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divineluce · 4 years

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What Good Can Drinking Do? || Nicole & Luce

Timing: August 26th

Location: Around the Bend

Tagging: @nicsalazar & @divineluce

Description: Nicole and Luce bump into each other after a long night of drinking and unwittingly become knights of the drunken table.

“C’mon, Luce, you’ve had enough. Time to call it quits.” Jake said as he gestured for one of the guys doing security with his hand. Scowling, Luce stood up from the bar, the room spinning a bit as she did so. “Fuck off, Jake. I know when I’ve had enough. I’m just,” Her words slurred together slightly as she headed towards the door, “Leaving because I want to.” She insisted before stepping out into the warm air of summer. Letting out a sigh, she ran a hand through her hair before heading down the street towards Ink Inc. She could crash on the couch there for the night. Sleep it off. Sleep off the bourbon she’d drank to forget how her mother had abandoned the three of them. Sleep off the whiskeys she’d consumed because of the weirdness with Remmy. Sleep off the scotch she’d drunk because of her fucked up situation with Nadia. Sleep it all of and just be left with a hangover in the morning. As she headed down the street, she blinked blearily as she realized she wasn’t the only one stumbling around The Bend late at night. As the other person neared, a drunken smile slid across her face. “Oh. Sup Nicole.”

Nicole couldn’t remember that last time she had been drunk in the streets of White Crest. Probably two or three years ago. She was supposed to be past those days. Or so she thought at least. She wasn’t sure what had triggered her to drink more than she could handle. Maybe it hadn’t been the best week, maybe she had only miscalculated, either way it was too late to ponder on it. What mattered was that she made it home safe. When she left the bar, she let out a breath, willing her brain to focus. She took a few slow steps, hands reaching all over in search of her phone. Where had she put the damn thing? Uber was probably the way to go, if only she could manage to get one. Frustrated, she continued walking, slightly aware that there was someone approaching. As the figure came closer, she realized it was a familiar face. Relieved, she stopped fumbling for her phone, forgetting why she even needed it for. Her lips pressed together into a thin smile, and she tilted her head up in acknowledgement. “Luce...” she could tell she also had some drinks on her too. “Where you going...all good?”

Running a hand through her hair, Luce did her best to focus on Nicole’s face, though it wasn’t easy in her current state of inebriation. Phew. She’d had more than she’d thought, fuck. Waving a hand, she grinned slightly as she saw that Nicole was also in a similar situation. “Ah, I was just headed back to Ink. Bartender at Soul figured I’d had enough so I’m… making my way downtown.” She laughed, shaking her head at the stupid song that had popped in her head. “Well, down-Bend. Howsabout you?” She asked, the words slurring together slightly as she spoke. “And yeah. Yeah.” Luce paused, her mind drifting back to Remmy’s face, the way she’d held them in the hallway of Morgan’s home, back to the messages from Nadia, desperately trying to hold on. “I’m super good.” She gave two thumbs up and a drunken grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Gotcha, you do--you do look like..." nodding, she trailed off, weakly gesturing an invisible bottle. Eyebrows knitted together, and she hummed for a moment as her brain searched for words to answer the question. Why did she make it all the way from The Outskirts to the Bend just to drink? She vaguely remembered. It probably made a lot of sense when she was sober. "Getting an Uber" at that, she reached the inside of her jacket, finally finding her phone. She paused though, when she looked up after a few attempts at unlocking her phone and noticed Luce's face. She wasn't exactly great at reading people, but even she could tell Luce was bullshitting her. Had she been sober, Nicole wouldn't have pushed, she respected everyone's decision to lie or keep stuff to themselves. "Tell that to your face, dude" she nodded, lifting her arm and poking Luce in the forehead. Leaning against the wall, she grinned lazily. "We punching anyone?"

“That obvious, huh?” Luce said, letting out a puff of air in amusement. As Nicole pulled out her phone and leaned against the wall of one of the buildings near them, she stared out idly into the darkness of the Bend. Maybe it was just the slight ringing in her head, the pleasant buzz of alcohol making her senses nice and dull, but it seemed quiet. Quieter than normal. Most nights, she wouldn’t be the only one stumbling back home drunk-- there were all sorts who wandered around this side of town, good and bad. Nicole’s sudden poke to her forehead caught her off guard and she raised a hand to lightly swat her away. “Yeah, yeah--” She said, about to rattle off some insult to take the pressure off her when she heard a scream pierce through the night. Standing bolt upright, Luce looked at Nicole in alarm. “We might be. Fuck. Did you hear where that came from?”

“Yeah, yeah” Nicole nodded absentmindedly, struggling for a second to recall what Luce was replying to. Glancing down at her old phone, she grew annoyed as she waited for the app to load. Maybe it was time to finally invest in a something newer. The scream took her by surprise, which was unusual for Nicole. Just then, as she managed to look at Luce, Nicole felt herself sober up slightly. She pushed herself off the wall, looking back to the street she came from. If only her senses weren’t so numb, it would’ve been a lot easier to figure things out. Her and Luce’s breathing seemed to be overpowering any sound her ears could pick up. She huffed, willing herself to focus. A beat, two beats, and then she heard it. “Couple of streets down… turning the corner” she wasn’t as sure of her accuracy as she would be sober, but it had to count for something. “C’mon, that can’t be good” smacking Luce in the arm, she took off —or rather stumbled—in the direction of the scream.

Nicole’s slap to the arm sent Luce staggering forward, but that was just what she needed to get her stubborn feet moving. She followed behind Nicole, doing her best to keep the other woman in her field of vision as she ran after her. The streetlights were shifting slightly, the world spinning as the two of them made their way towards whoever had screamed. If she had been more sober, Luce might have questioned how Nicole had been able to figure out where the cry had come from. But right now? With alcohol, adrenaline, and no shortage of rage coursing through her system? She didn’t really care. As they rounded the corner, Luce was startled to see that a woman was standing there, alone. But, she looked visibly shaken, the strap of her handbag shredded. “Are you okay?” Luce asked, slightly out of breath and slurring.

In hindsight, attempting to sprint to the location she believed the commotion was, had been a poor idea. It didn’t take long for Nicole to figure that out. Still, powered by the adrenaline and the booze clouding her judgement, she continued on, almost face planting the ground at least once. Still, she retained some gracefulness, if anything thanks to her ancestors,recovering before she hurt herself. She was the first to turn the corner, spotting a woman clearly rattled trying to gather herself. She reached out, trying to hold the woman's shoulder but miscalculated the distance. She ended up grasping nothing but air instead. “...Kay?” breathing out, she managed to get half her sentence. Luce seemed to arrive just after her, and did a better job at getting words out. She looked around in the meantime, eyebrows furrowed. If the attacker had attempted to steal the woman’s purse it made no sense for them to run before succeeding. “Where is--” wondering out loud, she turned the opposite direction. Apart from them, it was unusually empty. Yet still, something in her could tell they weren’t alone. “Got a look on your attacker?”

“I-- I don’t-- it was like, someone came out of nowhere--” The woman said, trembling with fear. Luce did her best to maintain some amount of composure, but the alcohol in her system was making it hard for her to stand completely still. Her head bobbled as she swayed, her feet stumbling as the world tilted beneath her. Ohhhh, running had been a bad fucking idea. Leaning against the nearby lamp post, she nodded at the woman emphatically. “Yeah, what she said. D’you get a good look at who attacked you?” Luce asked. The shaken woman shook her head, clutching onto her ruined handbag with a tight hand. Letting out a puff of air that blew her bangs from her forehead, Luce nodded and tilted her head. “Your car nearby? Or house or whatever?” She asked, “You oughta get home. The Bend’s not a super safe place.” Luce said. If she’d been a little more observant, if she’d been a little less drunk, if she’d just listened… maybe she might have noticed the shadowy thing lurking behind the post office box.

Nicole’s eyes darted from Luce to the woman, slowly taking in the words they were saying. Her chest was still heaving after running a few streets. For a brief second she frowned, unable to remember why she and Luce had decided it would be a good idea to run while drunk, but as her eyes landed on the distraught woman once again, all the things spinning around her slowed down. “Yeah, yeah...only idiots walk alone ‘round these places”. Despite looking the worse of the two, Luce seemed to be handling the situation decently, so Nicole’s attention drifted once again to her surroundings. At the distance she could hear the loud, pounding music of the many dance clubs in the neighborhood, but focusing on everything close to her was difficult. Her body turned instinctively, stepping away from the pair as she eyed the dumpsters and the trash bags spilling some feet away. The sensation they were being watched was hard to shake. Maybe it wasn’t her annoying gift warning her this time, but just drunken paranoia. However, Nicole was certain she had seen part of a tail behind the post office box. Strange, as all she could see were shadows. There was some sort of animal scent in the air, but in her state Nicole couldn’t be sure of what type. It wasn’t common. Turning back to Luce and the woman, she caught her explaining how she lived a few blocks away and was taking a shortcut home. “Vural. Gotta get her somewhere safe. Her place isn’t that far, right?” she interrupted, eyes still trained anxiously on the box.

Rolling her eyes at the other woman’s words, Luce offered her most winning smile at the frightened woman. “She didn’t mean to call you an idiot. She’s just drunk. Well, so’m I, but I’m not calling people names.” She said as she did her best to stand upright on her own without the assistance of the lamppost. Squinting at the other woman, she let out a loud puff of air, trying to sober up a little. Christ. She’d really gone hard. Fuck. The woman shifted from foot to foot anxiously, more distressed than she had when they’d first arrived, but that went right over Luce’s head. “My apartment is only a few blocks away and my car’s in the shop. I didn’t think anything would happen if I just took a shortcut home.” The woman mumbled. Luce nodded, though she wasn’t paying much attention. She was too busy fumbling around in the pocket of her shorts, cursing quietly in Turkish at her silver knuckle dusters. They’d gotten stuck and eventually, Luce gave up. Whatever. At Nicole’s words, Luce snapped her fingers and shot a pair of finger guns in her direction. “Yeah-- we should definitely do that. How’d you feel about an escort home? Not one of those escorts. I’m not that easy.” She snorted before patting Nicole on the shoulder. “How’s about it, Nicky?” Luce said, not seeing how the other woman was staring intently at the letter box.

“Yeah I did” shooting a glance at Luce, Nicole didn’t understand the problem in her words. She scoffed, wanting to explain herself. “We’re all idiots here” to her, ignoring the dangers of walking at night in the worst neighborhood was pretty high in terms of idiocy. The kind of reckless decision only drunks would make. She stopped herself though, when she noticed the woman next to them bouncing anxiously. Guilt turned her stomach. What was the point in being an asshole? Bringing both hands to her face she rubbed her eyes vigorously, wishing it would magically sober her up. She hated being wasted and interacting with people, it usually went even worse than her sober interactions. She let out a groan, shaking her head. “Sorry, it’s...” she looked at the woman, offering an apologetic smile. “You've been through enough in one night, ignore me”. The escort joke went over her head, and she gave Luce a confused look. What was she on about? “How about…?” she trailed off, struggling to follow the conversation. She focused on the box again, still sensing something behind it. It appeared that if she and Luce stayed with the stranger, whatever was waiting on to pounce wouldn’t dare. Why did that make any sense? Nicole didn’t have the mental capacity to ponder on it. “Yes. Yeah, we’ll get you home. She really knows her way around the bend, don’t you Vural?”. Placing a hand on the woman's back, she let her lead the way, careful to keep her from the letter box.

“Yeah, sure do,” Luce snorted, shaking her head vigorously at the joke before looking at the woman who was still eyeing them with a nervous expression on her face. “We just wanna help, honest.” She said. As Nicole reached out a guided the woman away, Luce watched as some of the tension faded from her body. “Okay. Okay, thank you. I’d really appreciate the company.” She said with a relieved smile. Luce nodded, her head bobbling more than she’d intended. “For sure, for sure. Let’s get you home, okay?” She said before glancing at Nicole. The other woman seemed distracted, but she wasn’t entirely sure why. Lowering her voice to what she thought was a whisper, Luce nudged the woman with her elbow. “If somethings bugging you, let’s get her home first, cool?”

Nicole didn’t say much for the remaining of the walk. Her focus split between her efforts to keep one foot in front of the other, and shielding the woman from the mysterious attacker behind the letter box. As they walked past it, her head turned to check once again for any signs of whatever had hurt the woman. She believed she had seen a dark shadow move behind the box again, but no visible body. Was it all in her brain? Or maybe...it was a ghost? Nicole scoffed shortly after the idea came to her. No. That was even more stupid. They wouldn’t have shadows, which she definitely saw, right? Thank god she didn’t say that out loud, not even drunkenness would’ve justified that. Her thoughts were luckily interrupted by an elbow to her arm. “Weird shit, man. Weird shit going on” she retorted, lips barely moving. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the night could’ve ended much differently for the woman she was guiding home. Nicole could still hear her erratic heartbeat and she was certain it wouldn't change until she was safely home. “I’m crashing wherever you do, by the way. Can’t take my ass home tonight”. Her last words floated between the three for a while, as they silently made it to the woman’s place. There would be time for regrets in the morning --the hangover would definitely punish her-- but even if she had promised not to get wasted again, part of her was glad she and Luce had been at the right place and the right time to give someone a hand.

#p: wgcdd #chatzy #wickedswriting #p: nicole salazar

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rpgsandbox · 5 years

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The dark and malevolent forces of the Cthulhu Mythos mostly ignore humankind. But these entities are also shrewd opportunists. Many of them see humans as a resource to be harvested, corrupted or enlisted for their dark plots. Humanity, with all its noble aspirations, has many flaws. Greed, lust, envy, hatred and fear are ripe fruits for these forces to exploit. Division and separation makes the humans easier to control. While the best of humankind fights for just laws and civilization, those who cling to power and privilege stand ready to quash protections for those who need them most. In the shadows of human injustice lurk loathsome, inhuman entities. As investigators square off against the worst aspects of mankind, they also find themselves entangled with the parasitic powers of the Mythos.

Welcome to An Inner Darkness, from Golden Goblin Press.

This is collection of Classic 1920’s era scenarios of 7th edition the Call of Cthulhu Roleplaying Game (published by Chaosium, Inc) with several goals in mind. We hope to present well researched, historically accurate and challenging adventures, with a slightly darker, harsher and more brutal tone than our fans might be used to. For Golden Goblin Press, this will be a more mature book, one focused on adult themes, designed to spark deep conversations among your players for years to come.

These scenarios will of course feature the malignant taint of the Cthulhu Mythos, but at the forefront of each will be one or more examples of social injustice, societal corruption, and mankind’s inhumanity to man. The 1920’s was a period of great social upheaval in America, when the borders between classes, races, and genders were changed. In this time of social upheaval and chaos, eldritch forces found fertile ground to exploit us. Mankind is never so vulnerable than when we are divided from within.

When this Lousy War is Over, by Brian M. Sammons – Arkham, Massachusetts, 1923. At the local chapter of the Veterans of Foreign Wars association, men who fought in the “war to end all wars” gather together, seeking a bit of solace from those who’ve shared similar experiences. Many are wounded in body, in mind, and in spirit. Many suffer from horrifying nightmares, violent outbursts, disfiguring injuries, or alcoholism, but their pain and struggles are mostly ignored by society. They are reminded that the war is over, and told to just “get over it” by a public who finds it all too easy to judge. Then, chapter members start to mysteriously die in violent and terrible ways, with clues pointing to the occult, possibly involving a member of the association no less! Can the investigators find those responsible and stop them, before it’s too late?

They Are From Away, by Charles Gerard - Bangor, Maine, 1923. Maine has become a major battleground for the Ku Klux Klan. Protestant nativists have grown fearful about the recent influx of Catholic Immigrants, mostly Irish and French-Canadians. This provides the KKK with fertile ground for spreading their message of hate, division, and violence. Enter Eugene Farnsworth, a charismatic former stage magician, hypnotist and filmmaker, now known as King Kleagle, the head KKK recruiter for Maine. He hosts “wholesome” public events while spearheading an aggressive recruitment drive, making alliances with area politicians and heads of industry. Meanwhile, macabre, inexplicable and unnatural events begin to occur, aimed at humiliating and terrorizing the area’s Catholic citizens. Investigators must discover if there is a link between the two, and find a way to stop it if they can.

Fire Without Light, by Helen Gould - Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1922. Less than a year has passed since the Tulsa Race Massacre, when the wealthiest black community in the United States was destroyed and hundreds of innocent people were murdered by rampaging white mobs. Though most of the 10,000 black residents left Tulsa, some remained to rebuild their devastated community. Now tensions are on the rise once again. A new pastor and his wife have arrived, preaching hate and violence to the white population. Their congregation is growing at an alarming rate, and violence is spilling out from their church and into the streets. Strangely, even families and friends of the same race are turning against each other. Something very wrong is going on here. Investigators must tread carefully to discover just who - or what - is fanning the flames, pushing the citizens of Tulsa towards another wave of catastrophic violence.

A Fresh Coat Of White Paint, by Jeff Moeller - Los Angeles, California, 1931. Early in the Great Depression, the U.S. institutes its first mass deportation policy, supported by a cross-section of interests such as racist nationalists, eugenicists, paternalistic "charities", and labor unions "looking out for their own." This leads to a roundup of thousands of ethnically Mexican families, many of them U.S. citizens, carried out federal employees, local police, various "charities", and outright vigilante groups. The deportees were (sometimes) given summary hearings, detained in makeshift conditions, and then loaded onto trains. On the outskirts of Los Angeles, one such "charity" is refurbishing an old prison to "give the unfortunates somewhere to stay." However, this long abandoned facility has a dark past, which is quickly becoming a horrible, otherworldly nightmare for those interred there. Can the investigators get to the bottom of things in time to save the prisoners?

A Family Way, by Oscar Rios – New York, New York, 1925. The investigators must come to the aid of a dear friend, a student at Columbia University. She’s found herself "in trouble" after what should have been a harmless girls' night out. Her group ended up drinking and dancing with the wrong sort of fellas, the kind willing to slip them a mickey and take what they wanted from their unconscious victims. Now the girls need help, as the authorities won't act, or even take their stories seriously. These men have deep pockets, powerful allies, and dark secrets. When the men return with offers of marriage and gifts of strange, pale gold jewelry, it becomes clear they aren't the sort to take no for an answer. There aren’t many options for girls in their “condition”, and one of the few happens to be illegal. But your friend just wants this nightmare to be over, if such a thing is still even possible.

Dreams of Silk, by Christopher Smith Adair (Stretch Goal bonus scenario) – Pennsylvania, 1922. The cosmetics industry is growing fast, as the public’s obsession with youth and beauty grows. As profits soar and businesses expand workers at such companies suffer due to lax regulations and poor conditions. At Hempstead Cosmetics, located in Brights Mill, Pennsylvania, a state infamous among labor advocates, conditions are especially bad. Local government turns a blind eye to protect their economic boom, ignoring any indiscretions or complaints against chemist and owner Mervyn Hempstead. Consumers marvel at their newest skin cream, promising to give a complexion as smooth as dreams of silk, and the youthful glow of Imelda Hempstead, Mervyn’s wife and chief model. Meanwhile, his employee’s bodies and minds deteriorate and their complaints of rashes and troubled sleep are ignored. But things are much worse than anyone can possibly imagine, as they are drawn into a web of literal nightmares as unspeakable horrors from beyond our reality are tied to Hempstead Cosmetics' “miraculous” secret ingredients.

Kickstarter campaign ends: Mon, April 15 2019 4:59 AM BST

Website: [Golden Goblin Press] [facebook]

#RPG #kickstarter #Call of Cthulhu #An Inner Darkness #Golden Goblin Press

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hxlfsoul · 5 years

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@entangledheroes

ANOTHER DREARY DAY OF WRITING HAD COME TO AN END, albeit it was midnight, much too late for him to care for daily life. The only thing on his mind was getting home soon, considering he’d ventured from his isolated home in order to seek nutrients in the form of takeout, yeung chow rice and curry to be specific, something to satisfy his craving for protein, spice and carbs. In reality, it was only chosen because the restaurant selling his favourite zaru soba was closed and Shoto didn’t possess the energy to cook after eight hours of furious typing, not even stopping when his throat ran dry and his fingers began to cramp.

Sometimes, he wondered if his writing habits were perhaps unhealthy, if only from the fact he’d had to put on his compression gloves yet again to quell the swelling and provide much needed relief to aching joints.

He was, however, caught off guard when there was a hand on his shoulder, spinning around to stare at the darkness of a shadowed street, empty except for himself and the silhouette at the end of the street, barely lit by the streetlight the other was under. However, he saw no identifiable features, simply the shadow that moved as he stepped towards it, never close enough to see them in detail, only enough to follow. Perhaps he shouldn’t be foolish, following strangers at the twilight hours, beneath the moon. No one would see if he were to disappear, they’d simply be searching for a ghost, for the lost boy they called a friend or a sibling or a son, but he’d be vanished, never to appear again, in an endless game of escaping and solitude, unable to return to the life he had built for himself out of fear he would tarnish the few good memories he had.

❝Wait!❞ He called out, although his words were drowned by the rain, the bag containing his food resting on his elbow as he reached out, his hand nearly touching the hood of their jacket as he ran closer, but it escaped his reach, a failed attempt to discern what was happening and whether this situation was worth following or if it would simply lead him to be another murdered soul on the news, a poor man who made a bad decision and paid the price with his life.

Soon enough, the figure stopped in front of a building. It wasn’t old, not by any means, but the door still creaked as he opened it, having walked through the garden filled with green grass, more vibrant than anything he’d ever seen, and flowers of all variations, from pure white to deep purples that reminded me of the inky darkness of space, speckled colours like the stars he’d stared at every night, or perhaps they were bright, too bright, almost iridescent in the way they changed each time he looked back at the garden, much too beautiful to be associated with something such as this, with darkness and ominous figures, with silence and the eerie sound of footsteps across wooden floors.

The garden was soon forgotten as he entered the building, one he recognised as an apartment building in what was a high end of town, if only from the fact his father had mentioned a friend of his owned the building in an attempt to convince Shoto to live there rather than on the outskirts of town in a detached house he’d had built from his own design. However, his father had never been happy with it, with the fact it was humble and did not speak of extortionate quantities of money that one did not need to enjoy the simplicity life offered, especially not when Shoto had grown tired of unnecessary extravagance when it pertained to the way the rest of his family had grown accustomed to living as they grew up.

After a while of walking down the halls, attempting to be quiet as not to wake any of the current residents from their slumber, he reached a door, watching the figure slip inside before he pushed it open further, staring at the figure that stood in front of the computer, a phone connected with a wire and an app up on it. Arcade, read the words glaring on the screen in bright blue, lighter than one would expect, on a dark background. However, he didn’t stare at it for too long, turning his attention to the figure standing on the balcony railings, hesitantly moving closer.

❝Who are you?❞ He questioned, although the only answer was a manic laugh ringing out through the entire apartment. He didn’t receive an answer, not vocally anyway, simply the disappearance as they jumped from the balcony and the computer screen that had booted up an email software. Hesitantly, he pulled shut the balcony doors, if only because it was raining, and sat down in the computer chair, picking up the phone and tapping the screen.

[ enter username ] ________ [ add a profile picture ]

The picture he added was simply one of himself smiling, something he’d been told was wonderful by his siblings, albeit he wasn’t too sure how biased they were, as they’d never gotten to see Shoto smile as children. His only expressions back then had been pained, tears shed in his room, illuminated only by the moon for night was the only safe time to cry. However, he didn’t want to think of those days now, not those memories of a life he’d rather forget, tales of fearful words and the loss of a mother, of uncertain identities and rebellious attempts to find himself in the rubble of what could have been a family, but never quite was.

[ username Kadupul has entered the chatroom ]

His lips pressed into a thin line at the message, scrutinising it with confusion. A chatroom, was that was this was? He wasn’t sure if he wished to engage, however he didn’t see how it could harm him, considering his pen name was more well known than his face, albeit he was still in the media from time to time, hyped up as the prodigy son of Enji, holed up within his home constantly, assumed to be taking Endeavor Inc to higher levels in future. What they thought was plotting to take over the markets, to become the best businessman to exist, was simply Shoto’s attempt to write novels, to garner nothing but his own joy rather than the adoration of people, unlike what his father may believe.

[Kadupul] Hello...? [Kadupul] Is anyone here? [Kadupul] What’s going on?

He felt uneasy, as if there were some sort of malicious presence around, but he was alone, in the end. Simply himself and the words blaring on the computer screen, warning him not to leave. Black on a bright red, straining to read, if he were being honest.

[ WARNING: SECURITY SYSTEM MALFUNCTION. DO NOT LEAVE THE PREMISES. ]

The words alternated, only one of those sentences on the screen at a time, and perhaps he’d have brought himself to care if he weren’t already exhausted and confused. Considering it was half one by now, he didn’t see any appeal in leaving the building, nevermind taking the two hour trek home from where he’d been lead to. As much as he’d rather sleep in his own bed, it seemed he had no choice but to remain here and see how his future would end up, forever altered by the decision he’d made today.

[Kadupul] ... Why am I here and what do you want from me? [Kadupul] Explain yourselves or I’m leaving wherever you’ve lead me.

( for once, he thought, perhaps i’ll have a little bit of adventure in my life. it couldn’t hurt, could it? if only he knew what was to come, perhaps he’d not have thought so lightly of the situation he’d put himself in that day. )

#014. the entangled lines of fate — threads #187. & i've fallen for an illusion of love — dating sim 02 ( unobtainable )#046. with shortness of breath you explained the infinite — midoriya izuku #izuku route — well now i have to fall in love (entangledheroes)#entangledheroes #it got long i'm sorry he's an idiot (tm)

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step-up-to-the-rogue-gallery · 5 years

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@arkhamgoons

Night had befallen Gotham City in a slow agonizing pace. Daylight had crept into sundown, which in turn crawled into night. And with the night, the outskirts of the city laid in a heavy blanket of fog-- a much needed cover for the job the two criminals would partake. An unexpected turn of events, but the Mad Hatter was not one to sneer at good fortune when and where it decided to show its head.

And it was through the fog Hatter and his Hare had made their way towards the industrial side of Gotham, where Intrigue Inc. was waiting for its visitors. The factory’s neon lights showcased its name, and outside of a few lights that littered the parking lot, it remained dead and still. Dark, and foreboding.

Much like the companion that crept along next to him, Hatter couldn’t help but muse. Tonight the man was no longer the professor he had grown to cherish. Instead, in his wake, was the lanky devil-- the Master of Fear himself. It was rare that Jervis had the pleasure of seeing his friend in action, so to speak, and he had to admit that the airs of performance was enough to cause even him to shudder every so often.

“Ah,” the Hatter whispered, as the two pressed themselves into the fence that surrounded Intrigue. He gestured towards the small one roomed box that waited near the entrance, one mere guard on the look out. Well, in actuality the young man wasn’t, if the comic book in his hand was to tell them anything. He couldn’t help but smile as their streak of fortune continued to grow.

“There’s a lesson somewhere here about the morals of job performance, “ Jervis couldn’t help but snicker. “But I’m afraid we don’t have Time’s patience to find it.”

No matter, why look a gift horse in the mouth when instead one should take what they could find. And that was what the criminal did, and he sneaked his way up towards the box. A card already in hand, it took no effort at all to slip inside and place a card against the security guard’s temple. The man instantly froze, as the comic went rigid in his hands.

“Let’s pretend, shall we,” Jervis spoke softly to the man, a touch of whimsy in his voice. “Let’s pretend you’ve become a figment of the Red King’s dream, and not a thing you’ll hear shall wake you.”

And out like a candle, the guard was instantly asleep. He wouldn’t disturb a soul. The Matter turned towards his Hare and signaled that the coast was now clear.

“I do so hope he’ll enjoy his dreams.” Jervis couldn’t help but jest towards his friend. “I’m sure it’s a much better fate than anything else he could have suffered from.”

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readerviews · 5 months

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"Get the Boy, Own the Future" by Gabriel F.W. Koch

A Healthy Dose of Intrigue from an Author with a Keen Eye for Detail and Suspense #books #bookreview #reading #readerviews

Get the Boy, Own the Future Gabriel F.W. KochOutskirts Press, Inc (2022)ISBN: 978-1977255778Reviewed by Lily Andrews for Reader Views (12/2023) “Get the Boy, Own the Future” is a brilliant science fiction novel written by Gabriel F.W. Koch that focuses on time travel and biotechnology. In a futuristic world, the earth is facing an ecological disaster with pole shifts and climate change…

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#Book Review #Gabriel F.W. Koch #Get the Boy Own the Future #Outskirts Press Inc.#Reader Views

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cherylmmbookblog · 2 years

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#BlogTour The Mother Fault by Kate Mildenhall

It’s a pleasure to take part in the BlogTour to celebrate the #PaperbackPublication of The Mother Fault by Kate Mildenhall. Definitely a read you don’t want to miss. About the Author Kate Mildenhall is a writer who lives on the outskirts of Melbourne with her family. Her debut novel, Skylarking, was published in Australia by Black Inc. in 2016 and in the UK by Legend Press in 2017. Skylarking…

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#Blogtour #Dystopian #Futuristic #Harper Collins UK #Kate Mildenhall #The Mother Fault

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outskirtspress · 3 years

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Introducing Billy Anders, author of Murder at Toltec Gorge: A Denver & Rio Grande Western Railroad Adventure

“This is my fifth book with Outskirts Press and my Author Representative was there to offer new advice and guide me in a painless way. I highly recommend Outskirts Press!”

Billy Anders is a member of the Friends of the Cumbres & Toltec Scenic Railroad, Inc., and works as a docent for the C&TSRR, successor since 1970 to the Denver & Rio Grande Western Railroad. He is a retired police officer and…

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#domesticviolence #spousalabuse #historical #historical fiction #marketing-a-self-published-book #mystery-detective #outskirts press #protection-from-abusive-spouse #railroad-supervisor-falls-for-married-woman #self-publishing-authors

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ishubhampatil09 · 4 years

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Offshore Patrol Vessels Market To Surpass US$ 18.8 Billion By 2027 - Coherent Market Insights

The seaward watch vessels are basically intended to perform reconnaissance activities in the elite monetary zone (EEZs) and other operational assignments, for example, assurance of transportation paths, against theft watches, and beach front security. Besides, maritime seaward watch vessel contracting administrations are presented for the insurance of the elite financial zone (EEZ) against sea guiltiness, theft, marine contamination, and human and weapons or medications dealing. The maritime seaward watch vessels (NOPVs) are watch transports that are furnished with excessively quick weapon mount (SRGM) framework alongside AK-630M firearms that offer medium and short range guarded capacities. The weapon is distantly controlled through an electronic Fire control framework. Also, the watch ships are fitted with diesel motor driven impetus frameworks that offers fast and the boat tasks are constrained by a keen stage the board framework, which has interfaces for every operational movement. For example, in May 2018, The Indian Navy conveyed seaward watch vessels Sumedha, for joint reconnaissance of restrictive monetary zone (EEZs) for Maldives.

50 M to 90 M fragment is relied upon to show most noteworthy development rate during the estimate time frame

Among sizes, the fragment 50m to 90m is relied upon to observe most elevated development during the conjecture time frame. The portion was esteemed at US$ 4,397.51 Mn in 2017 and is required to reach US$ 6,396.99 by 2027 at a CAGR of 3.9% over the conjecture time frame. These boats have length from 50 meter to 90 meter and are basically utilized for coast guarding, reconnaissance, and protection exercises. They are likewise utilized for policing tasks, salvage activities, embarkation and activity of ALH helicopter for long range unequaled pursuit, and contamination reaction against oil spillage and outer putting out fires among others. Such vessels are utilized in naval force tasks. For example, River-class watch vessels are essentially worked for the Royal Navy of the U.K. with length extending from 79.5 meters to 90.5 meters. Besides, the Arafura class are multi-reason, warship class ships in the Royal Australian Navy has length estimating from 80 meters. This boat will be utilized seaward and littoral watch, mine fighting, against fear mongering and hostile to theft tasks, outskirt insurance, and hydrographic overview. BAE Systems is one of the prestigious developers of 90 meter seaward watch vessels and is as of now working for five 90 m seaward watch vessels for the second bunch of the British Royal Navy's River-class.

Figure. Worldwide Offshore Patrol Vessels Market by Size (US$ Mn), 2017 and 2027

Seaward Patrol Vessels | Coherent Market Insights

Read More - https://www.coherentmarketinsights.com/market-insight/offshore-patrol-vessels-market-2822

The epic structure and progressions in innovation has changed the 50M to 90M class of watch vessels. The more current adaptations are more flexible, have better adaptable plans, and convey more effective tasks. Watch vessel with length 90 meter can involve around 60 work force and can convey up to 50 set out soldiers or travelers. These have upgrade flight deck to work helicopters and have progressed framework including virtual advancements to incorporate weapons, the board frameworks, sensors, and other point by point frameworks for complex warships. For example, BAE Systems' River-class vessel offers comparable highlights with incorporation of cutting edge CMS-1 battle framework to give strategic picture gathering, arranging, situational mindfulness, dynamic, and control of weapons from its natural consoles in littoral tasks. The battle framework likewise helps the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) and other alliance missions. BAE Systems' 90meter seaward vessel is furnished with an air reconnaissance radar, which can be utilized to distinguish low-flying airplanes (which are utilized for carrying activities). It has 30 mm little gauge firearm framework furnished with it, which can draw in fast inshore assault create outfitted with short-extend rockets, automatic weapons or explosives, rockets, and rocket-moved projectiles. It highlights 20 meters in length flight deck and can land just as fuel a medium-size helicopter weighing as much as 7 tons.

Interest for such vessels has seen steady development, attributable to their capacities, operational proficiency, and progressed highlights introduced in them. For example, according to Coherent Market Insights, Indian Government requested 16 new 55 meters ASW watch ships in 2015. Besides, in January 2019, the Armed Forces of Malta marked an agreement worth around US$ 40 Mn with Italy-based shipbuilder, Cantiere Navale Vittoria, for the development of a subsequent reason fabricated seaward watch vessel, which will be utilized in watching Malta's regional waters. The boat measures around 74.8 meters long and can arrive at the speed of around 20 bunches.

Read More - https://www.coherentmarketinsights.com/press-release/offshore-patrol-vessels-market-to-surpass-us-188-billion-by-2027-1646

Worldwide Offshore Patrol Vessels Market: Key Players

Significant players working in the worldwide seaward watch vessels industry incorporate Austal, BAE Systems, Damen Shipyards Group, DEARSAN, Fr. Fassmer GmbH and Co. KG, FINCANTIERI S.p.A., Fr. Lürssen Werft GmbH and Co. KG, Hamilton Jet, Israel Shipyards Ltd, Eastern Shipbuilding Group Inc., STANLEY BOATS, Marine Alutech OY AB, J.D. Irving Group of Companies, Japan Marine United Corporation, Kangnam LCorporation, Kawasaki Heavy Industries, Ltd., L&T Shipbuilding, Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, Ltd., Navantia, SOCARENAM, STX Offshore and Shipbuilding Co., Ltd, and Garden Reach Shipbuilders and Engineers Ltd.

Download PDF Brochure - https://www.coherentmarketinsights.com/insight/request-pdf/2822 Request Sample Copy - https://www.coherentmarketinsights.com/insight/request-sample/2822

About Us

Coherent Market Insights is a global market intelligence and consulting organization focused on assisting our plethora of clients achieve transformational growth by helping them make critical business decisions.

What we provide:

Customized Market Research Services

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To Know More About Us – https://www.coherentmarketinsights.com/aboutus

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adauntlessangel · 6 years

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The Day Our Lives Changed Forever | Bruce

The power couple Reyne was taking over the city.. Honestly their ship name that the media had picked up on was quite cute. But today was..not the best day. Perhaps all of their..playful and intense hook-ups were now coming with the cause. She’d taken at least ten home pregnancy tests..and with a strict privacy wager at her doctor’s office..it was more than confirmed she was six weeks pregnant. Granted, Scarlette had noticed a few little things here and there..but she dismissed them. Like the fact her breasts had been sensitive..she blamed Bruce for manhandling her so much when he fucked her that he bruised her breasts or something.. Which he made up for with some intense love-making that left her bones trembling.. It would be hard to pinpoint the exact time that she conceived this child..but the truth of the matter was. She was pregnant now. So as she exited the doctor’s office..she knew she had to tell Bruce right away. So, she sent him a text saying it was urgent and she was on her way to his office right now. When her car pulled up, the brunette paid no mind to the driver as she instructed the male to go to Bruce’s office. However when they disobeyed her and kept driving..Scarlette felt an uneasy wave of nausea overcome her. “Are you deaf or something? I told you the turn was back there!” She shouted but then she gasped as the man turned to her with some type of mask and a gun aimed at her. Her arms lifted instantly and she was terrified.. If she hadn’t been pregnant..she would have jumped from the car to the ground. But..she was pregnant..so she wouldn’t do anything.

As they arrived to some abandoned buildings on the outskirts of town..Scarlette was in survival mode. Not just for herself..but her unborn child. This was too much..oh god. “Please..please. I’m begging you. I have money. Lots of money..I’ll pay you whatever you want, just let me go.” Which only resulted in her getting a swift slap across the face and being told to shut up. Soon her hands were tied to a chair and she was forced to watch a group assemble in front of her. She heard them speaking of a ransom..and how they’d be rich because she was Bruce Wayne’s girlfriend..and the heir to Reid Inc. She heard one of the goons say to strip her for the ransom video and ‘rough her up a bit..’..and she started screaming as one of them approached her. “No! Please!” She begged, thrashing against her restraints. She saw the length of a knife appear and she cried out in pure terror. “I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant! Please! Don’t do this!” She sobbed. “I’m pregnant! Please! Please! I’ll do anything!” She screamed as he got closer..and then he was suddenly knocked to the ground as a quite movement caught her eye..and she sighed in relief. “Get me out of here!” She begged at the vigilante known as Batman..and Scarlette was so grateful..Until one of the goons grabbed her head and forced her neck back, blade pressing to her creamy skin and she sobbed. “My baby..” She whispered softly, utterly terrified until she saw his eyes through that mask..and the anger that burned within them.. ‘I’ll kill her, I will!’ The asshole announced..and Scarlette was pleading, begging for him to do something. Anything..because she couldn’t die. Not like this..not now. She had a bruise forming across her right cheek from her earlier smack..and now a drop of crimson blood ran down her neck as the blade cut her ever so slightly and she cried out from it.

[ @sarcasmpersonified181 ]

#c. Bruce #sarcasmpersonified181 #tw kidnapping #tw blood #tw violence

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whipplefilter · 7 years

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People keep mentioning Lightning calling Doc "dad" by accident, and I like that idea, but.. I wonder what the very first time that happened was like? Like, what even brought it on? What was Doc's reaction? I bet it was after a win or something, sometime when he was either very emotional or very distracted. I bet Lightning must have been pretty tired to have let that slip.. like me right now.. Sorry, the ramblings of a tired fan here xD

Oh my god, anon, I got stupidly carried away with this… /O\ APOLOGIES. Here is my ridiculous thousands-of-words response. I’ve always wanted to write something that could explore a little bit of the high-pressure atmosphere of professional racing, and some of the aspects of the profession that might be somewhat maladaptive for a young racer, and figured the path to this hc might be the place to do it. But ultimately, this is Doc’s story.

Fanfic: Your Name in Lights

Summary: Racing’s changed a lot. Or maybe it was always changing, change pouring from the racers, the race itself, and into the fringes of sponsorship and spectator and spectacle. Maybe this is where it was always headed.

At the start of his first season as Lightning’s crew chief, Doc reflects on how the sport has changed, and what he and Lightning will need to be for each other. The aftermath of last season’s tiebreaker race presents new challenges–challenges Lightning’s not quite ready for.

* If longposts on Tumblr are death to you (as they are to me), vision/attention-friendly versions of this can be found on AO3 & Fanfiction.net!

They’re still learning each other.

Lightning’s ability to listen, while much improved, remains variable.

And Doc’s ability to teach–and this is according to Sally, whose tetchy ‘maybe don’t talk like you’re from Mars’ was then vetted and seconded by Sheriff–doesn’t always help. Maybe one in twenty of Doc’s directions, Lightning loses his line for thinking so hard, as though he’s convinced Doc’s words are an enigma he must first unravel.

But when Doc says “hit it with your purse” he means exactly that. Plain and simple.

Granted, in retrospect, that sort of direction makes less sense if you’d never known the woman Doc learned it from. Nothing has ever made Doc feel quite so old as that.

All this notwithstanding, at the pole qualifying for Florida Lightning posts just shy of the top. It means he’s got a good angle on that third slot if he can nail the Duel. Doc’s not concerned about the racing.

Before that, though, there remains the hassle of the start-of-season publicity junket. Naturally, Doc declined all invitations; he’s not here for the crowds or the rumor mills. Never has been. But he might have reconsidered–shared the burden–if he’d known Lightning was going to say yes to every single one.

“You got brakes, son. You’re allowed to use 'em,” Doc points out.

Lightning just says–as though he’d never once considered saying no, and isn’t sure why he’d need to defend this–“Yeah, but they asked!”

Maybe he simply hadn’t anticipated the onslaught.

Whatever fame Lightning had enjoyed as a promising rookie’s got nothing on his Year 2 as proven contender–especially not with last year’s tiebreaker and the enigma of the Fabulous Hudson Hornet still very much on the racing world’s mind. Harv, whom Doc has recently come aware of in all his bombastically East Coast glory, has Lightning’s week scheduled solid:

- Monday 5AM-10PM

- Tuesday, 6:07AM-11:15PM

- Wednesday, 9AM-2AM

- Friday, 8:30AM-11:45PM

Wedged into the fray is one empty Thursday, which is “TBD, see Cup practice lap schedule.” Which all sounds like hell to Doc, but hey, the kid’s got energy to burn.

–

Sometimes, when answering questions for the press, Lightning’s gaze will shoot toward him. Never for long–Doc suspects Lightning never means for him to see–but long enough for his eyes to speak loud and clear.

Lightning is embarrassed by how much he still enjoys this part.

The captivated reporters, the ardent fans; he eats it all up.

Shouldn’t he be above this, though? Now that he knows what real love feels like? Shouldn’t this feel superficial now? That’s what his eyes say. Or perhaps they’re only reflecting what Lightning thinks he sees in Doc’s.

But if the kid ever found the guts to ask, Doc would say no. No. Cherish that feeling. You never know when you might lose it.

–

After the first day, Lightning passes out in his trailer immediately upon re-entry.

Old habits die hard, and under the blaze of camera flashes it’s easy to reach for certain unbearably cocky personas. Certainly, he’d given the cameras some of that. But other times he was Lightning–just Lightning. Which was harder.

Still, he reached.

The novelty of that does him in, and he sleeps like the dead.

(“Oh, don’t worry,” Mack assures him, when Doc is unable to rouse him. “He always sleeps like that.”)

–

Day 2 is easier. Lightning settles some, and Doc determines that even if he’s personally refused all speaking engagements, the least he can do is show up for the photographs. It takes some of the heat off Lightning, and spares him from the more probing lines of questioning. (Even the most aggressive tabloids back down if they have to look you in the eye.)

Then Doc loses an entire afternoon to a commercial spot, wherein Lightning spends four hours reading the same four lines as gaffers swarm around the outskirts of the shot. Apparently certain things will only read on television, and they need something a little different for their MySpace audience. (Whatever that is.) And Apple, Inc., of course, has purchased exclusive rights to something or another, so they need to do a full redesign if they wanna advertise with them.

Heretofore Doc hadn’t been aware that someone could give a performance best described as both wooden and exuberant. Lightning manages this feat. His acting ain’t worth the film it’s printed on. Doc finds this endearing in its own way.

Regardless, Lightning is obliging enough and not difficult to work with, which surprises the AD, who is obviously a veteran of past McQueens. On their way out, the sun having long since set, this year’s McQueen’s only gripe is a hushed, “You know how long it should take to film a twenty-second commercial? Twenty seconds! In twenty seconds I could be done with an entire–”

“Hey, look at you!” someone shouts from across the intersection. Doc notes with some amusement that Lightning automatically assumes they’re talking about him.

To Lightning’s credit, they are. The stranger blows the stoplight and maneuvers an absurd U-turn to end up in the lane adjacent. “Huge fan,” he explains. “Huge huge huge huge!”

In the span of a signal pattern, one red light holding the world in abeyance, he then proceeds to tell Lightning his whole life story. This is how it ends:

“And like, hit-and-run, you know? We couldn’t have known. Us all chasing after the guy, figuring you know, Alonzo’s gonna be okay, he always okay. We got a good set-up, working at the garage–all kinds of parts, all kinds of tools, you know? But after we lost the dude we go back and Alonzo’s just gone, man. He’s just metal. And that was it. So I guess I just wanna say like, thank you, you know? I’m not saying it makes a whole lotta sense or nothin’ but I dunno, like. Mad props, I guess. What you did in that race like. I just thought that was tight.”

“Thank you,” says Lightning, a little stiffly. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to say more. Then he adds, “Sorry to hear about, um, Alonzo.”

“Don’t sweat it, bruh,” says the stranger, dead Alonzo’s cousin. “Mad props!” he repeats, before speeding off when the light before them flicks blue-green.

Lightning jerks off the road and pulls into a nearby parking lot, visibly shaken. “That’s–” he starts. “Uh, never happened before.”

“You’re real to them now,” says Doc, though he doesn’t remember that happening to him before, either. “Congratulations.”

But Lightning doesn’t throw the look for the rest of the evening. He’s quiet and restive and it’s as though he’s either witnessed a crime or drive in on two cars in a scandalously intimate moment, or maybe both.

He has absolutely no idea what to do with a stranger’s personal business.

Mack asks him if he’s okay, and he says yes.

Lightning asks, “Hey, d'you think Sally would pick up if I–”

Then he trails off. Turns back to Doc to give him a funny look. Doc’s not sure if the question was directed at him, or at the empty air. (He knows the answer, though: Yes, yes she would.)

“Nah,” Lightning decides, independent of the facts. “It’s late.”

–

Doc’s not sure why, but it echoes. Not the life story of faceless cars, the names of whom he has already forgotten, but Lightning. The look on his face as he realized that caring is not always pleasant. There’s a lot of damage in the world.

Caring can hurt.

By the next morning, Lightning has forgotten all about it. Which is fortunate, because if Harv scheduled things any tighter he’d strip a lugnut. Lightning needs to be good to go.

–

Lightning’s fading. It’s working hour 33 on Day 3 when he stops trying to answer questions well and instead repackages what he’s already said, and said again, and said again. This isn’t at all a failing; it’s strategic and–finally–something actually smart, but it also doesn’t have the blazing excitement of Day 1, which is what sustains Lightning in the first place. And so it becomes a self-defeating cycle, and more often than not Doc finds Lightning staring down the clock as the hands make their slow and deliberate way around the field. His eyes beg them to move faster.

They’re far from done, though. Next up, sponsor appearance.

Lightning doesn’t do or say much, just last year’s lines, now flavored by his palpable shame at his past behavior, but none of the rust buckets seem to notice. For some reason, they love him, and always have. They have a golden vision of Lightning in their minds and that’s all they’ll ever see.

Rusty–or maybe it’s Dusty–winks at Doc. These two are Bostonians, unflappable, and Doc respects them. They knew Lightning was a child–and frankly, still is–but they were willing to be patient about his growing up. They weren’t surprised when eventually, he did. Which means they’d read him better than Doc had. They’ve got the knack.

As Lightning prepares to take his leave of the stage, Dusty (or Rusty) whispers, “Here, kiddo!” He slides a can toward Lightning with his back tire. “You’re gonna need to eat something before the meet n’ greets. It’s a long-haul!”

Lightning’s eyes widen, as though he’d forgotten sustenance was a category that existed. “Oh! Thanks!”

But when the two are out of eyeshot, Lightning throws the can in the trash.

“Not hungry?” Doc asks.

Lightning looks around him, dramatically surreptitious. “Are you kidding me? I can’t drink that out here. I’m not sponsored by that. Someone will see!”

Doc looks back at the Rust-eze tent, where Rusty and Dusty are still hamming it up on stage. “Aren’t they your sponsors?”

“Uh, yes,” says Lightning. “But I think sometimes they forget how this works.”

–

Doc thinks he, too, must have forgotten how this works, because “meet n’ greet” is a misnomer if ever there were one. There’s nothing at all casual about the autographs Lightning’s firing off, and it’s a wonder he can see anything at all with all the camera flash. “Kachow,” indeed.

One after another the queue of meet n’ greeters comes, exchanges a word or two or gaping silent awe with meteorological sensation Lightning McQueen, gets an autograph for his trouble and a picture for his scrapbook, and is shepherded right along to make room for the next car idling in line, assembly line quick.

Racing’s changed a lot.

Or maybe it was always changing, change pouring from the racers, the race itself, and into the fringes of sponsorship and spectator and spectacle. Maybe this is where it was always headed.

–

Millennium Club dinner. Some corporate thing, so upper-crust exclusive that Lightning’s sponsors are not actually invited. But Lightning is.

“Actually, you are,” Lightning notes. “It says here I’m just your plus one.”

They don’t stay. They have another dinner to get to, anyway.

–

Sparklers on the ground. Cars popping wheelies as they dance away from the leaping colors, which leave thin trails of smoke in their wake. Guitar. Truckbeds filled to the brim with all manner of confection–mostly Dinoco Lite, but also festive lookalikes, for the children.

The children, to speak of them, are playing a made-up game that involves hurling small chunks of broken asphalt at each other. The smaller ones are playing with tire marbles.

This feels more like home.

Here, The King presides, looking hale and gleaming, which is good to see.

“Heard you were lookin’ for me back in town,” Doc says when Strip Weathers idles up to them.

“Paying my respects,” Weathers says. “You did the sport a world of good. Made it into something worth keepin’ alive.” He smiles at Lightning. “Long day?”

Lightning laughs faintly, and Doc turns to him. He does look a little shaky.

“I’d stay away from Claude’s homebrew,” Weathers warns, very seriously. “It’s turning everyone silly, as always.”

Lightning’s gaze darts to Doc. Kid’s not sure what to make of the fact that he’s been suddenly inducted into the club where The King makes casual jokes. It doesn’t compute, it doesn’t compute, and then it doesn’t compute.

Ultimately, however, the strangeness isn’t enough to hold his interest. As Weathers heads back to Lynda, Lightning confesses, “I, uh, really need to eat someth–”

“THERE HE IS.”

Photos, ecstasy. A distinct lack of personal space. Lightning could run, but he doesn’t. Or maybe he can’t without his engine seizing. He probably needed more oil a good long while ago.

Doc shakes his head. He is not in the habit of delivering drinks to people, but as one of Lightning’s fans begets another it appears he might have to.

He rolls through the crowd like an untouchable force, eliciting wide eyes but none brave enough to approach.

–

Of course! I can’t believe I didn’t see it before! You’re the Hudson Hornet! The Fabulous Hudson Hornet! Oh, you gotta–

–

So far, returning to the track is easier than Doc had ever dreamed, because–and perhaps this is ironic–of how precious little there was to return to. He doesn’t miss it because he’s never known it; you can’t yearn for rules you’ve never bucked, asphalt you’ve never burnt. It’s all-new, right down to the smells and sounds of the track, vibrations through earth and the motion of the guy next to you. Never mind all the hoopla off the track, the business side of which has grown up even quicker than road.

And perhaps more surprising than all the change is Doc’s utter lack of nostalgia. He doesn’t wish all this around him were otherwise, or quail at the thought that it isn’t. His racing world is hermetically-sealed and six feet under and when he speaks of it, it is another beast entirely. Somehow, this makes is unpainful to speak of now.

The track doesn’t wrench him back those fifty years; it does not unbury that pain and betrayal; it does not validate the bitterness he’s spent so much of his time since curating. Lightning does not remind him of any of that, the way he surely had in the courtroom that first day. Teaching Lightning does not feel like a poor substitution for what should have been. This is different. This is something–

And that, Doc had never dreamed.

–

When he returns with a quart of oil balanced on his hood, Lightning is exactly where he’d left him, surrounded by a new constellation of fans. He’s wearing a look of extreme distress, masquerading poorly as something other than, and the Mitsubishi nearest him is weeping.

As Doc draws nearer, he understands why. More crash stories. More dead loved ones. More trauma, more pain, more loss. Stories without happy endings–or without endings at all. The Mitsubishi is still crying.

This goes on for hours. It seems everyone has some dark and metal-rending history that they would like for Lightning to know. That tiebreaker was a standout; it clearly shook a lot of feelings loose. Now Lightning has become their outlet.

Lightning is not handling it well. He’s only just learned how to listen, how to care; he doesn’t know how, or when, to stop.

That night–if it can be called that; it’s 3AM, and Lightning drew his first practice round for 7–Doc learns that Lightning does not always sleep heavy. Sometimes he does not sleep at all.

Doc has three regrets, as they pertain to docking his trailer next to Lightning’s:

1. The blare of Lightning’s television, which has been advertising hemorrhoidal tailpipe lotion for the past hour straight.

2. All the pacing. Just when Doc thinks he’s settled for the night, Lightning’s engine blares to life, and metal creaks softly as his weight shifts up and down the length of his trailer. His is not a quiet engine.

3. All the shouting. Forget the engine; Lightning’s just all-around loud for a sleeping car. Keeps yelping himself awake.

For his own self-preservation, Doc moves his trailer. For Lightning, Doc figures the best kindness he can do him as his crew chief is not expect much from their 7AM.

–

“Sleep well?” Doc asks. “Handling it,” Lightning scowls (or maybe he’s just squinting. It’s a bright morning).

Lightning posts a 196.349 average.

One of this season’s rookies, yellow bumper strip blending well with his purple paint job and gold highlights, whistles in appreciation. “I’ve definitely made it to the big leagues now,” he whispers to himself. “Hot dang!”

But Lightning all but flinches away when the rookie shouts “HEY!” Lightning swerves and mutters something incomprehensible as he drives past without making eye contact.

“Oka~y! Whatever then,” the rookie shouts after him. “Guess I’ll have to smoke you on Sunday, cupcake! Then we’ll see who gets ignored!”

“You all right?” Doc asks, when Lightning draws nearer.

“Is this over yet?” Lightning asks back, again without making eye contact.

“Sure,” Doc says. “Ten months and thirty-six races from now.”

Lightning brakes–he keeps forgetting someone is here now, to answer his rhetorical questions. Then he glares at Doc, lips pursed sour, and speeds away without another word. For the next eight hours, he’s nowhere to be found.

–

Doc must admit, he’s only half-expecting Lightning to show up for their 4PM. He hadn’t felt the need to read back on Lightning before they’d met–he figured he could guess at his behaviors well enough. After all, he’s said it before: Racecar.

And he knows from personal experience that Lightning has a tendency to go missing, and that he also has a predilection for nearly missing things that he probably shouldn’t. All behaviors a crew chief won’t typically abide, even if his racer doesn’t beat him to the punch and fire him.

If you want to race with the pros, you need to act the part. There are no exceptions.

Doc own crew chief would have shown him the door if Doc had ever given him lip. There’d have been hellfire and fury. But it’s been a while since Doc’s thought about any of this, and in a moment of deep personal honesty, he has to admit: Oh, he gave plenty of lip, and Smokey plenty of fire. They don’t call him Smokey for nothing. It had been different, though–he and Smokey were nearly contemporaries, grown men and good ol’ boys together. Lip and fury were part of the dance. It’s what they’d needed from each other.

Whereas Lightning–

For the first time, Doc thinks about what Lightning actually needs in a crew chief. It’s not that the list isn’t a mile long–the kid is undeniably talented, and undeniably smart; but he’s also undeniably stupid, and if Doc starts contemplating Lightning’s many contradictions he’ll be here all day. But maybe it’s not what Lightning needs so much as who.

Doc sighs. He’d hoped he could have stepped to the role with only a modicum of soul-searching. Clear out the cobwebs, beat the nostalgia, focus on the racing. But who’s stupid now? he chastises. The rules and the smells and the crowds can change like no tomorrow but at the end of the day, the heart of the sport will always be the same. And real racing? You race with everything you got. Everything you are. It don’t matter if you’re on the track or the infield. In this sport, there is no room for reticence. There are no exceptions to that, either.

So, Hud, he thinks. Who are you gonna be?

–

At exactly 4PM, Lightning does show up. The first thing he says is, “I’m sorry.”

It’s the only thing he says.

When Doc asks again, “You doin’ okay?” Lightning takes a rolling start from the road up to the track and he’s off to the races.

–

You’ve been here how long? And your friends don’t even know who you are?

–

Lightning’s driving sloppy. Extremely sloppy. Which isn’t a trouble when you’re alone on a track, but they’re not here to practice bad habits. When Doc tells him so, Lightning’s only response is to drive worse, and faster. Faster. He cracks 200. 201. 203, for consecutive laps. And again. Then a fourth.

“Control,” Doc reminds him, but Lightning’s past the point of responding even recalcitrantly. He’s pure, raw force, swinging around the turns, every atom blazing forward. There’s nothing left for anything but power and speed. It’s terrible but beautiful, but terrible.

Lightning leaves the track gasping for breath and on the verge of tears and absolutely every other part of him left on the asphalt behind him. The forklift posting the times does a double-take.

Doc’s not thinking about those, though.

“Come here,” Doc says, but Lightning is as insensate now as he was at 200 miles an hour. He mumbles something Doc finds incomprehensible, only willing to wheel himself in any direction but Doc’s.

Lightning closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but immediately lets it out, sharp, and continues to dance away. 'Calm’ isn’t really an available gear after a run like his.

“Come here,” Doc repeats, and this time all but herds Lightning in the appropriate direction.

“Oh, stop,” Lightning mutters, as he shies away from Doc’s bumper taps. “I can drive myself, Dad.” But the second Doc stops prodding Lightning stops moving, so Doc keeps on.

Dad, huh? Doc mulls this over. Interesting choice, Mr. I-Can-Drive-Myself. The way it had slipped out, Lightning probably didn’t even realize. Certainly, he won’t remember.

That train of thought stretches long across the circus that is the Florida Speedway, but eventually they end up at Doc’s trailer, quiet and plain-painted and unassuming.

They don’t talk much. First it’s just Lightning muttering incoherence, as far as Doc’s concerned–likely a continuation of some long epic he’s been self-narrating for the past year or so. Then genuine silence. Lightning dozes, waking long enough between bouts to look extremely annoyed with himself.

When the ratio of rest to annoyance turns in castigation’s favor, Doc intervenes.

“You wanna tell me what just happened, kid?”

“Don’t turn this into a life lesson,” Lightning snaps, still surly. Lightning knows, and he knows Doc knows. No one needs a play-by-play. That’s why Lightning’s so annoyed–he knows what he should be able to handle. Sponsors, commercials, interviews, spotlight after spotlight after spotlight–he can dig in, he can do it. He excels at it. His name in lights? Bring it on.

But this time, he’d been wrong.

Doc tries to be less pedantic. “You can’t keep making yourself sick over this stuff.”

Nope, still pedantic. Maybe it’s just his way; Doc’s his crew chief, after all. He’s supposed to be pedantic.

“But I can’t just make them stop,” Lightning protests desperately. “All these horrible things– and then they tell me– and then their friends tell more– why would I wanna hear about all these crashes? Even the press guys will– I’m just– and I can’t–”

He reigns it in. “I can’t take that,” he summarizes, now sedate. “I can’t sit there, listening to all these horrible things that have happened to all these cars and all their entire families, and then just be okay. I can’t.”

You have to, is something Doc might say, as a crew chief. Are you made of steel or not? You have to. Just shut it out. And if you don’t know how, then you’re gonna have to learn. You’re a professional, and this is the game.

But Doc doesn’t think he can say that to Lightning. Lightning, who feels so young because this care and all its pain seems so new, so surprising to him. Lightning, now old enough to know that caring is professional.

Lightning, who is more than just his racer.

You can’t control the game, or what it sees in you. Be it an underestimate of what you’ve got left, or an overestimate of how many stories you’re able to bear, it’s all the same.

“So give 'em something else to talk about,” Doc says finally. “If you love this, then show 'em joy. Give them a win. Give them a hundred more things to remember you by.”

There’s that look again–Lightning thinking very hard, wondering if Doc’s advice is a puzzle. Trying to solve it just in case. Then his brow unfurrows. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “That makes sense.”

Doc’s expression must convey doubt, because Lightning clarifies his epiphany. “Surpass yourself, right?”

Then he grins devilishly. “Consider it done, old man!”

–

On Friday, Lightning wakes up for his 8:30. It’s a morning show–not RSN, but Florida local. They have to drive out to the studio. There will be sound stages and harried PAs and several hundred thousand cars watching from the comfort of their own garages. There’s an in-house audience as well, the hopefuls for which were wrapped clear around the building before they arrived.

Lightning yawns wide, says something about getting it out of his system before they head inside. But he hesitates at the threshold of the studio. For the briefest flicker of a moment, Lightning looks up at the glinting neon above the door and becomes betrayal incarnate. This thing had wronged him, this thing had hurt him, this thing he loved so much, it had–

Then he lets it go.

He doesn’t bury it.

He really, truly, lets it go.

And only then does Lightning roll through that door.

–

At 8:30 on Friday morning, just before the cameras start rolling, the Fabulous Hudson Hornet joins his protege Lightning McQueen on the stage of the Daytona Daily Dose–a tiny channel that only broadcasts as far as the county line. It is his first public speaking engagement since 1954.

They won’t be talking about 1954, though. It’s 2007. Doc has a hundred more things he’d like to be remembered by.

Doc glances at Lightning, who seems even more delighted by this development than the staff of the Daily Dose, and he thinks, And then some.

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