she felt better, and her eyesight was now expanded for at least thirty degrees more than normal. Limbs felt duplicated, like many copies of them were behind each and every single move she made, shadowing her actual limbs with poor imitations. The play resonated. She could feel the play, and the storyline was giving her romantic kisses on her cheek along with the winter wind like she was being loved in the most intimate way that was possible. Making love. The play had made love with her.
She stood straight. The street was clean, people were walking out of the theatre, discussing the masterpiece they just saw.
Hilbert was standing next to her.
“Wow.” He said, seemed to be dazed by what he just saw.
“Indeed.” She answered. “I felt kinda sick.”
“Oh… I am so sorry.”
“In a good way.”
“Oh. It’s… alright.”
It's not alright, it’s great! She screamed in her heart.
“You need to head home then if you are feeling sick.”
“I will. Thanks for the play and dinner.”
“You are welcome. You have a way back right?”
“Yeah… buses.”
“I will see you around…”
She lolloped along the street for a bit, then she called a cap. Dragging herself onto the car became a harsh and relentless mission, but she did succeed at it. The taxi driver was this benign old man, with a green cap and a grey sweater on. He asked her if she was alright because she looked pale and sick. His face was furrowed beyond belief, but his voice was so mellow and chummy, and his expression so elder and kind. Befuddled by the nice old man, she told him the destination and closed her eyes shut pretending to be asleep. When the taxi got to her house, and as her feet were stepping out of her car, the driver gave her his blessing by telling her to have a good one, even though it was already two in the morning.
She got home, poured herself a glass of whiskey, and laid down her bed staring right at the ceiling. The alcohol ran through her throat like a double-decker bus operated by an inebriated Scottish man, and they burnt. She felt enlightened. The play she just saw sang songs within her head, and her mind became its backup singer. She had never felt so understood, no one had ever given her this feeling of absolute empathy, like the one who wrote this play actually knew her personally and knew her entire life up until this point. She gave a standing ovation when the curtain was drawn, and even now when she was already on her bed in her own soon to be former house, she still wanted to give the play another standing ovation. The script of the play had literally zero paid off, but the sense of loss and bloatedness and purposelessness and loneliness of life it had provided literally synchronized with her most inner emotions, like two magnets left near each other would just crash into each other with full forces, or two teens in their nonage with their unhinged hormones sucking each other’s face off in their embrace, or that one meteoroid leaped into earth during the extinction of dinosaurs.
She was drunk. She knew that, because she could see her own pallid volitant soul gyrated to the ceiling, ululating the sound of liberation. It flew all over the place, every corner of the room, and even tripped over the glass which still had some remaining whiskey in it. Elated by its presence, she cackled, then burst out in braying laughter. She would continue to lay on her bed, downing glasses after glasses of whiskey, and laugh and cry herself into sleep. She would do that because, for the first time of her life, she felt understood.
* * *
April looked just as beautiful as ever, with all the makeup and ludicrously expensive headgears. She was so young, and the blossoming youth could be seen from her ample bosom and ripe torso. She still got such a bright future ahead of her. She thought, so she walked up to the front desk. April saw her walking towards her, and gave her a giant PR smile. She smiled back, and thanked her for all the help she offered all these years.
As she cleaned out all of her belongings and cleared out her cubicle, sentimentality flooded her mind. She would miss this job, no matter how bad it may be from time to time, maybe she would miss this city as well. This job, this press house, was the epitome of a good chunk of her life, pleasant or not. Life was just too floaty and vacuous for one to insist it to be something enjoyable. All the bitterness she had gone through in this less than six feet square cubicle, now only amounts to a faint, lingering sweetness aloft her tongue. She smiled at the past, put the last of her possession, a Japanese peace Lily, into the cardboard box.
She was about to turn off the computer, and leave this house for one last time, but then she decided to read the newest draft of their newspaper, to see her final contribution to this press house. The last of her presence in this place that represented so much for her.
There was her work. The report about a slump near this area, written by that well-respected senior, edited by her.
Then she scrolled down a bit. Another article emerged.
The Cynical Banality -- A Critique of John
by Hilbert Johnson  
The latest trend among the circle of artsy, pretentious writers had slipped further into the depth of inanity it seems. The newest sensation, John, by Annie Baker, was truly the greatest piece of theatre work I have ever seen, due to how revealing it is, that through simply watching the play we can truly and intimately feel the cynicism of those writers and how little respect they held for both writing and the art form of theatre.   
The play followed a vacation of a damaged couple, and through piles amongst piles of useless dialogues and set up, we got to an ending that is so shocking, the only proper emotional response I can contribute is a simple sigh and a “meh” if I was having a good day. This is probably the most time-wasting theatre experience I have ever been through, and with my whole heart and with all my respect to anything holy above, I mustered all of my strength just to not walk out in the mid-act, and after the play had ended, I wish I could scorn myself for holding up the integrity of being an audience, because clearly, the creator of the thing has no intention of holding up anything.
Anton Chekhov’s principle of firing a gun in the third act if the gun was presented in the first act, had been defenestrated in the most violent way that is possible. The number of guns this play had thrown out was truly mind-boggling, and of course, none of them even made a spark by the end of the play, let alone firing any of it. The amount of subverted expectations become mere statistical numbers by the second act, and none of them can induce any emotional response besides simple ennui. Set up led to nothing, and half of the stuff the script had offered was useless beyond belief. The story threw out countless dots to encourage the readers to connect them by themselves, but by the end none of them had any pay-off and audiences and readers just left wondering why they wasted their time with it. It was like if there is this breadcrumbs trail in the forest, it is interesting so you follow it, and the trails just lead you to more forest, and more forest, and finally the end of the trail is just more forest and nothing else. It is an infuriating experience. 
Besides the problem of having no paid off, the story was also clogged with useless assets that have no use whatsoever. To demonstrate the point, there is this entire scene in the play dedicated to a reading of the work from HP Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu, with no particular reasons and contributed nothing to the story. Why Lovecraft? Why not Edgar Allen Poe? Why The Call of Cthulhu, why not The Shunned House? No one would know the answer to those questions, because it doesn’t matter. It is like the writer just put some useless trash in between the actual story, just so it is different than the “normal” and “mundane” stories of the others. The play felt wider than an ocean but shallower than a piss creak, but somehow those high tier critiques now consider that quality of one that is a compliment. Maybe I am too stupid to realize the symbolism these informations, but isn’t it equally problematic when your play had nothing but symbolism?
Which leads me here. Not only the content I must criticize, but I also need to criticize the mentality of it as well. Critics say the play had perfectly captured the nature of human life, and the loneliness it had offered, praised it to be one of the best plays that year had to offer. How the play subverted the expectations of the audiences, bringing them to an emotional rollercoaster. How the play successfully captured human’s inner nihilism.
If such a story and writing concept were executed in a short story, I would not even have said a thing. But to put it in such a drag out script, was truly an insult. The play felt like it was written to subvert the audience’s expectation, for the sake of subverting the audience's expectation. It was breaking the golden rules of storytelling, for the sake of breaking the gold rules of storytelling. It was being special, for the sake of being special. It has this immunity of criticism since whenever anyone points out the flaws within the story of the storytelling techniques, it could be brushed under the rug by simply saying it was the intention of the script so it could mimic the meaninglessness of real life. It failed at every level of providing a joyful or anything remotely close to an enjoyable experience for the audience, then turned its head and said it was doing so intentionally. It felt like a work created by the most high-end writer, just so he or she could break more new ground and receive more praise from all of her also high-end colleagues, the top five percent of the population. But this play was also genius enough to pander to the bottom five percent of the population, by presenting nihilism as its topmost quality. According to anecdote, when the play premiered at Paris, viewed by normal theatre-goers, all of them walked out in protest, but when the play was put on the San Francisco Prison, all of the prisoners gave it a stand-up ovation for how close and real the play had represented life itself.
How benevolent of an idea. In that case, whenever criticisms was brought up, this anecdote would just be the last nail of the coffin for the critique. Who you would want to side with, the poor and oppressed prisoners from San Francisco, or the smug, overprivileged theatre-goers from Paris? Case closed.
Truly cynical. To make a play so intentionally abhorrent for any normal viewer, and so pandering to those who are the most vulnerable along with those who are on the very top. It is truly disgusting to see the current mentality of creating art had regressed to a point where a Pulitzer Award-winning writer would write something like this, just to poke and enrage the normal viewers, then slap them across the face and scorn them for not understanding true hardship of human life, and being a privileged arse.
Art is based on real life, and above it. Imitating real life with art in this fashion, truly could only be described as pathetic. 
If I am being as cynical as the writer, I would answer the previously asked question like this:
Who actually, wholeheartedly, wants to side, or go along with the prisoners in San Francisco, rather than those so-called fancy theatre attendees from Paris. Sure, everyone would say they would go for the prisoners, and condemn how privileged those theatre-goers are, but are we honest to ourselves? Between the Id, ego, and superego, which part of us is speaking when we said we would side with the prisoners?
I don’t want to be so cynical, I truly don’t. But when faced with a play created for the top five percent and the bottom five percent of the population and no one else, created to break all the established rules for the sake of breaking established rules instead of breaking traditions because it would help the storytelling or the style of the work, created not to express a message to or provide any entertainment to the public but rather to scorn and educate them for being one of the mundane, created to be as artsy as possible and as high end as possible, I don’t really know the way to keep my cynicism in check. I am just a mundane guy, who went to a theatre expecting something, anything that is not a cynical piece of esoteric mock, and before I can do anything about it, my money and my time were wasted into the thin air in return of absolutely nothing.
I still haven’t mentioned how western-centric this play is, how any other culture that values practicalism and collectivism instead of romanticism and individualism of the westerners would despise this play with their most core value, and how racially insensitive it is for it to be exclusively enjoyed and judged by western audiences, but I have had enough. If I keep talking about this thing, the seed of migraine in my head will be out of control.  
This is true cynicism.
It has some terrific writing techniques, and the restraint and subtlety of the writing were all beautiful, but it can’t amount to all the other issues I have with the script, not even close.
I gave it a strong two to a light three, out of ten.
John, by Annie Baker, 3/10
By Hilbert Johnson
  * * *
Look at this fat bastard. Oily and greasy, how in all the bloody but holy hell can he get a job? She thought to herself, as the waiter standing in front of her was waiting for her to order something. What a waste of resources. Truly morality had got itself into some sort of unremitting horror, just so this creature can serve in an overpriced airport cafe.
“Nothing. Thanks.” She said.
“What you two want for drinks then?” The waiter asked, clearly empty-minded at this moment.  
“Uh I would want some sweet tea, and for the lady here, a cup of hot coffee, lots…”
“Black.”
Hilbert paused for a second. “Make it black then.”
The waiter walked off, and a cup of sweet tea and coffee were put on the table.
“So that’s it.” Hilbert said, taking a sip of the sweet tea, “No way to convince you.”
“You do not have to. Nor is there a necessity for you to do so.” She said, took a sip of the coffee.
Bitter.
“How about the apartment? You just clear your debt for it.”
“Sell it. Or rent it. You don’t have to worry.”
“You sure you don’t want to eat anything before you got on the plane?”
“No. I am fine. You can get something to eat if you want.”
“No.”
“Then we can just have a drink can’t we?”
Pause. Silence. Just the noise of her sipping her coffee.
“I want to apologize.” He finally spoke.
“Not necessary.” She then followed it up with: “For what?”
“I am so sorry about that play that night. It was truly not my intention… I don’t know better.”
“It was a pleasant night.”
“It was truly awful to waste our time like that. I don’t know what the play was about. I should’ve done some more research on it before inviting you…”
“I am actually kind of hungry.” She suddenly uttered. She waved for the waiter, this time the waiter was no longer fat and ugly, but still possessed the same uninvested attitude and disgusting demeanor for a waiter to have. “May I have a slice of the cheesecake, the plain one.”
“Yea, and what the good sir wants?”
“Huh… refill my tea.”
The cheesecake tasted like anesthetic, and it was also bitter.
“I just want you to know, I did not intend for the play to be that... indescribable.”
“It is alright.” She said, finishing the cheesecake with her fork.
“So uh… this will probably be the last time we have a meal together, in a very long time.”
“You want some cheesecake as well?”
“No… thanks.”
“The play was very good.”
“You really don’t have to say that… I felt guilty enough as it is…”
“My plane is almost here.”
“I will walk you to the…”
“You still have work, Hilbert. Thanks for all these years.”
“For sure.”
“Take care.”
“Yea.”
She left, leaving him alone, sitting in the airport cafe.
The cup of black coffee she ordered was not finished.
* * *
The old man laying on the bed looking unfamiliar and strange, elder as well, like some kind of eldritch monster. The bed was made with a clean white sheet, and the flowers next to the bed were all withered and shriveled. The Filipino nurse came in and took those flowers out of the vase, and replaced it with fresh white lilies. That corner of the room looked so clean compared to the rest like it was just created out of thin air minutes ago, like no one had ever walked into that corner of the room ever before. She walked around the room, confused, walked back to the front desk. The receptionist there looked like even more of a whore than April, which was quite an achievement considering the environment they were now in was not the most casual place for one to be working in, she was expecting some kind of professionalism at the very least. The nurse pushed her away because she was blocking the hallway, she stepped back a little, asked the receptionist, who was also a nurse.
The receptionist spent forever going through her computer, then she pulled out a bunch of paperwork and asked her to sign.
She was confused, she asked her the question again. The nurse stared back at her with the most intense gaze like she had just accused her of murder.
Murder.
Like an unclogged sink, she now realized why.
* * *
Rustling leaves and moaning sky, darkening the land with argentine clouds, screaming winds and blinding rainstorm. Somehow the moving company was still working even under such harsh conditions. Laborers and workers carried out those old familiar pieces of furniture and threw them onto the truck with the most apathetic attitude one could have ever have, but who could blame them, not a single person would be glad to work amidst an incoming storm, but uncultured man do uncultured job, who could blame anyone for it? She walked past those people, walked directly into the house. One of the workers stopped her, said the house was under construction and unrelated personnel should stay away, she said I am more related to this house than I would ever want to admit to myself and the police would be on their way if you keep blocking my way. The worker, of course, stepped back.
He was sitting on one of the wooden antique chairs of theirs, in the middle of a practically empty living room, seemed like the movers were doing their job quite efficiently. He was reading a book. Atlas shrugged. What a surprise. Men love it. They goddamn love it. Hilbert once read that book as well, and he wouldn’t shut up about it for the next three months. Truly one has to treat themselves with godhood to think of themselves worthy of the position of Atlas where he could have just shrugged away all of his weight. She had never read the book.
He rose his head and saw her standing at the door, with a black bedraggled umbrella on her hand.
“Holy moly! Why are you here?”
“Why did you lie to me?”
“When are you back? You should have told me about it.”  
“Why did you not tell me?”
“Why would you be here anyway? I really didn’t expect you to come.”
“Answer me.”
“You want some tea?”
“John.” She was gnashing. “Answer me.”
“There is still some coffee lying around.”
A short silence.
“A cup of coffee would be nice.”
“I don’t have much sugar though, and I think those creams have certainly expired…”
“Black.”
There were two wooden antique chairs in the living room now, and a small wooden teapoy between the two. A cup of coffee and a cup of sweet tea were placed on the teapoy, along with the book Atlas shrugged.
“When was ma gone?”
“Two weeks ago.” He took a sip of the tea. “Ah… perfect for a rainy day like this. A cup of hot sweet tea.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“Do you know ma was extremely proud of us?”
She didn’t answer.
“Of course you don’t. Why would you? She kept telling me not to bother you. She didn’t want to bother you. She said to me, don’t bother her because her job working for that international trading company must be straining.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“She said not to bother you.”
“What?” Truly enraged, she was progressively getting angrier as the conversation continued, “You didn’t tell me ma is gone, because she told you not to bother me?”
“Well, she didn’t want to bother you! You have a busy job.”
“So you didn’t tell me my mom is dead!? When exactly did she die again?”
“Uh… the funeral was this Monday…”
“Funeral? What funeral?”
“Funeral for ma. Everyone was there…”
“And you didn’t tell me my ma is dead! And you didn’t tell me about the funeral?”
“She said not to bother you… I listened to her.”
“What are you, mad?” She stood up in rage. “You didn’t tell me my mom is goddamn dead because she told you not to bother me?”
“Yes exactly!” He was vexed as well, for some reason, he was clearly in the wrong here so god knows what could possibly be fueling his fury. “Exactly, I didn’t tell you ma is dead because she told me not to! And by god! It took some amount of repetition to get this across that thick goddamn skull of yours!”
“We met on Tuesdays! We talked in the press house! And even then you still lied right to my face!”
“I didn’t lie to you. She told me not to bother…”
“You lied to me! You sultry little squid piss lied! You told me…”
“I DIDN’T LIE TO YOU! SHE WAS FEELING BETTER! SHE IN ALL HELL GODDAMN WAS!”
The scream was ugly, intense, and truly horrifying. Every other screams before this one shivered in its presence.
“I couldn’t drink tea no more.” He sat back down. “They all tasted bitter.”
“Me neither. I couldn’t drink coffee, because sugar and cream just make it more bitter…” She sat back down also.
Silence. The storm outside bellowed.
“I enjoyed some theatre art recently.” He suddenly voiced. “Have you heard of a play called ‘John’?”
Just when she was about to answer, a mover walked in.
“Sir, the furniture is all loaded on the truck now.”
“Sure, have a break, wait till the storm blows over.”
The worker gave her a gaze, then walked out of the house.
What a fat piece of trash. She thought.
The End 
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mitterstorm · 4 years
Text
Dance For Me
Chapter 1
“Finally we are here today to seek and to receive comfort. We would be less than honest if we said that our hearts have not ached over this situation. We are not too proud to acknowledge-
You couldn’t take it anymore, just by standing here listening to that preach addressed his departure. Your knees feel weak and your eyes burn, but you refuse to make a scene, taking deep breaths while clenching your fists is helping you calm down.
Still, it’s not enough.
You want to scream again just as you did when you saw his body limp against yours, scratch your arms in attempts of making the pain and hurt go away. To drift your mind from these ugly feelings.
A sick way of coping indeed, teensy bit of self-harm ain't going to kill you. It helps you somehow, preventing yourself from breaking even further in a public place like the cemetery.
Finally, you regain control of yourself and shift back to the preacher. Unfortunately, he concluded, now you have to prepare for the worse.  
Henry, who is your most precious friend, is dead. His body was being carried away in the concealment of a coffin; he said his last farewell to you early in the morning when you ate breakfast with him, offering your company so he wouldn't feel alone, regain some strength by appreciation itself.
Something was up that morning; the old fart was more talkative than usual and flashed a smile here and there. You are at fault for not noticing from the start. You should have been more perceptive and observant; you are keen on people after all, especially when he gave you that look as if he was parting ways with you. He didn’t fight death, accepted it as embracing a hug from an old friend. That thought alone fills your head with doubt.
Was he even happy when he left?
 Did he feel satisfied with the life he lived?
 Were you enough?
 Fuck, you never would've imagined his passing will affect you this much.
<<You old geezer, why were you so kind to me? Why did we let ourselves get attached?>>
The time is near, you will eventually have to confront him with all of these people staring at you, but you need to be strong for sake. You are what’s left of his loved ones. Linda died long ago. They never had a chance to procreate and bring a new life, Joey went mad or something along those lines.
Just like the rest of the crew, and he didn’t make any friends while he was on service for the military. If he did, they were dead. He didn’t like to talk about it.
<<I tried to make you happy, make you feel at ease as you did for me>>
Yet he kept secrets from you, of course, you respected his wishes and didn’t pry any further.
However, it stung.
<<Now it’s not time to reminisce, there’s nothing to reminisce for me at the moment>>
They called your name to the front; you ran out of time. It’s your turn. Is your first time burying someone, yes, you have assisted other burials besides this one, but now you are who’s lost a loved one. Those past times were favors people close to you had asked a long time ago; they said it felt nice to have somebody there when someone else is missing in their lives. In other words, you were there as comfort. A shoulder they could use to cry and lean on.
Hesitant, you take away from the burier’s grasp his shovel and with a gulp. You start shoveling some dirt into the hole were Henry’s coffin lies.
<<Shit, I can’t stop trembling! Come on, stop being a pussy and get over with this!>>
Despite that, your body wouldn’t obey, it made you look clumsy. No matter how much you lied to yourself.
You are scared.
After burying Henry, your vision goes black.
Waking up tomorrow morning at home without a clue of how you got there made your mind fuzzy.
How fun.
You try to get up, but end up failing.
“Fuuuuuck! Why do I feel like absolute shit! Everything hurts!” These feel just like a hangover. Why does it feel like one? Did you go to a bar once Henry’s funeral ended? How much did you drink?
“Enough to blackout it appears,” You say under your breath. Of course, your dumb ass would go to a bar and get drunk to cope with the pain! An upcoming headache awaits you for being arbitrary, instead of showing apprehension towards the situation and mourn, as you should, your voice of reason zonked out. “I reek of booze. Agh, it stinks”.
No more addressing what happened yesterday; feeling like trash isn't doing you any good. Henry would have called you out on your bullshit.
"Stop whining like a whore and man up, chum! I'll buy you a drink. Later we can relax and cut you some slack, nothing a magsman like myself can't do".
“Ok boomer,” You said in a humdrum tone, at least it made you laugh internally. “lo and behold, this will be a shitty morning-err afternoon, it’s 1 PM, I thought it was too early to be awake”.
That means it’s time for brunch.
Must compel your stomach desires, eat a lot little of food. Therefore, you'll have to leave the bed, go downstairs where the kitchen is; you force yourself out of the comfiness that are your covers. So you walk out of the room barefoot towards the kitchen. You open the fridge faking interest with whatever is inside and close it, then repeat, only that this time you pay a little more of attention.
You grab the water pitcher and pour some in a glass, then look for oatmeal and toss three spoonfuls of it at the water, after that you chuck a spoonful of sugar and mix it. A simple drink full of roughage. It’ll suffice for now.
*Clink clink*
Metal hitting porcelain serves you as a white noise to rearrange your thoughts. Yesterday was hectic and had your mind high wire, you were thinking about the old man; how long have you two been friends? Five or six years more or less, you met each other by autumn at a hospital. On that occasion, you were merely an intern in the middle of their practice and had to change sheets, deliver meals, give them their meds and reassure they took them at the time the doctors had said. Like a nurse or carer (the difference it’s you possess more knowledge than one and can prescribe medication, it was also part of your duty as a trainee assisting the doctors with whatever you could). That’s how both of you came face to face with.
Mr. Stein was sick and injured. He needed to tend some wounds since they required special treatment. Battle scars, you didn’t know at the time, however, as days passed, you became close to him, he told you how he got them; the biggest can be found on his back.  
Unfortunately, a sharp pain arose, preventing you from wandering further in the past. You had forgotten about your headache, which it’s more noticeable now, you are sure there aren’t any pills left.
“I ain’t leaving being this crappy, besides I don’t feel like moving right now…” Your eyelids are heavy and keeping them open, it’s such a pain, so you shut ‘em in hopes of relaxing for a little bit. Leaning your back on the kitchen island while drinking your beverage, its coldness helping you somehow with the throb.
Once again, your mind wanders.
Thanks to it, you know where to find some ibuprofen.
“Are these the ones?” You asked while holding a box for him to see, squinting Henry finally recognized the packet.
“What’s it called again?” He questioned, rubbing his head to ease the ache a bit. His voice raspy because of a dry throat. His normal soft tone replaced by a croaky. He’s clearly suffering.  
“Ibuprofen.” You read aloud as you’ve been asked and turn back to look at him.
“Yup, that’s the one, lass. I know I’ve bothered you enough, but could you serve me a glass of water?”
“You old coot, not a bother at all. I’ll be back with your water in a jiffy”.
The pills are somewhere inside Henry’s studio. You can do that, going upstairs isn’t as demanding as buying them, cuz leaving home means changing clothes that look presentable and aren’t dirty. Henceforth, you don’t feel in the mood for seeing the outside.
“I should stop thinking of how lazy I am and look for those meds…” Talking to yourself it’s quite common, so you ain’t no stranger to these situations.
Therefore, you took a break from your bullshit and went upstairs where Henry Stein used to draw; he passed most of his time in there, secluded from the outside world, before military service, he worked at an animation studio owned by the man he once considered his best friend, Joey Drew was his name if your memory doesn’t fail you.
Your friend called him a bastard, never explained why only responded by saying: “He lost his mind.”
Nevertheless, Henry kept drawing cartoons, and sometimes, he would let you watch him sketch and answered your questions. He carried on with his old comics he left unfinished long ago. The same he had drawn back thirty years ago. The main characters are three little fellas: Bendy, Alice Angel, and Boris. Henry said they animated their adventures and later on, added side characters. The Butcher Gang, if you recall, also consists of a trio: Charley, Barley, and Edgar.
When Henry started storytelling, you felt like a kid back again, he could’ve marked your childhood just as the rest of animators who made those toons while you were a child. Oh, how you treasured these memories, you’ll never forget the time you spent together.
Evoking past times has helped to soothe your headache an itty-bitty, yet you still need to find the ibuprofen.
“Where could it be…” You asked to no one, hoping the walls may respond, even though it’ll never happen.
Seeking everywhere you soon turned the room upside down, papers on the floor resembling a carpet, art supplies rolling across the table (pencils, colors, pens, paintbrushes, blending stumps, etc.) and some books based on anatomy and animation were disorganized on their bookshelves. It all ended after you opened a drawer (this one didn’t need your touch, it was already a disorder) and found what you were looking for, and because of your rashness, more papers fell on the floor.
“Damn, what a mess…” You muttered under your breath a little irritated with yourself for being so careless while searching. You collected the papers and put them in order back again one by one, because of it you grew curious and read some of them, a letter grabbed your attention.
It was one of those fancy letters with a seal and all (what does it say? Seems of importance).
You don’t consider yourself nosy, just interested in its contents.
<<From Joey Drew? Huh, looks like your old buddy send you his salutations after all this time>>
Oh, you had no idea.
Henry knew about the letter, he already read it and did as they told him. The old studio where they used to make dreams come true transformed into a living hell.
‘DEAR HENRY
IT SEEMS LIKE A LIFETIME AGO SINCE WE WORKED ON CARTOONS TOGETHER.
30 YEARS REALLY SLIPS AWAY, DOESN’T IT?
IF YOU ARE BACK IN TOWN, COME VISIT THE OLD WORKSHOP.
THERE’S SOMETHING I NEED TO SHOW YOU.
YOUR BEST PAL, JOEY DREW’.
You finished reading the letter.
*Snrk*
Well shit.
Did you just read a confession or a love letter? Why not both? You don’t know why, but it feels like one.
“Okay, let’s stop right there. I can’t make jokes on circumstances as these ones”.
What could be so urgent for Joey to write a letter after thirty years of silence?
Should you investigate?
<<The letter could’ve been sent years ago! Henry surely read it; otherwise, it wouldn’t be inside a drawer of his studio, though there’s a possibility he didn’t, I doubt it. He must have seen his friend has written message>>
Okay, sure. Let’s suppose he didn’t pay any mind to the damn thing, you can pretend, now the real issue it’s the location. Joey Drew Studios must be closed (or broken down into pieces, you didn’t know if they decided to demolish the whole building).
“Wake up ___! Face reality, you shouldn’t be fantasizing, this ain’t some silly story with you as a heroine…instead of wasting my time, I shall swallow that damn pill and take some zzz’s”.
You left Henry’s solace and went to bed once again after you swallowed the pill with some water. A dreamless sleep greeted you.
  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bendy’s POV
“ん乇'丂 ムの刀乇”.
Even though he should be celebrating, the Inkarnate can’t seem to find any joy in his being, no emotion tried to overtake him. Why? He doesn’t feel anything. True, he may not possess all the emotions a human has, but anger, joy, sadness, and hysteria weren’t unbeknownst him. There’s no satisfaction nor sorrow towards his creator’s death, not even an ounce of regret. Ok no, he won’t sense any guilt for what happened to Henry, he deserved to die just as much as Joey, but he was grasping straws in here!
How’s it possible to not perceive the slightest of emotion within himself?
The Ink Demon was turning apathetic in regards to the subject; he didn’t have an answer as to why. One thing he’s sure of, his world turned dull no longer exciting as he thought.
It was as if the little dancing demon had opened his eyes for the first time, after all those years blinded by the dripping ink, before that, he only saw what his mind showed him. He finally realized how monochromatic his world truly is.
All is black and white for the demon’s eyes.
A wave of indifference invades his mind and his mind is fuzzy, he dissolves into his inky form and rests.
However, not for much.
“-aHahaHAhahaHahaHAhaha!”
Alice.
That bitch.
He despises her nearly as much as those liars, yet the little devil darling couldn’t give a damn about her right now. Let her laugh all she wants as the malady she’s. The Angel probably got the word, celebrating, unlike him.
Immersing himself even more inside the ink, he found…peace. He can work with that, serenity aids his jumbled thoughts; darkness envelopes him and swallows his body whole.
<<In the end…I feel empty. Is this how revenge it’s supposed to be like?>>
He can’t respond to that, how could he? He doesn’t even know what’s life supposed to feel like.
<<Their imagination cursed us all with life, they couldn’t take responsibility for their actions and show us how to drive through it>>
Back when he was the small little imp everybody loved, there were all kind of colors, unlike now. The studio felt warm in contrast to all the ink that surrounds it now.
The remains of those old days lurk inside the deep abyss as ink creatures, husks who replaced the humans that worked here.
Thinking about it got him tired, Bendy finds himself drifting from consciousness, he’s falling asleep.
“Was it worth it?”
<<Again that cunt>> Despite his thoughts, the Inkarnate didn’t feel irascible towards the narcissist woman. Actually, there isn’t much for him to perceive.
She’s not in here, she wouldn’t dare to step a foot on his domain. The wench had the nerve of placing her cutouts and posters; he destroyed a few just as she did the same. She is communicating with him using a damaged poster with her face.
“I know you can hear me, demon, don’t fake pretend.”
“Wんリ りの リのひ ᄃム尺乇?” He hopes to scare her, even though he knows it won’t work while using his beast form for some reason his speech turns nightmarish. Yet he doesn’t wield it often because of how difficult is controlling his instincts. Thoughts become more primal, talking it’s hard after a few hours transformed in it gets tiring, and he can’t measure his own force. He favors his inky form best: practical and gets the job done.
“I don’t”. So she’s just shitting with him, insufferable.
“Then why ask?”
“Spirit of inquiry. Your relationship intrigues me, up there in Heaven, we get curious as to why you didn’t kill him yourself. And don’t even try to justify your actions. You had many opportunities. The little errand boy nearly ends up killing you, he tried the same with me”.
After listening to what the Angel had to said, his permanent smile turned slowly into a frown. It’s never a good thing when the Lord ain’t wearing one.
“…”
“Well?”
The fallen angel is laughing at him.
“Not even you know the reason behind your acts of mercy!” He remains silent, it’s not like she’s wrong, the little devil does not why he was so resilient with Henry.
After that fiasco, she left him be.
Thanks to Alice’s short visit, Bendy finds questioning why she dropped by. They hate one another, true. She has eyes here and there, but it’s to keep him in line, so he won’t cross an inky limb on her domain. Unlike the female cartoon, he does not have any cutouts, posters, plushies, or ink servants near her place. He wants nothing to do with her. That’s why he finds it so unusual, it’s not like her.
Unless…
She fancies something he has.
<<If that bitch knows what’s good for her, she won’t be picking her nose in my business>>
Later he’ll do his rounds throughout the studio, maybe, the imp will find what she’s searching before she does, whatever it may be, he won’t let her have it.
He’ll make sure of it.
Who knows what her deranged mind has planned; he’s tired of the gruesome scenery this place is in, corpses all around, clones of his ol’ friend bring back unsavory images from the past. Oh, Lawrence, he’s a madman, made satanic circles as a way of showing his devotion towards the black devil. Thanks to Sammy, he has eyes in nearly the entire place.
Yes, he’s aware the musician it’s alive, but Sammy Lawrence continues being of use for him.
<<I’ll take care of him when I wake up…>>
He’s exhausted. However, he stays on his beast form sunken in ink.
The demon’s slumber it’s a peaceful one…
.
   .
   .
   .
   .
   Until you enter his kingdom.
 An animalistic rumble shakes the tinted walls.
 He’s coming for you.
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Three days.
You paced on the issue for three days, until you finally had an answer.
“I’m gonna pay a visit to your ol’ pal, maybe he’s still alive…or not…” You lowered your voice in the last part; Henry called Joey a bastard and accused him of being mentally unstable, you trust his word, but what if…what if he changed? There’s a possibility he redeemed himself and went through a rehabilitation process to help him with his instability.
<<I need to look for the address and from there I’ll see what can be done>>
You googled ‘Joey Drew Studios’ on your phone and within seconds Google Maps showed up, you were going to click at it, but then something catches your eye.
An article and it’s quite old.
‘Joey Drew Studios, also known as the workshop. Is an American corporation and an animation studio of the Bendy franchise, established in 1929.
Founded by Joey Drew and Henry Stein in an unknown full date other than the year of 1929, Joey Drew Studios is located at Broadway, Brooklyn, New York City, New York.
In 1946, Joey Drew Studios was under investigation after reports of hazardous work environments, missing employees, harassment, and excessive back pay, as well the company's danger of being bankrupt, all of which are a result of Joey's mismanagement of the studio. Anonymous employees threatened to make labor unions over the poor conditions, which included unpermitted buildings, hazardous electrical wiring, and a plumbing system prone to bursting. In addition, there were excessive work hours, most of which were unpaid and several animators were unable to see their families in weeks, after being threatened with disciplinary action and termination if they were unable to finish animations on tight schedules.
There were reports of barricaded offices, employees locked up in work spaces, and complaints of crazy malfunctioning machinery. Despite the evidence against the company, Joey Drew remained firm that the studio has done nothing wrong, calling the accusations "preposterous" and "ridiculous", dismissing them as either complaint from menial employees, or feeble attempts by competing studios to discredit Joey.
On August 16, 1959, the law firm known as Snooks, Spitner and Snooks sued Joey Drew, having heard the rumors of Joey's mismanaging of his own workers. 12 days later, the studio was closed down in accordance to legal regulation 11 U.S Code § 1125 (which forbids the misrepresentation of legally established companies) as evident by the bankruptcy report found in Joey's apartment, as well as health and safety concerns directly by the mention of a health and safety board meeting schedule found in the appointment lobby.’
Oof.
<<That’s a lot to take in>>
Why the fuck would Henry’s friend would want to meet at that nightmare show? Has he learned nothing after all this years? And not only that, the sucker it´s/was an abusive prick with his employees!
<<Man, you weren’t joking>>
You fear a screw lose isn’t Joey’s only problem.
<<He sounds like an asshole, I don’t want to put up with his shit...I’ve got enough dealing with people like him on a daily basis. Sure, not everyone it’s an ass and there’s some decent/kind people out there, but handling jerks as the likes of him tires me out>>
Sometimes you aren’t the most patient person, it all depends. But this whole ordeal it’s too much for you.
<<The studio is in the big city, New York it’s fucking expensive. I don’t have the money for travelling that far, I’ll have to bid on my savings and package supplies for the journey>>
Crap. Three days and you didn’t think all of this through! How can you be so stupid?!
Now this looks like one of those impulsive decisions you take for being careless and inattentive.
<<How could Henry put up with me when not even I can stand myself?!>>
You need an adult, that’s what you ought to have beside you.
Your life is such a mess sometimes…
“Before spending money on my idiocy I should read more and prepare myself.” You mutter angrily to yourself.
That’s exactly what you did the next two days, finally you are ready for departing.
You grab your backpack and the car’s keys. “Cellphone in the front pocket, all that’s left is open the door, lock it and call Abby, easy.”
During those two days you made a few calls and went up for gas, it was going to be a long trip from Miami to New York. Sure, it ain’t that extensive, but you’ll be driving by yourself for approximately 20 hours. A place to stay, money, gasoline and food are big girl’s problems. Not counting the money you’ll spend on a cheap motel to rest your head.
“That or make a few stops on gas stations…maybe sleeping in the car won’t be that bad…” The good thing is you have options; you aren’t tied solely to one alternative.  
<<Abby won’t charge me for doing me this favor, another plus>>
She’ll guard the house in your absence and will call if any emergency transpires.
Now, you are free to go.
<<I hope I made a good decision doing this>>
The first 8 hours were a torment, bored and your ass felt numb of sitting for that long, the last time you remained that still was in high school, since you made your schedule. Your feet hurt just as your arms did. You made a stop for eating and going to the bathroom, after that another 8 hours.
Overall, the journey was relaxing, while driving you admired the views offered to you, savoring each sight. It helped you keeping away some melancholy.
You miss Henry, no matter how much you tried to distract yourself with this excursion of yours, the emptiness stays in the back of your mind.
Your wounds are still fresh, you haven’t mourned properly, because you don’t want to. That’s why you are doing this, to keep yourself busy so you won’t think about it. You need it, you ain’t prepared for it yet.
Soon you’ll be.
After a short nap (before that you made many stops, ‘cuz you’re a whining bitch who ain’t strong enough to control her fucking bladder), you started driving again. You have three or four hours left on the road.
Time to listen some music, you activate Bluetooth and connect your phone to the car’s stereo, finally you found a song of your liking in Spotify and play it. You spent the rest of the trip singing along; sometimes you’ll speed up a little bit on the spur of the moment.
Soon you got to your destination, didn’t waste time changing clothes, you collapsed on the bed in the motel and slept for an hour. After that, you washed yourself and got ready for visiting Joey Drew.
“Here goes nothing…”
You regret already coming here, silly you just ruined a change of clothes! Why is there so much ink? You’ll never get out the ink of your shoes, fuck! You have been here for less than ten minutes and all went to shit for you! It doesn’t help this place keeps giving you the heebies-jeebies! Every time you take a step on the creaky wooden floor it feels as if someone is following you, like a slithering sound. The ink splashes keep creeping you out, if it wasn’t black you would think it’s blood, Jesus Christ.
<<Thank God, the lights still work; it would make this place spookier if they didn’t>>
As you venture further deeper into the studio, a beast rumbles, shaking everything around you, more ink drops fall.
At that moment…
…you knew you fucked up.
So you hide.
Your mind provides you one last thought before going high drive
‘WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?! WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?!’
<<FUUU-
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juleswolverton-hyde · 5 years
Text
Word by Word | 01 (Bangchan x Reader)
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Genre: Fluff, Romance, University/College AU
Pairing: Graphic design student!Bangchan x Literature student!/Irish!Reader
Warnings: Swearing (but what can you honestly expect when dealing with an Irish person?)
Summary: An ancient saying dictates that polar opposites attract, which is proven once again once an introverted whiskey-loving aspiring author meets a fairly extroverted boy initially proposing to survive the loneliness brought about by academic administration together.
But soon the meaning of ‘together’ expands as personal creative worlds are explored and understanding stirs up hidden emotions.
Masterlist
Next Part
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For anxious people, friendly support from strangers oddly turning into companions is often needed to get through the day, finding solace in the kindred spirit of the bond has been established despite being not worth a dime. The previous semester could only be survived thanks to the small group of friends that made the seminars more bearable, huddling together and always having at least one to have as a research partner or discuss a primary source with. Withal, the university administration has different plans for the second half of the year, resulting in the complete split from familiar faces which will now only be seen on Monday for the start of the academic week with lectures.
Henceforth, yesterday was only the misleading silence before the storm, chatting and fooling around with curiously close relationships during the day. As per usual, multiple pairs of shoes found themselves to the habitual café by the canal to go for lunch together in between lectures, but a lonesome soul listening to the vivid chatter only settled for a cup of coffee since the stomach could possibly not handle more because of the all-nighter working on the next chapter of the attempted novel and composing a few more poems for a to-be-published-someday poetry bundle.
A chip off the old block, taking after the grandfather who raised a timid girl to become like this: full of too many voices and writing them down since that is the only acceptable form of schizophrenia in today’s society. Fortunately, it is while enjoying the company of Dante, a Birman with hellishly blue eyes of an extremely distrustful and arrogant nature except when being with an aspiring author rivalling with a relative. He mostly lies on the duvet on nights filled with the self-inflicted torture of bleeding behind a typewriter, occasionally jumping on the desk beneath the attic window where often a raven nicknamed Edgar settles down and demanding to be pet whenever a repose is taken for a glass o’ Irish whiskey when threatening to fall on hard creative times. Otherwise, dirty bean water is grand as well. Whatever the case, Dante conveniently though perfectly times it each time.
In the meanwhile, Virgil is likely functioning as company for Charles, who is also known as “Grandfather” during formal events of which most relate to publishing houses and to which he always has to be dragged while muttering unintelligible Gaelic profanities. Alternatively, it is the first full name whenever competing with one another or simply “Charlie” when the old balding man with a snow white moustache reviews the latest result of typing on the historic sidekick of every author. According to the in-house editor and occasional enemy, a typewriter is the sole source of ‘’pure writing’’ and imprinted the habit of working with the old school machine as soon as hands were able to write the letters formerly merely read in books.
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For those unfamiliar with the cats, it is impossible to draw a distinction between the two, but those who look closer notice that Virgil does not share the same eye colour with his brother, the ocean grey betraying the fact the fluffy bastard is indeed that. 
A bastard. 
Exactly like his owner and the owner’s granddaughter who was also born out of wedlock. 
However, even in Dante there is a trace of being not a full blood Birman since his slender skull hints at a Ragdoll influence though the selective sweetheart would never admit to it even if the ability of speech had been given to cats. 
All in all, all of us are outcasts so it has become the running joke beneath the roof of the outskirts mansion we are glorious bastards. Honestly speaking, it has a nice ring to it because if being separated from others for whatever reason counts as a qualification for becoming this, then the lack of pals in primary and high school is not minded. The same goes for the adoption by a loving howbeit harshly critical grandfather because the son who should have been a proper father could not bear the sight of the offspring originating in a scandalous affair with a secretary who had no mother instinct at all, thus sharing in the shallowness with her one-time lover.
Whiskey story nights filled with almost empty pens, digits stained with ink, reading breaks and lots of swearing in frustration or joy have come to form a steady aspect of life, Charlie clearly in a better mood when settling down to shape the rough paper diamonds in each other’s company despite the exchange of insults pertaining to manuscripts or in a loving manner. An Irishman can leave Ireland, but the Irishness will never leave the individual and the island tales that at times seem mere fantastic fancies create a bond with a heritage that would otherwise have never been known.
It is because of Charles, his upbringing that has not been without it struggles, and Dante and Virgil I am still here, exerting power as an author on the Internet after creating a manuscript on the typewriter that once belonged to the moustached man’s close American friend who, too, had a taste for liquor and a talent for writing. 
Apparently, one night at a party, this comrade was hit in the face by a drunken accountant who tried his hand at poetry nobody understood and insulted the boxer’s manhood, causing the offended party to strike the provoker down in drunken rage. Fortunately for the injured, the American was willing to forgive the insult after being offered an apology and the next day the papers reported the incomprehensible poet fell down the stairs, the accident resulting in a broken hip alongside other injuries, thus covering up the truth of being beaten black and blue.
When asking why nothing was done to stop the fight from escalating, the answer is always the same. ‘It was too much fun to see that idiotic sod being beaten up. Furthermore, he had it coming sooner or later because he was a fecking racist prick, Y/N. It was more of a service than a true crime.’
Basically, Granddad sat back with a bowl of popcorn and cheered his boxing buddy on.
Truly a gentleman bastard.
As proves to be an inherent characteristic, judging by the rage coming from the classically furnished writing room on the east side of the house bought with the royalties from writing pieces critical of the human condition and problems rooted in society under the guise of a cleverly composed story. ‘Virgil! For fuck’s sake, ye bloody gobshite!’
‘Charlie, how’s she cuttin’?’ Not so well, judging by the look of pure horror in fast passing stone-toned irises with elated pupils framed by deep earthy brown fur and liquid onyx paw prints creating a trail on the freshly mopped floor. What a way to leave the house before facing the horror of being left alone at the university because everyone has been placed in a different time slot. ‘Although, never mind.’
In the faux leather spinning chair behind the intricately designed baroque desk, agitated calloused fingers run through pale thin hairs while lips are pulled into a snarl at the sight of the obsidian pool of ink staining the pile of blank pages meant to be engraved with poetry. ‘Well, this is just fucking grand, isn’t it?’
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‘Think about your blood pressure, ye aren’t all that spry anymore and your fans will not like it if you kick the bucket already.’ Grinning like the purple cat in the favourite story to listen to while sitting by the hearth during childhood, dark flats wander the afromosia floor to the stout big man with an irritated iron gaze that slightly softens at the sight of the lass raised as a daughter rather than a granddaughter, the pupil who has turned more and more into a peer as time went by. ‘And Virgil isn’t as graceful as Dante, prone to causing accidents yet you love him all the same.’
‘Ah, feck off.’ An eyebrow raises in question when settling down into the fauteuil in front of the bureau, casually crossing one leg over the other and endeavouring to suppress the pressing yawns as best as possible. ‘It’s yer first day of university after a week of being a dosser and you pulled an all-nighter while having to show up early. You’re not the full shilling, are ye?’
‘No. No, I’m not, but you are what you eat. I’m fine, Charlie. And I worked on a couple of poems, mind you, and also wrote two more chapters for Paper Wonderland. Furthermore, I read ahead for this block’s course so, overall, I’ve been productive.’
‘You haven’t been until I’ve seen the first drafts.’ It is a house rule: there are no actual original versions of a part of a tale unless the stern editor has seen it and given feedback. Otherwise, it is nothing more than stained paper. 
‘Oi, I want to keep some element of surprise to blow you off yer socks when you read the full result. Where’s the fun in being spoiled beforehand when it can become the reason I’ll finally conquer the throne you’re currently sitting on. One day, one day I’ll finally be recognized as more than mere family.’
The mentor stands up to walk around the chaotically ruined heavy piece of furniture to put an encouraging hand on the shoulder and give it a little encouraging squeeze, which gets nullified by a comment that makes the characteristic need for rivalry flare up. ‘Keep dreaming about that day, ye wee chiseler, and maybe, just maybe you’ll manage.’
A sarcastic mirthless chuckle functions as a nullifying factor for the elder’s smugness while standing up from the oddly comfortable espresso brown chair to head for the door. ‘You really like throwing shapes, don’t ye, gramps?’
‘As much as any grand man.’ The old great man matches the pace to the young feet eventually coming to a halt at the entrance of the writing office. 
At the double doors, on the edge of a casual temporary farewell, all devilishness fades away into fatherly concern due to the realization a difficult social challenge has to be faced, having had many conversations about the introverted anxiety of a mask-wearing lass who merely acts like a young professional while working as a barista to earn a little cash on the side. ‘Take that puss off yer face, Y/N. You’re gonna be grand because you’re a full-grown woman with an Irish background. We’re tough people made of iron who don’t take anyone’s intimidation.’ 
Two big wrinkled hands wrap themselves around upper arms clad in a neatly-ironed alabaster collared shirt as a moustached mouth places a familial hope-giving smooch on the forehead before giving the right cheek a weak playful slap. ‘Now, go, you fine thing. Maybe you’ll catch the eye of a proper laddie.’
‘Feck off.’ A playful punch on the shoulder undoes the intimacy and grants the opportunity to crack on to catch the bus towards doom after putting on a khaki trench coat and slinging the stone-grey laptop bag over the shoulder.
‘I don’t recommend effin’ and blindin’, though. Tends to give a bad image,’ is the last piece of laughingly uttered advice which is seemingly also disregarded howbeit with an absently-minded waving hand wandering down the sandstone cobblestone path towards the main road. 
And before taking an immediate right out of the gate towards the nearest bus stop, the other one holds the habitual saviour in the form of a book already.
An opportunity to escape the nervousness brought about by cruel reality that is taken away when bumping into someone, an accident which still tends to happen despite the mastery of avoidance skills, and the account of the life of a bookseller falls onto the concrete. 
Eyes as big as a doe’s when caught in the headlights of a rapidly approaching car stare in horror at annoyed molten chocolate irises above an admittedly adorable big nose, irritated by an ignorant daydreamer under the constant scrutiny of the world, which quickly gain a weird gentleness when truly looking back. ‘I’m so, so fe- sorry. I should watch where- no, watch my footing. Again, I’m so sorry.’
Please, don’t get mad. Grand job, Y/N. The day’s barely begun and you already messed up.
‘It’s alright.’ Bleached short locks clad in an onyx leather jacket squat down to pick up the paperback on the ground, long pale fingers dusting off the little dirt the impact of the fall has caused to stain the cover before handing it back. ‘You dropped this.’
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Trembling hands accept a small piece of peace of mind, gaze averted from the small fading kind smile on the young man’s face to stare with burning cheeks and a raving heart at dark flats aching to flee the situation. ‘Thanks.’
‘Miss? Are you alright?’ The lost distant type of contact from just a second ago is futilely tried to be re-established, unable to connect thus to a soul with a thousand voices within now all rendered to a flustered whisper. 
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll- I need to go. Don’t want to miss the bus.’ A curt nod ends the conversation abruptly, turning away as fast as lightning while muttering a form of apologetic goodbye as the walking pace enhances to a speed barely shy of running. ‘Again, my apologies.’
However, as Fate or mere coincidence would have it, this meeting is not the last as tracks are silently retraced by foreign sneakers as blasting songs from various genres disclose the world from a never tranquil consciousness.
A few minutes more the blissful unknowing continues, reading irises stuck in the sceptic description of a man able to do what wants to be done in case becoming a writer does not work out.
A few minutes more the wind has the possibility to play freely with locks without it being noticed nor minded.
Then all changes with the approach of the awaited vehicle. 
The loudness comes back with the bus.
And an ink-black leather jacket.
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hekate1308 · 6 years
Text
Page Turner
I am a huge fan of Jasper Fforde’s work, so enjoy this Destiel fusion!
When the Literary Agency had first knocked on his door, Dean had told Sam and his brother hadn’t stopped laughing about it for a week.
He’d stopped when Dean had informed him that he had accepted the job offer, and that one of the reasons he’d never read as many books as he liked was simply that he had always been a natural book jumper – in fact, he was much too good at it. “Remember when I used to read Knights of the Round Table to you, Sammy? I stopped after I one day landed right in front of King Arthur himself, and let me tell you, A Kid in King Arthur’s court made it out to be much more fun than it actually was.”
Sam never laughed about his new job again after that.
Anyway, that was how Dean ended up as a Literary Agent – in the he-actually-went-into-books-and-tried-to-make-sure-no-one-ruined-the-plot-or-did-anything-else-stupid sense, not the other one.
In the eight years since he had joined the Agency, he’d had many adventures, but he’d never found a partner he was comfortable working with.
“Guess what” the smile of the Cheshire Cat (Dean continued to call him that, any regional changes be damned) asked.
He didn’t even look up from his desk in the Headquarters – located at Norland Park from Sense and Sensibility, in the ballroom that conveniently wasn’t mentioned in the novel. “The March Hare and the Hatter have finally made peace with time and have become sane.”
“No.”
“Miss Havisham has decided to abandon her grief and raise Estella into a nice girl.”
“No.”
“Sherlock Holmes actually went down the Fall and now we have a problem.”
“You are as cheerful as a mouse in a fridge full of cheese.”
“Wouldn’t that make them really happy?” Dean asked.
“Not if they were lactose-intolerant.”
He had learned long ago not to pay attention to what the Cheshire Cat was saying – unless it was important.
“You are getting a new partner.”
“I thought I was allowed to work alone after –“ Dean stopped talking abruptly. The last attempt to partner him up with someone was not something he liked to think about.
There was a reason a syndrome was named after Peter Pan. If Dean ever had to speak to that permanently sugar-flashed kid again, he was going to Neverland and joining the pirates.
“The Bellman seems to have found the perfect candidate, as perfect as a bike for a fish.”
“Cheshire” Dean said tiredly, “I do have to finish the report, and you know how K. is – he’ll try to have his two executioners from The Trial come here again to deal with me.”
“Fine, fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The smile vanished, but the cat without its mouth appeared instead. Dean simply rolled his eyes as he took his sweet time to finally dissolve into thin air.
“Agent Winchester!” the bellman called out, as excited as if he’d finally found a Snark that wasn’t a boojum. “I have found a new partner for you!”
He forced himself to smile at his boss. “How wonderful.”
The Bellman frowned. “I have tried many weeks, I have tried many days –“
“Yes, yes, of course, sir” Dean said quickly to interrupt what would undoubtedly turn into a weird poem of giant proportions if he wasn’t careful. “So where is he?”
“He’s on his way here” the Bellman answered, pouting because Dean hadn’t allowed him to recite what he considered some of his best work.
Ten minutes later, Dean’s new partner entered the ballroom and the Bellman introduced them.
“Agent Winchester, this is Castiel Novak, from the Castiel Novak – Private Eye series.”
Dean had never heard of those books, but that didn’t have to mean anything; hell, one of his best friends in the Book world, Crowley, the King of Hell, came from a rather pathetically selling little-known series called Supernatural by some wannabe named Carver Edlund.
Now, not having any knowledge of the qualities the author of Castiel Novak – Private Eye had bestowed on his main character, he still had his experience and it wasn’t difficult to gather information.
For one thing, the author had definitely been one of those who felt that their detective wasn’t going to draw in reade3rs unless they made him ridiculously hot. Tussled dark hair, blue eyes, slight stubble... Not even the trench coat distracted from how he looked, and that was saying something.
Which, by the way... Dean almost winced. Those trench coats must have been old-fashioned when he was first conceived.
“Dean Winchester” he introduced himself.
“Hello, Dean. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Really, and a deep voice too? What the Hell? Was he really a Private Eye or was this another soft porn series for bored housewives (not that Dean saw anything wrong with that; he’d had quite a few adventures in fanfiction).
Cas was now staring at him and – ah, of course. Hot guy, socially awkward, solving murders, probably with an equally hot female assistant in the novels who looked after him and eventually dragged him before the altar.
“So” he asked the Bellman, who was writing down something (could have been about his and Cas’ introduction, but Dean doubted it; more than likely it was another stanza about a Snark), “What’s the case?”
He looked up and blinked. “Oh” he finally decided, “Just something easy for you as a new team. The wife has decided to elope with her lover in Fitzgerald’s short story The Cut-Glass Bowl.”
Dean sighed; no matter which one, ever single piece of Fitzgerald’s fiction was drowning in booze. This wasn’t going to be fun. “You ever tried Fitzgerald before?”
Cas blinked. Then, he answered mechanically, “I am looking forward to the experience.”
Whoever had written him that love interest he had to have, they wouldn’t have it easy.
“Ugh” Dean sank down on his chair, breathing the fresh, clean air of Norland Park. “I like to take a drink or two, but this is...”
“It certainly seemed excessive”  Cas agreed, sitting down at his own desk next to Dean’s the Bellman must have arranged for him while they were chasing down Mrs. Harold Piper and Mr. Freddy Geddney.
Problem was, all of Fitzgerald’s fiction had been written by a man who had had a.... tumultuous relationship with his wife, and it showed. Dean rubbed his forehead; she’d actually thrown the cut-glass bowl after him.
To his credit, Cas had wrestled her to the floor and they’d done a decent job of convincing both to go back to the one scene they shared in literature.
“I think” he said, “We’ll make a good team.”
Cas looked up from his desk, somewhat surprised it seemed; but then he just nodded.
They turned out to be indeed a very good team; over the next two years, they became as legendary as Edgar Allan Poe and The Headless Horseman, or Thursday Next and Miss Havisham.
Cas and Dean became close friends, the later incredibly baffled when he visited Cas and found that no love interest had ever been written for him in a book series that consisted of ten rather heavy volumes; and then he’d just felt sorry for him when Cas confided in him that sometimes, he felt very lonely because of it.
This bastard of an author had never even given him a friend, for crying out loud; it was just him in his dingy little office and the cases he solved.
So Dean visited him on a regular basis, or invited him back to his place in the real world, when they weren’t on a case. Cas always came, absolutely delighted to finally have a reason to go there.
“Do you know” he said to Dean one day as they were visiting a bee farm because Cas happened to be fascinated with them, “That there are no bees in my world? My author forgot to put them in.”
Cas deserved bees, Dean thought, as he watched his face light up at seeing the hives.
Cas deserved a lot of things.
And yet, Dean wasn’t completely honest with him.
Because there was one thing Dean hadn’t told him.
But how was he supposed to confess to a fictional character that he was falling for him?
Sam, of course, tried to be logical about it.
“You need to get out more – in the real world, Dean. You know Cas can’t – reciprocate your feelings. He wasn’t written for romantic affection, you said.”
“I said he had no love interest in the books” Dean replied flatly. He didn’t know how he was supposed to explain to Sam that many of the book characters were nothing like the way they had been written originally; it was difficult to understand for someone who wasn’t  a natural book jumper.
“Still, Dean – he’s fictional. He’ll never age, or die.”
“I know, alright? I know it’s hopeless”.
And yet, his heart beat faster the next morning yet again when Cas gave him a gently smile as he greeted him.
“You’ve got it bad, darling” Crowley drawled. “So, so bad.”
Wasn’t that freaking ironic, coming from him. Crowley had originally been written as the antagonist of the two main characters, the king of Hell, a bad-ass demon, but was busy changing the narrative.
There was simply that one small detail Carver Edlund hadn’t realized: Crowley was actually quite decent once you got to know him.
Dean didn’t say so, however, and just shook his head. “I know. And my brother already told me it’s useless, so don’t even think about it.”
“What, me doing the right thing? Sorry, Squirrel, you’re barking up the wrong tree here.”
“I think you got your metaphors mixed up.”
“That’s what happens when the quality of writing varies from instalment to instalment” he sighed. “Did you know that in the last book I was supposed to die?”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, I changed it.”
How Crowley got away with doing stuff like that, Dean would never know, but he was damn glad he was sitting next to him, as alive as he’d ever be.
“Well this is... different” Dean said as he stepped into Cas’ apartment. Before there’d barely been any furniture except for seemingly a million shelves to hold his book collection.
Now, there was a couch and a TV stand, and a few pictures of –
Cas and Dean.
He’d actually managed to bring pictures of them into his –
“How did you do that?”
“Oh, this is my apartment from the second novel. There’s not a single scene set in my place, so it –“
“Like Norland Park’s ballroom.”
“Exactly.”
Dean nodded. “Smart.”
“Crowley gave me the idea.”
Dean frowned. “You know him?”
“We met at your last birthday party” Cas reminded him.
True. Both his friends from the real world and the Book World had shown up at Dean’s apartment, and it had been surprisingly difficult to differentiate who belonged where.
“He gave me a few tips” Cas explained, “How to... move around your plot, so to speak.”
“Oh?”
Cas nodded. “Since this scene doesn’t exist in the novel – I’m free to do as I please.”
He stepped up to Dean and reached up to gently cradle his face in his hands. “is that... okay?”
“More than okay” he breathed and went in for the kiss.
“Dean...” Cas said much later. “I – I have wanted this for a while, but I’m fictional, and you’re –“
Dean kissed him again. “We’ll manage” he decided, “We always do.”
And they did.
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The Bones of a Hellhound - Chapter 7: Loyalty
Gavin Free, hacker extraordinaire for the Fake AH Crew, finds an injured dog. Big, black and mean, Geoff reluctantly agrees to let him keep it and train it to be a guard dog. Little do they know, Vagabond (or Ryan, as Gav prefers to call the beast) is not exactly what he seems…
The crew tries to make Estelle talk.
Warning: Torture in this chapter.
AO3 Link
They always kept the interrogation room purposefully cold. Geoff had always found that this loosened their guest’s tongues a little quicker. When they were trying not to shiver in cold as well as pain, it was slightly easier to break them.
When Geoff and Jack entered the room Estelle was still sitting right where they’d left her. Michael had wanted to be here, but had been ordered back to bed after he’d gone way too pale and clammy. Jeremy and Gavin had escorted him back to the medical wing.
Jack checked Estelle’s restraints and then went and stood in the corner of the room behind her while Geoff sat down in the chair opposite her. She didn’t move when he took out a knife and began cleaning his fingernails with it. She stared resolutely at the opposite wall. Geoff harrumphed.
“I’m impressed, you know,” he said. “Not many people have the balls to cross me. And then to hide so successfully from me… You had us going for quite a while there.”
Estelle said nothing. Geoff leant forwards, fixing his tired-looking eyes on hers.
“And you know the reason why not many people have such big, brass balls?” he asked.
Estelle ignored him.
“Hey, it’s rude to not look at someone when you’re having a conversation with them,” Geoff said, snapping his fingers. Estelle didn’t flinch. Geoff sat back again. He chewed at his lip.
“See, what I just don’t get is why you’d do this. We have been loyal customers for quite a while now. Why would you go and throw that all away now?”
The only sound in the room was the soft dripping of blood from the wound on Estelle’s leg. Geoff sighed.
“You could have made this easy, you know. I am trying to be polite here. Really trying,” Geoff said. His voice was low. When Geoff was angry, it would go high and tight and crack like he was thirteen years old again. However, when he was truly furious, it would go low and quiet. The cold, monotone would steal into it, freezing his genial blue eyes. His knuckles creaked as they tightened around his knife. He saw Jack’s fingers twitch too.
“I would have tried to be nice… But your little stunt nearly cost one of my boys his life. I might have been able to forgive you going to our competitors, but that…” Geoff shook his head and ran a shaky tattooed hand through his hair. He lunged forward suddenly, the knife flicking up to meet the corner of Estelle’s mouth. She drew in a sharp breath, but refused to react further. Geoff frowned.
“Why the sudden switch in loyalty?” he asked.
Finally Estelle looked up at him. She smiled grimly.
“It’s nothing to do with loyalty,” she said. He voice was hoarse and weak. “Edgar knows I double crossed him too. I know that you will kill me. Edgar won’t. Not for a quite a while at least…” Estelle shivered.
“You should have left while you had the chance,” Geoff said.
Estelle rolled her eyes at him.
“Well. You seem to understand your situation pretty well. Surely there’s no harm in telling me everything you know about Edgar then,” Geoff said brightly and threw himself back into his chair. “It’ll save you the pain of me trying to drag it out of you before you die.”
Estelle looked away. Geoff levelled his knife at her.
“No?” he asked. She didn’t respond.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
Estelle said nothing.
Geoff got to his feet and crossed to the wall. There stood a very ordinary looking tool cabinet. Most of the draws also help some very ordinary looking tools. Geoff hummed as he picked through them. He passed a small, remote control-sized object to Jack and then went back to his chair. He caught Estelle straining to see what they were doing out of the corner of her eyes before they flicked back to the opposite wall.
“Now. I’m going to ask you a question. If I have to repeat my question, we will provide, ah, encouragement.” Geoff fixed the woman with a steady look. “Where is Edgar?”
Estelle remained silent. Geoff cleared his throat.
“Where is Edgar?”
The hair-raising rapid click of a taser echoed in the mostly empty room. Estelle didn’t move. Geoff gave a nod and Jack stepped forwards, thrusting the taser at Estelle’s shoulder. She hissed and recoiled, her muscles tensing from the electricity. After a few seconds, Jack pulled the device from her skin. She swallowed hard and rearranged herself in her chair. Geoff tilted his head.
“Where is Edgar?” he repeated.
Estelle continued to stare at the opposite wall. Geoff nodded to Jack again who stepped closer. The device clicked menacingly and Estelle moaned as it made contact with her flesh.
“Is this too tame for you, my dear?” Geoff asked as Jack took the taser away again.
Estelle sat up, setting her jaw and staring ahead. Geoff frowned again. He gestured for Jack to follow him out of the room. They closed the door behind them.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Jack said immediately.
“Yeah, I was getting that feeling too,” said Geoff.
“She has nothing to protect. She has no one to rescue her. She’s sorely mistaken if she thinks I’m going to let her go free. And even if we did, she said that she believes Edgar would get her better than we could. She knows we have to kill her. Why is she not talking?” asked Jack.
Geoff rubbed his chin.
“Maybe she just doesn’t know anything?” he said.
“Then she’d be screaming that instead of taking the taser bursts,” Jack said.
“It could just be a pride thing…” Geoff said with a shrug. “If so, then we should just kill her and get this over with.”
“I definitely think there’s more to it than that.”
“She has to be covering for Edgar. It’s the only thing that would make sense,” Geoff said.
“Do you think he’s offered her something to join him?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“She is loyal to him then,” said Jack.
“Then we’ll just have to up the ante. Aw man. I don’t like torture. Especially girls,” Geoff said, stamping his foot.
Jack took his shoulder gently. “Remember, she nearly got Michael killed.”
Geoff’s face turned sour. “I’m gonna kill that bitch…” he muttered.
Jack chuckled.
However, after a few hours, and about of pint of blood on the neat, grey tiled floor, Estelle had not revealed a thing. Geoff stormed out of the room, Jack following shortly. He threw himself down on the couch.
“Jeremy can you-” Jeremy pushed a glass of whiskey into his hand. He set the bottle on the coffee table next to Geoff.
“Thanks J,” Geof said, taking a gulp.
Gavin wandered over and curled up on the couch next to Geoff.
“How’s Michael?” the boss asked.
“He’s sleeping. His walk from the medical wing up here made him nearly pass out. Lil J and me put him in his room,” Gavin said. Vagabond came and sat at the foot of the couch.
Jack clattered about in the kitchen. They heard him start to make dinner. Once, Gavin would have been weirded out by the sudden switch from cold criminal to house-husband, but that was basically an everyday thing in the Fake AH penthouse.
“We’ll try again after food,” Geoff said. “This bitch is the closest we’ve come to getting some real dirt on Edgar in a long time.”
Gavin nodded. Geoff pulled him close and put an arm around him. He knew that the lad got squeamish when it came to torture. He gagged at an alarming lot actually, the weirdest of which was wet bread.
“I know you will Geoff,” said Gavin.
It was three days later and Estelle had still not spilled a word.
“Are we not going hard enough on her or something?” Geoff yelled. It was the middle of the night. The lads were all asleep in their own apartments. Jack was tending to his bloodied knuckles on the kitchen bench. Geoff waved his nearly empty bottle at him.
“Seriously! I’m running out of fucking ideas here! Short of buying an iron-maiden on Amazon, I have no idea what else to do to her!”
Jack just rubbed his face. “I don’t either Geoff. Perhaps we should think about offering her money for the information?”
“Fuck…” Geoff said, letting his arms fall to his sides. “It might be too late for that.”
Jack sighed. “Whatever we do, let’s just do it in the morning?”
“Sure…” muttered Geoff. Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder and headed for his room. Geoff flopped down on the couch and continued to drink in the dark. A shadowy shape moved up beside him. Blue eyes practically glowed in the darkness.
“Do you have any ideas?” Geoff asked him.
Vagabond huffed.
“Stupid question…” Geoff said and took another swig. He gritted his teeth and forced himself up. He clattered into the interrogation room, slamming the door behind him. The light was much too bright in here. They left in on in an attempt to deprive Estelle of her sleep. She looked groggily up at Geoff.
“That’s it…” he began muttering. “No more nice Geoff. I usually have Jack in here to keep me in check. Stop me going too far. He’s great you know. Like the little angel on my shoulder. He has a moral compass and all that shit. Without him here… Who knows? I might go a little overboard…” Geoff put his bottle down none too gently on the tool chest and searched through it. He swayed on his feet. He pulled out a small bag. It was a basic sewing kit with a few tiny spools of thread, little scissors and other bits and bobs. Geoff fished within it for the brightly coloured wheel of pins. He grinned slyly. He tossed the rest of the bag to the side and advanced on Estelle.
“Pins. Tiny, but if applied in the right way, oh so effective. Don’t you think?” He was slurring his words now. He looked almost comical with his tongue between his teeth as he fumbled to pull a pin from the wheel. Estelle ignored him as usual. Geoff hovered over her, trying to decide where to stick his new toy first. He trailed the tip of the pin jerkily down the skin of Estelle’s arm, coming to rest at her fingertips.
“Ah… a twist on an old classic,” he said. “Such pretty nails…” He clapped a hand over hers, holding it flat to the arm of the chair and teased the tip of the pin in between the nail of her pinky finger and the skin.
“Where is Edgar?” Geoff demanded.
Estelle was silent.
“You’re going to make me ask again…”Geoff growled. The sound was echoed back to him. There was a scratch at the door. Estelle flinched. Geoff let her go in surprise. He stared at the woman as she hastily recomposed herself. She shivered audibly, her chains rattling as the scratching sounds continued. Geoff went to the door and opened it. Vagabond stalked inside. He looked huge in the small room. His dark fur seemed to suck in the light. His blue eyes were fixed on Estelle. The woman stared at him. In the whole time that she’d been here, Geoff had not seen her pay attention to something for more than a few seconds. He grinned.
“You’re scared of him? You’re scared of the fucking dog?”
Estelle said nothing. Vagabond circled around behind the prisoner. She craned her neck in a desperate effort to keep him in sight. She was shaking even more now.
“Please…” she whispered.
“What was that?” Geoff asked, moving to sit in his chair. Vagabond continued circling them. Estelle kept watching him.
“Please take it away… Please get rid of it…” she whimpered.
“All this torture and the thing you’re really afraid of is dogs! I can’t believe this!” Geoff laughed.
“I am not afraid of dogs! I’m not!” Estelle’s voice was high and wavering now. “I’m not scared of dogs! But that… that thing is not a dog. I don’t know what it is, but it is not a dog!”
Vagabond continued circling them, moving closer with every lap. Eventually he stopped, directly behind Estelle. She nearly had a fit trying to shift in her seat trying to get him in view again. Eventually she screwed her eyes shut and hunched down as far as she could.
“That is not a dog… that’s a demon…” she whispered.
Geoff stared at her, mouth open slightly. He leant around to look at Vagabond. The dog was sitting down behind her, his blue eyes boring into the back of her head.
“What did he do?” Geoff asked.
“It found me… It found me and chased me. No matter how far or fast I ran, it was there… I would try and get in a car and it would bite me… It chased me away from anyone who would have been able to help. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. It was always right there. Right behind me. That thing… that thing is not right!” Estelle’s eyes snapped open. “Get it away! Please get it away from me! I’ll do anything! Please!” she wailed.
“Anything?” asked Geoff, raising an eyebrow.
Vagabond snarled and snapped. Estelle screamed.
“Anything!”
Geoff extracted as much information as he could from Estelle. He thought her confessions would never end once she’d started. He was lucky they always had a camera in here just in case - he was way too drunk to remember any of this. When it seemed Estelle had finally run out of words, she fell silent. She was still shivering. Her restraints rattled against the cold metal chair. Geoff sat opposite her, hand on chin, brow furrowed.
“You know Edgar was just using you, right?” he said.
Estelle hung her head.
“I know…” she mumbled.
“Bit stupid really,” Geoff said.
Estelle sighed shakily. “I’ve told you everything. Can… can you please get rid of it now?”
Geoff got up and went to the door. Without having to say anything, Vagabond got up and followed him. The dog slipped out and Geoff shut the door behind him. Geoff returned to his chair. Estelle continued to stare at the floor.
“What am I going to do with you now…” Geoff muttered more to himself than anything. “See, I really should kill you now. You’re no longer useful to the crew. We have all your information. You know where our base of operations is. If I let you go, you could bring the world down around my ears. Because of your actions, one of my closest was nearly killed…” He ran a hand through his hair.
“I wouldn’t say anything… I promise…” Estelle said softly.
Geoff stared at her.
“I’d leave. I’d leave the country. I’ll get a new name - new everything. I won’t be any trouble. Just let me go now please…” she said.
Geoff sighed. “Alright,” he said. “Alright. Just this once. If I ever see, or hear from you ever again, you’re a dead woman. Understand that?”
Estelle nodded once.
“We will hunt you down. You’re right in saying there’s something different about Vagabond. He’s not like any dog I’ve ever seen. I’m betting he could track your scent anywhere… so just remember that…” Geoff said. Estelle flinched. Geoff stood up and fished a ring of keys out of his pocket. He walked around Estelle and began releasing her. She stood up and rubbed her arms. Geoff had his gun out and trained on her in an instant.
“I’ll get Gavin to do you up new papers and a passport and stuff. Unless you have contacts…?”
Estelle managed a smile. “I’ll be fine. I didn’t just deal in weapons.” She bit her lip. “So you’re really going to let me go?”
“Hey, I’m an asshole, but I’m not a bad guy. You gave us your info on Edgar. You’ve agreed to leave. Michael is alive and recovering well.”
“You seem really hung up on this Michael kid. I’ve heard it’s not safe to get close to anyone in this business. I had a partner turn on me a year or so back,” Estelle said. Geoff didn’t notice her moving a fraction closer. He frowned.
“We’re close. All of the crew are close. He’s… he’s like - we’re loyal in the Fakes,” Geoff said. Estelle inched closer.
“Geoff. I really am sorry about all this. How could I possibly thank you for letting me go?” she asked softly. She looked up at Geoff through her lashes. Her grey eyes and pixie cut gave her a rather fey-like appearance. Geoff blinked and then laughed.
“If you’re implying what I think you are then first: I would never. I’m much too gentlemanly. And secondly… Well, I don’t bat for that team.”
Estelle’s shy smile dropped and she wrinkled her nose. She had gotten within arms reach now. It was Geoff’s turn to narrow his eyes. One would think that the alcohol would have significantly reduced his reaction times, but it didn’t bother him now as Estelle struck. She lunged for his gun and he whipped it out of the way, bringing up his other arm to block.
“What the fuck!” he shouted and ducked away from the punch she swung in his direction. The kick caught him in the ribs though, crushing his breath from his lungs with an oof.
“There’s only one way Edgar will forgive me now,” Estelle growled.
Geoff stumbled towards one soundproofed wall, desperately trying to draw breath and turned to block the next flurry of attacks.
“If you’re dead, my talking is moot. He might even promote me! With you out of the way, there’d be nothing stopping Edgar!”
Whenever he tried to level the gun, Estelle was there knocking it away or scrabbling for it herself.
“You can go fuck yourself if you think you can get out of this tower alive,” Geoff yelled.
“Give me the gun Ramsey!” Estelle shouted, blocking him when he tried for the door. He jabbed with an elbow and she snapped out a palm into his nose. They both cried out and reeled back. Geoff fired wildly but she’d ducked to the side, slipping around behind him and slinging an arm around his neck. Geoff silently cursed the room’s soundproofing. Jack wouldn’t have heard the shots from his room. He wouldn’t be able to help. Geoff was on his own. No stranger to chokeholds, Geoff stepped to the side, bringing the butt of the gun down on Estelle’s thigh. She managed to avoid the elbow to the chin but her hold was broken and he managed to pull away. He had height and weight on his side, but she was obviously extremely well trained. He just needed a second. A second where he could line up a shot. Estelle was just so damn fast. He’d counted his bullets. He was down to three in his clip. She’d never give him the time to reload. He fired again as she lunged for the door herself but he missed twice. She roared and sprang away, throwing herself at him in a flurry of spinning kicks. He couldn’t avoid all of them and was pushed back. He shoved at her, catching her shoulders and making space between them. Her teeth were bared, her eyes narrowed and she rocked forwards. An unearthly howl met their ears. Estelle gasped. She froze and her eyes slid from Geoff to the door. It was just an instant, but he took it.
Estelle looked almost surprised. Her mouth hung open in a small ‘o’. A little blood trickled down over her eye from the bullet hole in her forehead. The sound of her body crumpling to the ground was soft compared to the gunshot. Geoff’s knuckles were white as he lowered the gun. He cursed richly and stormed out of the room. He headed straight for the liquor shelf. Shelf was really an understatement for the amount of alcohol it house though. Jeremy had coined the term ‘Liquor Library’. Geoff staunchly refused to use it, firstly because it was stupid, and secondly because he was in denial that he was that much of an alcoholic. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey then looked around for a moment. Deciding it was too much effort to find a glass, he slumped down in his chair and slugged the bottle straight. The hand that gripped the armrest shook. Geoff jumped when Vagabond appeared at his side. The dog’s white face looked like an apparition floating in the dark.
“Fuck, don’t do that,” Geoff snapped.
Vagabond huffed. Geoff settled back in his chair. He took another swig.
“Thanks for your help, I guess,” Geoff said to the dog. He felt stupid talking to the animal, but who fucking cared. There was no one to hear him. The white face bobbed in the darkness. Vagabond then bent down to collect something from near his feet. Geoff saw the moonlight reflect off the shiny surface of the black skull mask. Vagabond crossed in front of Geoff and headed for his bedroom. Geoff frowned.
“Wait a second… that mask…” he said slowly. Vagabond froze and turned back. His blue eyes were bright. Geoff pointed his bottle at the dog.
“Are you…? Could you be...? Are you actually him?” Geoff said.
Vagabond pricked his ears up.
Geoff then shook his head. “No. That’s stupid. I’m being stupid. How could you possibly be… No. I’ve just had way too much to drink. I think I should sleep now…”
Geoff let the bottle drop to the floor and his head lolled backwards. Within seconds, he was snoring. Vagabond huffed again and rolled his eyes.
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