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bondsmagii · 3 years

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This is definitely one of the… wilder stories here, but as always, I suppose people will believe what they will.

This will unfortunately require some backstory, but I guess you could say the long and the short of it is that I played at being God, and it. Well. Kind of sucked, actually.

So, the backstory. I’ll try to keep it brief. I grew up in a small country village about forty-five minutes away from Belfast, Ireland. There wasn’t much going on there, as you could imagine – just a standard rural Irish town, where the most exciting thing that might happen in a week was old Farmer Joe getting a new tractor or something. Anyway, I’m not sure how many of you know about Ireland’s rather troubled past, but for the most part I missed all that. I was born around the time things were finally settling down, and while my earlier memories are filled with bomb scares and low-flying helicopters and gunshots in the night, the distant sound of shouting and the acrid smell of smoke burning a little too close for comfort, by the time I hit my teenage years most of it had wrapped up. Of course, there was the occasional scare here and there, and I’m not saying my friends and I didn’t go out looking for trouble once we were old enough, but it wasn’t the same. I’m not saying that out of a sense of, I don’t know, regret or annoyance or anything. Now I’m older, I’m not so enamoured by the idea of that much violence. I’m just saying it wasn’t really a patch on the kind of violence that used to happened there – the kind of violence that fascinated my friends and I so much. It sounds bad, but really we were just kids being kids. Little boys everywhere play at war games. It just so happened that the war we were playing had happened in our own country. It’s difficult not to be obsessed, when you see the reflection of history on the faces of every generation around you. Even slightly older siblings would know all about it – it wasn’t something you asked your grandfather, distant war stories over some vague European country that you’ve only seen on a map in your Geography classroom. This was our street corners, our high streets, the road outside the house. Here the grass verge at the side of the road where the bodies were dumped; there the lay-by where over a dozen people were blown to pieces. It was awful, but we were children. We were enamoured.

Anyway. The only violence we got really involved in was the summer rioting that happened yearly, like clockwork. It sounds like a joke, but that’s how it goes. You don’t need to know the details, but suffice to say in mid-July every year, the city would light up like we were back in the 1970s. Localised, of course, and still nowhere near as drastic as it used to be, but enough to get a taste. Petrol bombs. Police lines. Armoured cars. Water cannons. Unrestrained summer fun, you could say. But that’s for a bit later.

I’m a writer. I have been since I was four years old. Generally speaking I’m a horror writer, but I’ve branched into historical fiction a fair bit over the years. Living in Ireland, growing up how I did, it was inevitable that I would develop a fascination for Irish history. I was always a very curious child, my head in books, chasing up stories that would keep me awake at night. I never knew any boundaries. I would go after answers with military precision, asking questions, going places I shouldn’t. Dangerous for anyone, of course, but in a country like mine, where crossing the road could quite literally lead to your murder? It was reckless. I was reckless. But that’s the thing about being that age. You think you’re invincible. You think you can do anything.

I was about fourteen or fifteen, at the height of this obsession. I believe I was fifteen when I wrote this particular story, but it’s difficult to say. It was part of a series, and I was going back and forth on it and other projects for many years. Here we finally get to the point of the whole story: I had developed an obsession with Irish history, as I said, and specifically the more “modern” history – from 1916 onwards, the Easter Rising, the War of Independence, all that. I was fascinated by the Irish struggle for freedom, and while age and hindsight has lessened my… enthusiasm for the violence, I do maintain a strong opinion towards the whole thing, which is not the point here so I won’t get into it. What I’m trying to say is that my stories reflected this enthusiasm, and were undoubtedly glorifying in nature, and also at that age I was more concerned with living the fantasy than doing the research, so it was all very self-indulgent. I’m sure anyone who wrote at that age knows what I mean.

My main character… well. I’m sure you know what to expect. He was—well. Me, really. In the way of all main characters at that age, and perhaps a little even as we get older, there’s a piece of us inside all our main characters. Sometimes a little piece, other times just a cooler and more badass version of yourself. Michael was that for me. I suppose that must is obvious; I wasn’t even trying to be subtle. My name is of course Miceál, which for those of you keeping track is the Irish form of Michael. I’m just grateful that I didn’t go as far as to give him my last name, too, but everything else was there. He looked like me, he held the same views and beliefs as me, he acted like me – or at least, he acted in the ways I liked to think I’d act, or how I imagined acting later that night in the shower, reliving the scenario again. He was the best kind of self-insert character, indulgent and fun and a good friend to me. I poured a lot of myself into him. I poured everything into him. He was a constant companion, something that became ever more important to me as my real life—well, went to shit. To put it mildly. I would sit in my room writing my stories, and Michael would go out there and fight the good fight, killing and bombing for good old Ireland, and then I’d shut my computer down and go to sleep feeling just a little better than otherwise.

I’m not afraid to say that I can be obsessive. I like to get into the heads of my characters; I like to know them as well as I know everything. Yes, Michael was me, but he was also a version of me who had done things I have never done. Sometimes I would try to imagine myself as him; wonder what it was like to see through his eyes. Wonder what a me who had done that would look like. Wonder what he would do in a situation. I asked myself that a few times; a lot of times. What would Michael do? I could have put that shit on a wristband. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I’ve always been a bit of a method writer like that. It was normal, until it wasn’t.

I first saw Michael on a hot July day, in Belfast. What we call the rioting season had come around; my friends and I were there to take advantage. Just at the sidelines, mind you – nobody wants to get a face full of water cannon, even on the hottest of days. Michael was in the thick of it though. Of course he was. I’d written him to be that way.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. At first I thought I must be seeing things, but the more I looked the more I realised he looked exactly like me. Only he was a little taller, a little fitter, and his hair looked different. His clothing was different, too; perhaps a couple of decades out of date, but looking at him I saw his clothing didn’t remain consistent. The changes were subtle – material, tone – but I noticed. Looking back, I assume it’s because I never did give a specific date for his story to occur in. Well, wherever he was from he was there now, throwing rocks with the best of them, skipping from stone to stone and hurling them at police lines with an easy swing that could only come from years of practise. When we had all finally cleaned out the area – soldiers coming, a helicopter, the kind of trouble you don’t want to toy with – I managed to catch up with him. He was talking to my friends. They noticed we were both there, but didn’t seem to realise we were two different people. The whole time we were all talking, I couldn’t take my eyes off of Michael. I tried, because I knew how obvious I was being, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t work him out. I couldn’t even trust that’s what I was seeing. And the whole time, Michael watched me back. I knew the look in his eyes. It was his smug little, I know something you don’t know look. Of course I knew it. I had made him like that. I had given him that look.

I didn’t see him for some time after that. Believe it or not, I put it out of my head. I mean, come on. It was probably some other guy that my friends knew. We were in Belfast enough, and Michael isn’t exactly an uncommon name. I put it out of my mind, but I was sure that sometimes, I saw him. I was sure I’d see him in Belfast, ducking down side streets or leaning in close conversation with someone I couldn’t make out. He was always watching me. Sometimes I’d feel eyes on me and know it was him, but when I looked around I wouldn’t spot him. On some occasions – and these were always the worst – I would feel his eyes behind my own. Like he was on the inside looking out, moving independently in there, a set of eyes swivelling around over my own. It happened most often when I was trying to write his story. As you can imagine, I was nervous to do so. The more I thought I saw him, the less I wanted to write, but I didn’t think that was a good idea either. I didn’t know what to do.

It was a sunny weekend just before school started back after summer that I finally resolved to do something about it. I didn’t even feel stupid as I booted up my old Windows 95 desktop and opened Word. Michael’s story was there, in 12-point font as I always wrote then, plenty of enthusiasm but a lot less technical skill. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, and then I typed.

Hello?

Nothing, of course. I deleted the word, wondering what I had expected. Feeling a little stupid now, I tried to think about where to go with the story. It was difficult to write now I had some kind of real person to assign to it all – what were the ethics here? How could I—

I won’t get into that. It would be a philosophical essay all of its own. I sat for a while wondering what to write, and then it hit me that the story had changed. The words Michael had spoken, in the paragraph that I had left off – they were no longer the words I had written. I forget what the original words were now, but they were something relatively simple; some response to another character, and I remember that another name was mentioned in it – the name of Michael’s in-universe best friend, Eamon. Now that name was gone, and the rest of the text had changed, too. Now the writing read something different entirely.

I thought you wanted to know?

I lied earlier. I said that age and experience and perhaps some more emotional maturity had led me to turn away from the kind of violence that fascinated me so much then, and I have no doubt that under normal circumstances it would have done. I had somewhat of a speed run, however; I turned my back on it because

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had often wondered what it would be like to do what Michael did, of course. To kill and risk death for a cause, to face down prison, torture, exile. I had wondered what it would be like to commit those acts; how easy or difficult it would be to pull a trigger or push a detonator. I liked to think, in my foolish, idealistic teenage mind, that if it came down to it I could. Of course, I was in the very privileged position to not have to actually answer that question.

Michael, on the other hand, knew. And Michael was, if not me, than a product of me. Could it be possible that he could show me?

I ignored the message for several days. I didn’t know what to think. Truth be told I thought I was going mad. School started again and I got so busy that I almost, almost forgot about it – and then I opened the document by mistake one day, got into reading it over, laughing at my brilliant comebacks, you know how it is. And there it was again.

I thought you wanted to know?

Yes, I remember thinking. It stunned me – I remember that. I didn’t want to mess with this kind of stuff – I’ve always been a huge believer in the paranormal, always been cautious when it comes to fucking with that kind of stuff. I believe that magic like this, it requires intent. It needs you to be sure. It knows how you feel, true in your heart. So even when I ignored it again, even when I deleted the words and re-wrote whatever the original had been, even as I didn’t reply… I knew in my heart that my question had been heard by something. I could feel Michael’s eyes on me again, though now I wondered if it was Michael’s eyes, or something else entirely. It felt like a weight. Have you ever been in an old, old place, where you can practically feel the people who lived and died there; reach out and touch them? It felt like that. Like the weight of history was pressing down on me. I didn’t fall asleep easily that night, but when I did sleep was dark and endless.

I don’t know how long I spent in that state. In reality it was only seven hours; I woke up with my alarm. In that time period, wherever I was – because I was not living – I seemed to witness a hundred different lives. Over the course of Michael’s story I had him do all kinds of things; live all kinds of situations. I deleted things, changed others, added things in. I wrote what would now be called alternate universes. In that night I experienced them all. I know how it feels now. I know how it feels to pull a trigger; to watch the spray of someone’s life splatter a wall or a windscreen or the screaming backseat passengers of a car. I know how it feels to push the button, the one that sends a charge surging down a wire or flickering out over my head in an invisible wave of death, notifying the bomb, detonating the explosives. I know how it feels to sit in a hotel bar across a border, listening to the news, sipping a drink and feeling my heart beat in my chest as I add more numbers to the tally, more blood to my hands. I know how it feels to be shot, to be beaten, to watch a friend die, to kill someone who used to be – who still is, despite everything – a friend. I know how it feels to cough blood into my hands, onto the ground; to grip a wound that won’t stop bleeding; the blinding flash of an explosive detonating too soon and how the whole world seems to roar and how there’s a difference between the thud and slap of wet mud hitting the ground and the warmer, denser rain of something that used to be human. For days, weeks, years – I walked in Michael’s shoes, I lived his life, I committed every act.

I felt his pain. His fear. This hellish world that he lived in, created to kill and die and lose and fear, over and over. To meet his God and to finally, finally ask – why?

And what could I say? Because I wanted to know?

Well. Now I do.

#creeptastic #creepypasta #my creepypasta #writing #my writing #short story #fiction #can you tell i've been listening to tma lately?#anyway VERY tempted to record this seems i'm a decent voice impressionist and i have the right accent for the statement lmao

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goonlalagoon · 4 years

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To rest a weary soul || Leagues and Legends

Read on Ao3

When the battles are done, Rivertown claimed and the Bureau licking their wounds, Rupert wades through the aftermath with a clipboard and pen for weeks. He has lists of the injured and dead to help process, damages to structures to inventory, agreements for aid to file. Schedules to adjust, because while they’ve won, nobody trusts the Bureau an inch so they’re still running a loose sentry detail - they want there to always be a few people on hand for emergencies, too, because more than one building that was only just standing as the dust started to settle has collapsed since. Sez has a never ending stream of informants scuttling by, and Rupert transcribes for her to pass on messages and warnings and requests.

They won, but Rupert’s a historian at heart, still, a bureaucrat as much as he’s a hero (and he’s very good at both) - he knows that the aftermath of this will be a lifetime, and then some.

He files his paperwork in Sally-Anne’s converted storeroom, and pads back up the stairs to the room they’ve given him - it’s the room that once was Sally’s brother’s, but the folded blanket on the end of the bed is one his mother brought him back years ago from one of her trips. He’d retrieved it from his room at the Academy, while he was still processing that the technically disallowed single room was still so clearly his. He’d expected to have to dig through boxes in his Uncle’s rooms to find it, but it had been laid neatly over the end of the bed just as he’d left it when they set out for the mountains.

The room at Sally-Anne’s isn’t his, not really, and he doesn’t think it ever will be - but it had seen him through weeks of recovery, a rebellion, and it will see him through the first long weeks of the aftermath. His mother had set up a camp-bed in the corner, and when neither of them can sleep they tell stories back and forth about the constellations they can see out of the little window, or make shadow pictures on the wall the way they had on summer expeditions when he was a child. Some mornings, before he wakes fully, he expects to open his eyes to the patched canvas of his mother’s faithful tent and the feel of damp ground under the groundsheet.

Some mornings, he expects to see the narrow walls of a Bureau storage cupboard, but he listens to the voices drifting up from the street, familiar laughter from the rooms below, feels the blanket curled over his shoulders, until he can convince himself it’s safe to open his eyes.

Weeks after, when things seem at least vaguely under control again, Miz Eliza packs the tent into a borrowed truck and they drive out of Rivertown for a weekend. They don’t go far, responsibilities waiting and everyone still twitchy about extended absences, but they both wanted to go far enough to see the horizon spreading out around them.

Laney had offered to port them out somewhere, but that wasn’t the point, really. It wasn't about the distance - it was the journey, rattling along in a truck knowing they’d stop where they found something interesting, watching the world change around them. It was about knowing that he could go anywhere he liked, he just had to point out the direction.

Rupert liked things to be organised and reliable, and this was something people often didn’t understand: his mother was only unpredictable from the outside. They’d established patterns over the years and knew their own routines. She might not know exactly where she was going to stop, but she knew what she was looking for and how she was going to set things up when she got there. She’d let him pack the car because he knew how best to fit everything in, but all of her stuff was always in the same place as well - it just didn’t include things he rather thought of as essentials. She knew how to plan for uncertainty, however much as he needed her to, and he had always known he could rely on her.

They pitch the tent in a field with a half collapsed drystone wall and a nice view, and stay up late making shadow pictures on the canvas, old favourites and new jokes. In the morning, Rupert boils water on the battered camp stove with an equally battered whistling kettle, and they chew on cereal bars while the steam drifts into the hazy blue sky, chipped mugs cradled in calloused palms, watching the dew gradually fade as the sun rises.

This isn’t a research trip, but they hike along a rabbit run alongside the old wall anyway, poking at stones and talking about anything and everything. They don’t talk about the past months - they will, he knows, but they know each other well enough that they don’t have to agree not to dwell on it now. Now he wants to ramble through fields and pause to watch a rabbit as it eyes them warily, deciding if they’re friends or foe, to listen to his mother talk about her latest research trip. He’d spent his childhood at the Academy, learning the rules and making himself part of the framework, but he’d spent his holidays (odd weekends and unexpected weeks) exploring at his mother’s side. For all that he was at home in the hallowed halls of the Academy or the worn, warm interior of Sally-Anne’s, the alleys of Rivertown, there was always a part of him that tipped it’s head back when he stepped out into the open air and an unknown view and breathed deep.

There are plants growing up through the cracks in the stone that he wouldn’t have known the name of before, familiar now from long evenings of testing Jack on his local herblore. Bees bumble between stems, and he recites everything he remembers about their methods of communicating the location of food aloud as they walked, catching himself more than once thoughtlessly imitating Grey’s hand waving and gestures; George had taught him a mountain tune that she tended to whistle while reading papers, and he finds it spilling from his lips as they wander, and the thick jumper he’s bundled up in for the morning chill has careful warming charms worked into it that Laney had scowled over for hours alongside a patient hedgewitch prepared to spare a trick or two. They were all parts of him too, nowadays, and he’d spent months with them as far out of his reach as any other part of his home.

They rattle back into Rivertown a day later than planned, mud splattered but with a tension Rupert had forgotten he was holding gone from his shoulders. In another few weeks they travel further, back to the desert and it’s rolling dunes, another open horizon that Rupert has known and loved for years, even if it is less familiar than the rooftop view from his Academy dorm. Miz Eliza waves as they set off home, burying herself in her research again, sending him rambling letters of anecdotes and pictures of crude pottery, and he sends back clockwork care packages that she smiles over every time.

The room at Sally-Anne’s is always open to him, but he finds that he’s missed having Jack, Laney and Grey at nothing but a staircase away, so he joins them in hunting for apartments in between the work of helping to set up an independent city state and pulling together copies of all the first-hand accounts of the First League he could find for George (he had grown up with a mother in love with ancient, fragile things: he knew the light in an academic’s eyes when they felt the siren song of new research calling them, and he knows possibly before she does that she’d be heading back to the University soon)

The flat they settle into is probably too small for four, and is definitely too small for how often they actually had a rotating cast of visitors - George, of course, but also the Farris cousins sneaking out of the rebuilding Academy for a weekend visit, a few of Red’s extended family who need a place to stay while visiting their recovering kin, odd friends who drop by and stay too late to bother venturing homeward in the dark or the rain. But it’s comfortable, a little cluttered and ramshackle, odds and ends of mismatched furniture and in progress DIY - it’s theirs.

The room Jack and Grey claim has fragrant herbs drying by the window and a crowded shelf of Grey’s favourite books, Jack’s favourite of the pictures Bidi had sent him over the years tacked onto the side of the shared wardrobe - if Rupert leans on the doorframe and closed his eyes, he could have been back in the Academy, waiting to see if he was invited in to claim the unused desk, for all that nowadays Jack had claimed the lower bunk. Laney and Rupert had their own rooms, though there had been a fiercely polite argument over which of them took the larger one (Laney had won, unsurprisingly, so Rupert’s is the only room large enough to have its own desk in the corner). Laney had brought back patterned rugs from the desert, old familiar patterns that she’d been pretending she wasn’t missing, and scattered them through the apartment to cover the worn wooden floors.

There are new hedgewitch knitted blankets slung over the back of the sofa and an old one folded neatly on the foot of Rupert’s bed. The view out of the window isn’t an open horizon or the rooftops of a distant town, but that doesn’t matter; he wakes in the mornings and knows that he is home.

#Leagues and Legends #my writing #L&L fic #I wrote this on NaNo sprints this morning and have edited only at the level of trying to fix my accidental tense change #so apologies for any errors and more importantly any glaring contradictions to canon #it's been a while since I read RtD and also I can't remember what's canon vs fanon #I got to thinking about Rupert and concepts of home #I just really wanted to post this while i was still happy about it because I haven't written new fic in ages #Jack is a Beanstalk #Remember the Dust #Beanstalk #Echoes of a Giantkiller

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writingdispenser · 3 years

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New Chapter Excerpt While It’s Still Cooking

The new chapter is still in the works, and I am in fact gunning to have it finished by today! But while I’m still working on it, I know y’all have been waiting for a while now, so here’s a small excerpt from the beginning to tide you over.

For context, here’s where I’m at in the word document right now:

Sorry for the delay! Hope you enjoy it when it’s finally out.

It was an unspeakable hour of the morning, yet the BLU base was buzzing with more life than usual as everyone clattered around before the long drive. Heavy was helping Demo move the last of their bags down for the bus, as Scout raced from room to room anxiously, seeming to be looking for something lost. Engineer groggily drank a mug of coffee in the kitchen meanwhile, doing his best to politely ignore the loud food shoveling coming from Soldier next to him. He gave Spy a silently relieved nod as he entered the room, glad to have someone finally he could actually converse with.

“Mornin,” he greeted as Spy returned the nod back, already making a beeline straight for the coffee pot.

“Good to see you too,” Spy replied, checking the pot’s contents. “Surprised to see you here, actually. You didn’t have to wake up with us too, you know.”

Engineer shrugged as he took another sip, before Scout’s head poked through the kitchen door for what must have been the third time so far today.

“Yo, are you sure you haven’t seen my –”

“No, I still haven’t seen your lucky baseball card in the plastic sleeve ‘round here, and yes, I did look,” Engineer answered like clockwork amiably. “You seen it anywhere, Spy?”

Spy shrugged with a sigh, before downing a swig of coffee from his freshly poured mug.

“You always keep it in your pocket, yes? Have you checked the laundry room?”

“Wha – of course I checked the laundry room, I looked through ALL the stupid laundry, do I look like a dummy?!”

“…And you remembered, I assume, that we place items found in the pockets in the basket on the second shelf to the right then, yes?”

Scout gave a short pause at that.

“Uh…yeah! Totally! Totally checked those places I’ll – I’ll be right back –”

Scout ran just as quickly out of the room as he had entered it, Engineer giving a low chuckle as he watched him dash.

“Not the brightest crayon in the box, is he?”

“I’ve worked with worse,” Spy shrugged, before blinking as he finally noticed the stack of pancakes on the countertop. “Hm…was that you?”

“Nah, Demo got here first and made uh…a lot.” Engineer moved his chair a little bit to the side at that, as Soldier enthusiastically squeezed maple syrup out of the bottle a little too hard next to him.

Syrup gushed across on the table, but Soldier didn’t seem to mind or care as long as at least some of it landed on his horrifically wrecked plate of pancakes. Engineer scooted his chair even further as Soldier dove back into it, cleanly managing to avoid most of his coworker’s mess.

“Ha…he probably made too many on purpose,” Spy laughed lightly, already walking towards their table with a neatly stacked plate of his own in hand. “He likes to be helpful, but never wants to look like he’s trying to be helpful. If that makes any sense.”

Engineer made some room for him on the least sticky stretch of table as Spy pulled out a chair, sitting down.

“Well, you’ve known him longer than me,” Engineer shrugged now. “Only reason I’m up right now is I was plannin’ on driving to my other work arrangements early…what with all the fuss going on lately and all.”

He wasn’t lying there either; he really did want to get to work early today, although for reasons other than his own personal healthy work ethic. He took another sip of coffee with a quirked smile as Spy gave a snort in response.

The sooner he had time to make use of the teleporter he had hidden in the RED’s base the better…and who knows, maybe there would be something there that would help him slip into the old fighting grounds. Two birds with one stone, if he was lucky. Hell, he knew about the underground tunnels BLU used to operate, thanks to research he did back when he knew he’d be stationed here – who knows what the REDs had going on that’d be similar?

Just then, Medic suddenly burst into the room behind them. The doctor barely acknowledged his teammates as he darted past them with a grunt, grabbing three pancakes from the countertop stack and shoveling them haphazardly into his face. He just as quickly grabbed the entire pot of coffee off the machine before dashing back out of the room, leaving the door swinging, as he left nothing but muffled curses from his still stuffed mouth behind.

“…What’s got his goat?” Engineer asked curiously.

“He had some experiments this whole…excursion of ours is interrupting,” Spy replied calmly. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Honestly, he’s always like this.”

“He could have at least poured his own coffee instead of stealing the entire pot…”

“I WILL MAKE A NEW ONE!”

“Soldier, no –”

It was too late to protest however; Soldier shot up from his seat proudly, still covered in sticky syrupy mess as he made his way towards the coffee machine.

“Hold on just a second, Soldier!” Spy quickly got up after him, stopping the man in his tracks with a hand to his shoulder.

He winced quietly as he tried to ignore the brown sludge now sticking to his unfortunate gloves, Soldier curiously turning around towards him, grin still plastered across his face.

“What’s the problem, private?” Soldier asked, clearly itching to unwittingly spread his mess further.

“You know, we’re going to be leaving in about a half hour,” Spy replied, keeping his voice smooth as best he could. “There will be…higher ranking officials seeing us off. And our ah…previous engineer besides. You do wish to look your best, don’t you?”

Soldier paused, before looking down at himself, then back up at Spy. Clarity regarding his situation finally seemed to sink into him.

“…ALRIGHT MAGGOTS, NEW PLAN! YOU MAKE THE COFFEE, I HIT THE SHOWERS!”

Soldier made a race for the door now, running straight into Sniper who stumbled in surprise as he was pushed aside. Sniper looked down mournfully at his newly ruined clothes, as the hurried stomping of Soldier’s boots faded down the halls.

“Well,” he sighed quietly. “Off to a great start.”

“You and the rest of us,” Spy replied, shaking his head in sympathy.

Spy tossed his own sticky ruined glove in the sink, before replacing it with a fresh one from his jacket pocket. As he pulled out an unused coffee pot from one of the cupboards, Sniper finally made his way inside with a shrug.

Spy passed Sniper a roll of paper towels in the meanwhile as the man muttered his thanks, pausing to wipe himself off as best he could.

“Surprised to see you here this early Truckie,” Sniper murmured, tossing the now sticky towels away into the garbage.

“Yeah, I’ve been getting that a lot today so far,” Engineer chuckled as he went back to his coffee. “Well, except from Soldier. I think the man actually expects me to keep this early morning schedule as a regular thing…”

“Christ,” Sniper muttered now, as he stopped fishing around for a clean plate long enough to fully take in the absolute state of the kitchen table left behind. “Don’t tell me this was all his work?”

“Just got him to go to the showers,” Spy snorted, already placing the newly filled coffee pot into its machine to heat up. “I might have used Everett’s name, of course.”

Sniper gave a low laugh at that, as Engineer looked between them curiously.

“Everett…?” He asked, voice trailing off in question.

Sniper and Spy exchanged glances at Engineer’s question, causing his back to stiffen up at that. Things had been going so well, he had almost forgotten…in many ways to his own team he was still practically speaking, an outsider. It’s not as if he knew it couldn’t be helped; most teams he joined already had a much longer shared history going, before he was ever added into the mix.

“Ah, apologies – that was the name of our previous Engineer,” Spy finally replied, shrugging as he now returned back to his seat, coffee duties finished. “I just thought it was alright to use his actual name, given he’s technically retired…”

“Soldier used to follow him like a puppy,” Sniper added in bluntly.

He took a seat at the same table now himself with his newly procured plate of pancakes. Spy sighed, shaking his head towards him at that. Sniper didn’t seem to notice though, or at least pointedly ignored Spy’s reaction. He reached for the syrup then before hesitating, pulling his hand back. It appeared as if Soldier’s misuse of the stuff had put Sniper off for now.

“…That’s certainly one way of characterizing it,” Spy replied slowly, choosing his words carefully. “He harbors admiration, I think. Everett served in the previous World War, keep in mind – officially I mean. And you know how Soldier – hm. Soldiers in the badlands in general. How they tend to be.”

“Ah,” Engineer replied slowly as well, swilling his mug. “I was too young to get drafted for most of that business myself…although if I’m being honest, it was a pretty close shave. I turned 18 in September of ’45.”

Sniper gave a low whistle at that.

“That’s more than a close shave mate; you must have the luck of a saint.”

Engineer snorted, before downing the last of his coffee.

“Boy, I wish…if I did, maybe Miss Pauling wouldn’t have chewed us out as long as she did after yesterday’s dance with the GRNs.”

At that Sniper gave a raspy laugh of his own, Spy’s eyes crinkling in amusement himself.

“It’s a miracle we got off as scott free as we did,” Sniper finally managed to add, a lighter smile now on his face. “Outside of the talkin’ to, I mean…”

“It’s ‘cause all them pencil pushers in admin know y’all are gonna be out of their hair soon anyway,” Engineer chuckled. “A few respawns on the GRN’s don’t cost ‘em as much as the usual bail money with these sorts of situations anyway. And I’m pretty sure those fellas had to have gotten a chewing out too.”

Engineer grinned at the thought of that…he sure hoped they did.

“Speaking of Pauling,” Spy mused. “I heard she’ll be arriving in the bus we’ll be leaving in today…although I highly doubt she’ll be driving back with us. I assume a different member of administration will be assigned to keep tabs on our lot while we’re away.”

“Probably Miss Howard then,” Sniper shot in over another bite. “She’s the one we see most often ‘round this area anyway.”

“Can’t say I’ve met that member of admin yet…”

#mywrites

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tempustale · 4 years

Text

TempusTale - a Short (compact) story.

In the beginning there was a whisper, an echo, a spark of light... and then Time Began.

Time did his duty and watched over the timelines, keeping an eye on each one, making sure nothing was a miss.

He wandered through the clockwork hallways, which had small pocket watches hanging from high above, so high that the beginning was lost to the dark void above, each one a life, each tick a soul beat.

When the clock would would tick it’s last tock, Time would know It’s was... time, to retrieve the clocks soul, and once acquired, he would place it inside the pocket watch, closing the cover forever, locking it with a cog.

On top of all of this, Time found that it was a hard, long, lonely job, keeping watch over the multiverse. Tho there were some which was not his jurisdiction, For there were other; like the Reaper skeletons in one of the universe, but that still left all the others in his care.

He knew he needed help. So he created two sons, one for the night, to look out for the stars, keeping them in order, ‘stitching’ in new ones with his magic and making sure the moon was in the correct position. His other creation, was for the day, to help keep an eye on the sun and to make sure the seasons were on track.

The older child was called Star and the younger was called Sun, or Sunny as they came to call him, for his name was perfect for him, lighting up a room with his happiness.

Life continued on in his small corner of the multiverse. His bubble-verse grew in size, Giving the ground to Sun, with the 4 seasons, each having its own area. Above it was Stars area, they called it the ‘Sky’, it was littered in stars and a hammock of shining thread hung there, for Star to laze around in.

Above that was the vast dark 'Void' of the clockwork hallways, out of the way but in plain view to see them all, the watches themselves, hanging like stars, the purple pathway created out of Time's magic, so only accessible to time himself. (...Or if you can fly...). Below the ground was Time's Secondary area, his 'office' is you will. This is where he kept his universe screens and notebooks, an area where he stored the history of the multiverse. out the way.

It was a peaceful place and life for the three of them was good, if not only a little bit hard, but only because they were never bored and always busy. Star enjoyed visiting the multiverse and sharing his knowledge with the monsters, feeling upset that they were trapped and could not see them. He gifted them with something that was as close as possible to stars as he could, and stitched the bright lights into the stone above their heads. OuterTale was his favourite, for he could share his love with the residents that lived there, as they too understood the beauty.

Sunny enjoyed visiting them as well, he told them about the changing seasons, but he could not be there as often as Star, for his main work, (and technically Stars as well, but that lazybones didn’t really care) was on the surface, keeping the seasons in track.

It was nice, peaceful and happy...

Until the anomalies started to change the Timelines and Time felt a disturbance across the multiverse.

Timelines started to split, others shifted, restarting multiple times. Doubling or even tripling Times workload. It all gave Father Time a headache as he tried to keep an eye on them all. He started to try and step in, trying to solve this problem, going to such lengths as to even try and forcefully remove the anomalies.

But that was in more extreme cases, most of the time he forced himself to watch, to wait, to see what would come of it. He saw how the flower caused terror of the timelines and then the last child took over, acting differently in many different timelines...

Once again he found himself stepping in, especially when it got ridiculous, Hoping to put a stop to the back and forth tugging of time. He could feel it in his soul, a sharp tug when he witnessed a Restart of the child time underground, causing him a slight dull but sharp pain.

He found it annoying, and was pleased to see when the child got to the surface and stayed there. He sometimes would even visit them and tell them to NOT restart again... that was fun to see, their expression was always amusing.

So they lived like this, watching, observing, protecting; and only interfering when required of them to do so.

The Tempus outcodes, Sun, Star And Father Time.

#tempustale #tempustale sans #tempustale papyrus #tempustale gaster #tempustale Sun #tempustale Sunny #tempustale Star #tempustale Time #tempustale Father Time #my undertale au #undertale #my au #might make a real one oneday #short story #undertale short story #undertale fanfic

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torendheavenandearth · 4 years

Text

2.4

“In the end of all things, there will be light, like a pinprick thou canst not see. But the darkness will be too familiar, and you will wish you never left the Shadow of God’s Wing. Then you will learn the truth of martyrdom, the hell of guilt, the inferno of penitence. Then you shall learn the Eight Cardinal Sin, both a Virtue and a Vice: Regret.”

- Mga Kanta sa Pangatlong Libro (Songs from the Third Book)

▼

Back in Barangay Laurel, a statuesque angel-being looks over the buried body of the crimson anghel. Dante, he knew him as. With a single whiff, he can smell the burning flame of Gahum.

He is in white military rayadillo uniform, black gloves, and high boots. His sabre hangs on one side, lazy. On the other side hangs a firecaster: a firearm that has a mini-spirit house sculpted onto its back, where a diwata of fire is enslaved.

A group of men and women in similar suits, albeit without a firecaster and only bolos for weapons, are bustling around the area. Some of them are acting as a human barricade to stop the townsfolk from interfering with the investigation. Others are going around collecting evidence, picking them up with gloved hands, and putting them in sanitizied pouches, mostly flesh tissue left over as well as spiritual residue from the dead anghel. Some of them are going up to the man with the firecaster.

“Kapitan Briogo, we’ve scoured the area. No other people nor corpses were found.”

Kapitan Briogo’s face is a mask of sculpted stone. It is shaped in the visage of the perfect white man: an aquiline nose, full lips, high cheekbones, eyes made of azure lapis lazuli. His hair is not hair but a twining of wires and clockwork. When he moves his head to look at the reporter, the machinery within him whirrs.

His wings are connected together by interlocking plates and clockwork. Clinging to his elbows are pistons. Rivets moving through imperfect seams along his perfect white-gold carapace betray complex machinations underneath.

“Go around for another round. Make sure no stone is unturned.” The Kapitan’s voice is a hollow monotone filtered through a mesh.

The one that spoke with him--a young tao--salutes once and moves away to relay the order. He turns again to the corpse. Slowly, the little light encapsulated within their little clockwork heart seeps back to heaven, to Pugad Langit.

“Kapitan,” another voice, this time also as mechanical as his. This one has the body of a young mortal boy, although he is blindfolded, and from his wrists and ankles hang broken chains. Despite having the countenance of a young handsome boy with golden hair, the seams running through his arms betray his true form.. “Do you have any conclusions? I can think of one.”

The Kapitan speaks. “There are times when a razor must cut through smoke and find the fire. What does this Gahum smell like, Antonio?”

“Brimstone.”

“This Gahum belongs to someone who is powerful. Someone we have felt before.”

“The winner of the Hagdanan,” says the young man.

“Correct, Antonio. The Winner of the Hagdanan. The Swordbreaker. Ang Nilapastangan.” He stares at the body of Dante, the killed anghel. “We ride, soon. We must.”

“To where?” asks Antonio.

“We follow the road.”

▼

Ang Nilapastangan clambers over the barrier, and so does Angela. Wooden chairs almost hit her due to the barrier basically falling apart. “I told you to go home. It’s not safe here.”

“I feel safer when I’m with you!” exclaims Angela as she pulls herself up and onto the top of the barricade.

Past the barricade is a strange sight.

There is the plaza, usually a site for lively recreation and jubilant mingling, now reduced into a greyed out silence pit. A fine sheet of ash has covered the area, draining the color out of the place.

In the middle of the plaza is that small park area with a statue in the middle. The statue in the middle is supposedly a statue of Yezu, raising his gun and proclaiming victory to the heavens, wearing nothing but a padded coat, pants, high boots and a trench coat.

Corpses pile up by the base of the area. Unmoving. Untwitching. Deader than dead.

“What the fuck?”

Angela’s gaze looks further and past the plaza she sees the town hall and the church. The church’s double doors are destroyed: one is lost and the other hangs by a single hinge. It's too dark for Angela to see what’s inside. Other than that, it's a simple stone church with a few carvings onto the doorway made of stone and with that inverted triangle at the top, where crosses from churches back at Angela’s universe would be.

Although now looking at carvings, they have been defaced, one way or another. Their faces shattered, hands and feet missing.

The town hall doesn’t look any better. Its walls have been dilapitated, covered in the sheet of ash. A dark cloud passes over it. Not literally, but Angela can’t help but feel dread claw from the bottom of her stomach as she looks. As if the town hall is about to open its eyes and stare back at her.

“D-Do you see anything?”

Ang Nilapastangan shakes her head. “No. Her Gahum is in there, somewhere. Deep in there. But I can’t pinpoint where.”

“Shit.”

“Let’s go back to the commune first and have a plan before we do anything rash.”

“Yeah, good idea.”

▼

They get on their horses and trot out. It's not twilight yet. Jaime and the others are nowhere to be found.

“Looks like we’re going back before they do,” says Angela. They’ve done a few stops to pick up some extra supplies--clothes, salt, sacks of rice--so that they have something good to bring back at least.

They gallop across the field going back to the commune and then they slow to a trot as they reach the flanked path. As they trot along, Ang Nilapastangan says, “We should get out of here, soon.”

Angela raises an eyebrow. “Why? What’s the problem?”

“It’s not going to be long until they find us here. And this is the closest barangay to Laurel. We should get going by tomorrow at least.”

“All right,” says Angela. “If you say so.” Now at the bottom of her gut, she wants to go back and find the albularyo so that they can get out as early as possible. Yet, at the same time, she can’t help but feel bad about the people still here, surviving in the commune. Will they ever get out?

“You can help them get rid of the amalanhig, right?” asks Angela.

Ang Nilapastangan shrugs. “If my guess is correct, the anghel or whoever the Trinity makes follow us can take care of whatever problem they have. What we need to do is find the albularyo. Got that?”

Angela nods. They reach and cross the stream.

Babaylan Salinas greets them as they enter into the commune. “Ah, o great and mighty Ang Nilapastangan!”

Angela sees Ang Nilapastangan manage a small smile. She shakes her head and says, “Please, lola, simply Nila is fine. I don’t seek to be treated as a great hero.”

Babaylan Salinas stares at her for a few moments, before smiling herself and nodding. “The others are surely still on their way back. Please, take a moment to rest and recuperate.”

Ang Nilapastangan nods. “Wait, uh, lola, can I ask you a few questions before that? Regarding the barangay.”

The Babaylan dips her head in a slight, reverent nod. “Yes, please. Would you like to have it over coffee and bananacue?”

Angela usually eats bananacue every afternoon, made by her mom. But now, her mother is gone. Well, no, technically it’s she who’s gone, not her mother. But what does that mean for her?

Sitting there, on a nice textile fabric on the floor, eating out of a porcelain plate a few nice bananacues and some really strong coffee, she’s suddenly transported home. Back to where she’s supposed to belong. Sitting on her plastic chair in front of their wooden table, where bananas and apples would be lying. Leftovers from last night’s dinner would be kept in an ice cream tub.

Tears well up in her eyes, bleeding sadness.

“Anak,” says Babaylan Salinas. “What’s wrong? You are…” Angela glimpses up and looks at Babaylan Salinas, and the Babaylan peers into her eyes. Through the veil of her tears, the Babaylan sees something that makes her frown.

“You are lost.”

Angela wipes away her tears. Ang Nilapastangan watches her for a bit, before she coughs and says, “Let her deal with it. Babaylan, I seek answers to a few questions.”

The Babaylan gives Angela one last sad glance, before nodding and turning to Ang Nilapastangan. “Yes, I will try to answer to the best of my ability.”

“The barangay, it has been like that for how long now?”

“Since… Unangaraw.”

“Today is Pangatlongaraw, so that means it’s been that way for 2 days?”

The babaylan nods.

“Very well. Was there anything strange going on before the day it happened?”

The Babaylan shakes her head. “I was a busy one, doing many healings during that time. It was an Unangaraw, so I thought nothing of it. I guess that should’ve been the first evidence that something wasn’t right.”

Ang Nilapastangan nods. “Amalanhig are usually brought about by either the residue of yawa souls… or aswang witchery. You, being the babaylan, would know if there was a yawa in the vicinity, would you not?”

The babaylan nods. “There weren’t any during that time,” she replise. “Nothing out of the ordinary. However, when I consulted with the Diwata, they answered nothing. It was strange, for sure.

“And then, when it happened, it did so quickly. Like a wink lost in the crowd. That night, most of the barangay had been turned into amalanhig. Mostly those that lived in solitary homes were able to get out in time.”

“So you are implying that it was indeed the work of an asuwang?”

The babaylan nods, without hesitation. “We barricaded the plaza because we think that’s where the asuwang might be, but we’re not so sure.”

“A simple barricade will not stop an asuwang,” says Ang Nilapastangan.

“I know. The barricade had the secondary purpose of keeping in the corpses.”

“Then we should do something. Tonight, I will try to get in and see if there is asuwang within the vicinity. The earlier the better,” says Ang Nilapastangan. “If we manage to end the asuwang, the amalanhig menace will be gone as well.”

“But… that would mean--”

“The means to bring a soul back to life is gone with the Karanduun of old,” says Ang Nilapastangan, solemn.

There’s a choking silence that follows. Darkness glows. Candlelight flickers. Angela wipes away the last of her unfounded tears, eyes wide, still unknowing why she’s crying.

“It might be the albularyo,” mutters Ang Nilapastangan.

Babaylan Salinas nods. “She was certainly acting strange before the happening, but I cannot in good conscience think she has done… that.”

“You’re right. There’s nothing in it for Gumamela. Either she’s had something to do with it, or she’s in there, somewhere, doing something.”

“What do you plan to do?” asks Babaylan Salinas.

Ang Nilapastangan sighs. “I’m going to face whatever is in there. Tonight. If I don’t find the albularyo, taking care of what has caused the amalanhig menace will definitely be a help. I need to know if Gumamela has been taken by whatever is in there or if she’s still alive.”

Angela’s eyes widen. She rubs away her tears. “Then I’m--”

Adlay’s voice cut through Angela’s protests: “Jaime! Jaime is missing!”

Ang Nilapastangan is already on her feet, rushing forward and out of the door. The babaylan is raising her hand to stop her, but Ang Nilapastangan is unimpeded. Angela blinks, wondering why she is so quick to respond to that news. Is Jaime somewhat important to her? Or is it something else?

She leaps from the door and over to Adlay in a single bound. “What? What happened to Jaime?”

“O, O great Ang Nilapastangan!” says Adlay, shuddering. “Jaime has been taken captive by the great devourer!”

“What? Take it slow. What happened?” Against the bonfire light, Ang Nilapastangan’s face is a shadowy mask.

“It-It was like a dark shadow!” shouts out the tikbalang, Damian, getting off of his horse. Angela sees this, and stifles a chuckle at the absurdity.

“It plucked Jaime out from the darkness when he got too close to the barricade!”

“Shit. I know what it’s trying to do,” says Ang Nilapastangan. She runs over to Stella, her horse, and is off, galloping back presumably into the barangay. She doesn’t stop. It’s as if her spirit is guiding her.

Angela watches her ride off, and then she’s running toward her own horse as well.

“Hoy, where do you think you’re going?” asks Adlay.

“Going after her.”

Damian grabs her by her bicep. “I’m sorry, girl, but you will not be rushing headfirst into danger. We have to protect our own.”

Our own? Angela stops. She turns and looks up at Damian. “I can’t leave Ang Nilapastangan alone.”

“I know,” says Damian, patting her head. “But she can handle that better alone than with you. Think of it: she’d rather not have you there to protect. She wouldn’t want something bad to happen to you. I’m sure of it.” There’s a pained wistfulness in Damian’s voice. It breaks Angela.

Realization creeps up to Angela, and she releases her tension. “What if she dies?”

Adlay, from behind them, shouts out: “Hah! Her? Die? Ang Nilapastangan faced GOD and lived! We don’t have to worry about her!”

Angela releases her fists. She balled them up while trying to get to Ang Nilapastangan. “You’re right.” Her shoulders drop.

“Ang Nilapastangan will be fine. She is sung. She will be known. She will save Jaime.”

“Babaylan Salinas, why did you not simply call upon help from other barangay? Or from the Kingdom? Ang Nilapastangan told me there was a kingdom that ruled over you.”

Damian turns around and shakes his head. Adlay sighs and scratches his head.

The Babaylan gingerly picks her way down to the ground. She walks over to the bonfire and lets out a sigh. The wind rustles her bramble hair. “Iha, we have tried,” says Babaylan Salinas. “We have tried. But do you think… do you think the Kingdom listens?”

Angela swallows.

“Us being off dead is better for them. They can build more estates upon the graves of our people. We went to Biringan, the capital of the Kingdom, a long time ago. We tried fighting for higher wages, for better treatment, for we were being killed because we are trying to protect the farmlands that are ours.

“But no. They did not listen. They will never listen. The Kingdom does not care for us. None will care for us but each other.”

Angela breathes. She lowers her hands. She realizes she’s raised them. “I’m sorry. Has it always been this way?”

The bark-skinned spirit medium simply nods.

Damian stares at the path that Ang Nilapastangan has left behind. He chuckles. “You can’t really stop someone that is resigned to death, huh?”

Return to Table of Contents

#to rend heaven and earth #karanduun #webnovel #2.4 #outbreak

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brownstonearmy · 4 years

Text

2020-05-01: “Legal” Litter Liberation

July 24 (Friday morning)

On Thursday evening, our team of heroes goes to bed in their respective houses. But the next morning sees each party member wake up in an unfamiliar location. Everyone is in a separate guest room filled with fancy furnishings. Though there are silk curtains on the walls, there are no windows.

Each room is furnished identically, with a comfortable canopy bed, a wardrobe filled with fine unisex robes in a variety of sizes, a dresser containing toiletries, a desk with chair, and an exquisitely crafted chamber pot underneath the bed. No one has any possessions except for what they slept in or kept under their pillow.

Lucky wakes up wearing one of Hilaria's shirts, with no spell focus or material components to speak of. Q, going by Fuego this morning, wears a sheer tunic atop some less-sheer underclothes, suspecting an excess of drink as the reason for waking up in a strange bed for the umpteenth time. Spleenifer's been sleeping in a burlap robe, and managed to show up with her holy symbol and holy book of tithes that she keeps under her pillow for reasons that are known only to her and Lathander. No one discusses what Norm was or wasn't wearing; it's probably for the best. Everyone loots their respective chambers to find something to wear, while Spleenifer goes one chamber looting further and inspects the chamber pot for potential tithes. Sadly, the chamber pots are all spotless.

The scent of breakfast cooking wafts through the air as the party emerges from their quarters. Everyone ambles down the tower steps until they find a woman waiting for them at the tower's base. The human woman introduces herself as Storm Elers, seneschal for the master's manor. Master Yula is quite eccentric, she explains, and indicates that he will soon join them at breakfast to discuss some business matters of great personal urgency. They walk through the house to the dining room, passing a library that contains still-beating hearts adorning the walls, a teleportation circle etched into the floor of another room, and a room whose floor is covered in a dozen fist-sized stone balls (one of which is moving erratically of its own volition).

Everyone takes a seat at the long table and attempts to make sense of the bewildering array of silverware in front of them. A breakfast feast (no, "breakfeast" is the one portmanteau we don't use in this house) of all types of cuisine is soon delivered to the table. Master Yula appears at the end of the table with wild, unblinking eyes. His disconcerting gaze watches everyone with great interest as they try to figure out which of the 30 forks to use for their meals. Much to Yula's chagrin, only Spleenifer grabs the wrong utensil. But Spleenifer is a woman of utility who nevertheless makes things work (even if it is with the squid de-veining spoon).

As everyone begins eating, Yula explains the situation. He has need of adventurers with a particular skill set that overlaps with sanitation. He asks them if they would assist him in building a litter box. The party is understandably wary of this offer, as litterbox construction does not usually require teleportation and a mission briefing. As a show of "good will" he offers the party an advance payment of 100 gold pieces to each character. The coins are contained in four velvet pouches that feel warm to the touch. Something stinks to Spleenifer, but it's not the coins.

Inside the bag are 100GP as promised, but also a large brass coin that Yula describes as a Coin of Obligation. Yula's hard-sell has just resulted in the characters accidentally accepting an infernal contract. But now that the contract has been sealed, Yula gleefully explains what must be done. The party is now bound by an agreement where they are independent contractors to Yula, and the only way to fulfill the contract is to construct a more impressive and expensive litterbox that Yula currently has. Of course, Yula is full of suggestions on how to accomplish this contract.

The most legal and time-consuming way to accomplish the task is to toil in the mines with the slaves in hopes of finding enough sand, gold, and gems to construct the litterbox. But in the name of good fun, Yula suggests a more "straightforward" method: rob the vault where Yula keeps many of his rare magic items and prevent the bank staff from reacquiring the items. The terms of Yula's banking agreement stipulate that he must be reimbursed in gold for the value of the items he lost. Yula gets to keep his magic items and more than enough gold for a new litterbox. It's a winning proposition all around (for everyone except the party members). Another option is just to walk out the front door of the mansion and suffocate in the void that surrounds Yula's mansion in this demiplane.

Spleenifer is tired of this fiendish presentation and brandishes her holy symbol in an attempt to make him flee. Yula dismissives Spleenifer's attempt and proceeds to monologue about infernal superiority, how squishy mortal bodies are, and related demeaning phrases. You know, standard fiendish monologue stuff. Spleenifer doesn't admit defeat, but she does sit back down at the table to plot about how to get out of this unfortunate contract.

During Yula's lengthy speech, Lucky and Norm start stealing silverware from the table. There's like, at least 50GP worth of cutlery at each place; no one's gonna miss a few dozen forks and knives, right? Norm mostly goes for the stabby utensils, but Lucky opts for a quantity-driven approach. She elevates the petty theft to an art form, turning Hilaria's shirt into a giant cutlery purse. Fuego gets in on the action, too, and starts stuffing their cutlery into the bedazzled robe they had chosen to wear to breakfast. Who knew sequins could be so loud?

Yula finishes his speech and escorts the party to view the corpse of his former litterbox. The litterbox itself is a 30-foot square with sides that are encrusted with gold and gems. It's like an ostentatious Japanese rock garden you can poop in. Unfortunately, part of the litterbox got chipped by a trowel during a routine cleaning. You can't even see the chip, but any imperfection means the litterbox is ruined and needs to be replaced. The current litterbox is probably valued at 8,000GP, but a suitable replacement would need to cost at least 30,000GP. Yula excuses himself and allows the party to explore his house until everyone makes a decision as which course of action they will take regarding their contracts.

After Yula leaves, the party is left with more questions than answers. How are they supposed to get materials? Can Yula be killed? Is he just a really big cat? If Anaxilas autographs the box, how much will the autograph artificially increase the value of the litterbox? Can they feasibly teleport back home and coerce Anaxilas to do the autograph? Time to explore the house and get some answers!

Talking to Storm is probably a good first step, but Lucky wants to gather some spell components just in case someone needs a good dose of magicking. She makes a detour through the kitchen to grab some honey. Gum arabic comes from a makeup kit in the dresser of her guest chamber in the tower, and an eyelash is provided by Fuego. With the material components secured, the party finds storm in her office drinking some stolen wine straight from the bottle.

"How was your visit with Yula today? We hope it was as magnificent as you had expected," she says unenthusiastically. Fuego realizes that Storm is just reflexively reciting a script to avoid a shock from her Coin of Obligation. Storm's been here for the past few years and has spent so much time drinking that she doesn't really remember what her original agreement was, but she knows that if she ever acts against her agreement she risks a potentially deadly shock. Storm's memory of the vault is less hazy, though. She mentions that the vault has to have two keys to open, one that belongs to Yula, and another that belongs to the bank president. There's a room that requires following a certain line on the floor to avoid setting off an alarm. The vault they will probably need to rob is Vault 4, and the whole bank is patrolled by guards. Some of the guards are living, but others are nimble clockwork contraptions.

With the information gathered from Storm, Lucky gets an idea. She discusses with the party the mundane equipment that they will need if they are to pull off this heist. Lucky writes this down in a list, and borrows Fuego's coin pouch, splits the seam and stashes her Coin of Obligation in the lining before dashing off to find Yula. She tries to corner Yula into unintentionally making another agreement, this time to nullify their existing agreement. Yula condescendingly concedes that Lucky's approach has merit and nullifies her Coin of Obligation.

Yula makes a big show about it, by summoning the entire household staff and making an announcement that Lucky's contract is hereby nullified. But the rest of the party is still bound by the original agreement. To add insult to injury, Yula amends the agreement by announcing that he is formally prohibiting the future instances of nullification with Lucky's method. That girl's got moxie, which is why she alone could wiggle out of the contract. But even though she's technically free, Yula is under no obligation to provide her with the means to go home, and thus it looks like everyone's best shot at freedom is still the bank heist.

Fuego performs some additional reconnaissance in Yula's litterbox room. What does Yula's poop look like? Presumably it looks like regular humanoid poop, but Fuego leaves a retaliatory present of their own in the litterbox. Fuego makes sure to cover it up, though, because they are a civilized rage-pooper.

Spleenifer comes in a few moments later to collect a tithe of opportunity, but she is not alone in the room this time. As Yula's infernal leavings sizzle in the pages of the holy book, a gnome named Bostvick Humplebumple is taking measurements of the quality of the sand. He's been "hired" in the same way the rest of the party is, though his task is finding sources of gypsum and volcanic sand to fill the litterbox. He also mentions that Yula seems to be having problems with his knees when using the litterbox, and if the party ever comes across a suitably ostentatious chair to help Yula conduct his box business, he might be more inclined to be more generous with his rewards. Bostvick knows where a good source of volcanic sand is, but you have to teleport to get there. He'd be happy to assist in getting there, especially if it helps him get released. Before he leaves, Bostvick warns Spleenifer that it's a risky proposition to come straight back to the mansion after the heist, because it could end badly for everyone involved if the bank people come looking here.

After the meeting with Bostvick, the party does some more reconnaissance with the staff to find out as much as they can about the structure of the bank building. They also come up with a secret backup plan, but we'll have to wait until later to find out what the plan is. Lucky informs Yula that they will attempt to ship themselves to the vault in a big box, and that they are nearly ready to go.

Once the box is prepared, the party seals themselves inside and awaits delivery to the vault. During the journey, Lucky does some fancy magic and casts Seeming to disguise Fuego as Yula, Spleenifer as Storm the seneschal, while Lucky and Norm will take on the disguise of two random servants. It's a bumpy journey down, but the party comes to a stop sometime later nestled in the vast vaults in the belly of the Goldleaf Wealth Services bank. There's a pile of 4,000 platinum coins on one side of the vault, and a trunk containing a meticulously cataloged collection of powerful items.

The adventure concludes for the evening as the party gazes upon the wealth of new tools they'll have at their disposal for the heist that's about to unfold. Stay tuned next time for more!

#adventure log #shits and giggles #Dungeons and Dragons #fishdavidson #heist #contract #coin #devil #mansion

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shipwreckseemssweet · 5 years

Text

Figure skating: GP series 2018 Favourites

For a post-Olympic season, I have to say many figure skaters are looking really sharp. Not only is Yuzuru wildin'- new ground is being broken in Ladies'. In all disciplines, new and old rivals are stepping up to become contenders in the new quadrennial. It's great to see „older“ skaters not throwing in the towel, but still forging forward. (Vanessa and Morgan just won their first GPF. Dai is back at 32 – he burnt his suits and bleached his hair). We're so privileged to still have Yuzuru around; despite his injury he's the class of the field. Underlying this push for excellence is the revamped IJS scoring. Emphasizes quality over quantity, the system now aims to widen the creative aspects of FS, sanction errors more harshly and reward more complete skaters (at least in theory *shade*).

Below is my proudly biased list of some standout programs/performances from this season’s first half, mainly GP events. Also, ISU rights holders are looking to delete all YT FS fan channels and kill the sport once and for all. Fingers crossed the links are still working.

ICE DANCE (For the record: I miss GOATs Virtue/Moire tremendously.)

1. Tango Romantica Rhythm Dance

Victoria Sinitsina / Nikita Katsalapov „Verano Porteño“ by Astor Piazzolla

Perhaps the best RD this season. Beautiful composition and choreography: suits the skater's satiny skating skills and the sharp, sensual movements I expect from a tango.

Charlene Guignard/Marco Fabbri „Miedo a la Liberdad“ by Tanghetto

Their technique is like clockwork, smooth and precise; impressive body lines. A true classy tango. With an extra infusion of emotion, their GPF performance really shone. In fact, I could easily make a case for them winning the event outright. :-/

Piper Gilles / Paul Poirier „Angelica's Tango“ by Piernicola Di Muro

I just love how different, creative and straightforward these two are. Does Paul grow his mustache for the RD only to shave it off for the Free? :)

Special mention: Alex Stepanova / Ivan Bukin „Malagueña“ by Blast and “Carmen“ by Edith Piaf

Very modern and sizzling. (Sasha's dress is art.) The dance gives off a dramatic Paso Doble feel which then transitions into a Tango. This version still had their signature sit twizzles in it. *cries*

Shiyue Wang / Xinyu Liu „Pirates of the Caribbean“ OST by Hans Zimmer

Unorthodox, but fun and original. Their lifts are stunningly acrobatic. Great edges, too. (This is from Autumn Classic where they hit almost all pattern levels.)

2. Free Dance

Piper Gilles / Paul Poirier „Starry Starry Night“ original composition by Govardo

One of their best Dances. A story of the pain and struggle of Vincent Van Gogh and the starry night he famously drew. Poignant and full of beautiful, creative details.

Alex Stepanova / Ivan Bukin „Am I the One“ by Beth Hart

Hands down their best program. I love how they wear this rock and modern look. Even if they keep losing levels, their technical improvements finally feel merged with better projection and connection between them. Every second of it is exciting, sexy and hot.

Lilah Fear / Lewis Gibson „Bad Girls“ and „On the Radio“ by Donna Summer

Welcome to the disco! An unexpected favorite from the Brits. Their lifts pop out with the music and the sliding choreography is badass. (How refreshing to have a Gadbois team without MFL!)

Special mention: Avonley Nguyen / Vadim Kolesnik „Demons“ by Imagine Dragons & „Experience“ by Einaudi

A shout-out to this wonderful Junior pair. I'm blown away by their musicality and unapologetic emotional performances. Moreover, they already have superb skating skills and speed. The future of ID looks good.

SINGLES (What is consistent judging?)

3. Ladies Short Program

Satoko Miyahara “Song for the Little Sparrow“ by Abel Korneziowski

When you look up „elegance“, „musicality“ or „sophistication“ in the dictionary, you find there Satoko. Best skating skills and interpretation of the whole field, in the service of Edith Piaf.

Rika Kihira “Claire de Lune“ by Debussy

We waited a long time for her to skate it clean, but when she finally did, it was magical. The choreo is not exactly pioneering, but Rika's lightness and elegance give it a youthful, ethereal beauty that lights up the ice. Love how unexpected her versatility is. The effortless triple Axel is the cherry on top.

Alyona Kosternaya „Departure“ by Max Richter

The Superior Junior Lady. Alyona has the ability to interpret the music with her skating, body and eyes. A masterclass in how to hold positions and use arms. I don't like her programs this year. Still, she remains enchanting to watch.

Special mention: Yuna Shiraiwa „All Aboard“ by Club des Belugas

Quirky, dynamic and full of interesting details.

4. Ladies Free Skate

Kaori Sakamoto „The Piano“ OST by Michael Nyman

I love how it sneaks up on you. Kaori struck gold when she teamed up with young choreographer Benoit. He understands her gifts very well: this program gently accentuates her feather-light jumps and flow. The story follows a mute woman in a remote beach town trying to get back her piano, losing a finger along the way (eeks) and nearly drowning before resurfacing: it suits Kaori's quirky personality.

Satoko Miyahara “Invierno Porteño“ by Astor Piazzolla

Satoko and Tango are a dream team. She doesn't just skate to the music, she lives with it. It's nice to see she attempting to retool her jumping technique, which is no small feat.

Rika Kihira „Beautiful Storm“ by Jennifer Thomas

This disruptive masterpiece is hopefully just a first breath of what is to come from Rika. Her unique bland of dramatic and soft movements conveys a dramatic and awesome storm. It's as if the electrons are passing from the sky through her body in a beautiful interpretation. Her last jump is against silence. And then the thunder strikes... She is already such a well-rounded and charismatic skate. :)

5. Yuzuru Hanyu Short Program „Otoñal“ by Raul Di Blasio

Unfortunately I haven't been watching Men much, except for Yuzuru. I also ”discovered” Kevin Aymoz, a very creative and talented French skater, along the way.

In his short, Yuzu opted for the theme of Autumn as a nostalgic period for reflection and that shows throughout the performance, from the technical elements (his 4S is a tribute to Javi *tears up*) to the details in the choreo, to how he picks up every note. Everything is so genuine and purposeful.

Special mention: Deniss Vasiljevs SP „Papa Was a Rollin' Stone“ by Norman Whitfield

Those yellow pants are quite a choice. ;)

#figure skating #yuzuru hanyu #rika kihira #ice dance

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swyllh · 6 years

Text

[wonwoo] my mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun

title: my mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun [from sonnet 130]

pairing: wonwoo x reader

word count: 3081

genre: fluff. just. fluff.

"leav me alone," you curse, catching a high-five from vernon. it's a good pun. you've been waiting to use it since thinking it up last sunday night when you were bitching with seungkwan.

you: 192, wonwoo: 192. boom.

wonwoo rolls his eyes. "one measly poet doesn't diminish the value of page poetry."

you scoff, "yeah it just olib-obil- fucking- oblierated your argument on publishers being gatekeepers of page poetry."

"obliterated," wonwoo corrects scathingly. that despicable raccoon. "at least it's better than not having a gateway at all."

"no, because slam is fundamentally different," you say between gritted teeth.

wonwoo starts packing his bag. "so it's not poetry, you admit?"

god. you raise your heads to the high heavens, and are met with the questionable, green remnants of that-incident-with-jeonghan-and-seokmin on the ceiling. the clatter of the ceiling fan offers no enlightenment. why do idiots roam freely among us, you ask. brr, brr, cries the fan.

wonwoo: 193, you: 192.

"no!" you exclaim.

wonwoo raises an eyebrow, shifting his bag strap on his bony shoulder. one day he'll fall onto his own shoulder and puncture his huge, inflated ego. one day. "no, it's not poetry?"

"i am not conceding," you snap back.

"so there is something to concede."

wonwoo: 194, you: 192.

you chase after him angrily. damn long legs. he'd have been executed in some ancient civilisation for being so freakishly tall. freaking slender man.

"poems weren't written down at first - that's an eurocentric notion that dismisses other groups of people who didn't have written language," you pause to catch for breath.

as you amble past jeonghan, he reaches out and ruffles your head without so much as a look in your direction; your rowdy garnish arguments are a common occurrence in the east wing now. at precisely 10:14am the sounds of heavy sarcasm and undiluted exasperation ring throughout the hallway like clockwork.

"poetry came from songs, odes," you wave your hand around to gesture other unnamed synonyms. "slam poetry represents a revolution - not just because it introduces newer concerns and techniques of rhyme and rhythm, but because it is a tribute to older times."

wonwoo holds up a hand. you shove it away. "don't interrupt me."

he quirks an eyebrow. you find you have nothing else to add. "okay, interrupt me."

"as poetic as your argument sounds," he says, slowing down as you near the corner before you part, "you do realise that nobody's consciously paying tribute to the ancient origins of poetry and hymns, right?"

you roll your eyes. "even if they don't have the intent, so what?"

"so what, indeed," wonwoo echoes softly. there's got to be menace lurking somewhere in his words.

you puff your chest out, ready to defend slam poetry's honour to the very last. wonwoo stares at you. and then his watch. and then back at you again.

"w-what?" you say, not stuttering. "well, if they don't have the intent then doesn't it also show like, a return to some common ground? of humanity or something."

"you mean to say that slam poetry is innate?" wonwoo deadpans. "like how newborn babies come out -"

you roll your eyes. "no! i mean the rhythm. the need to vocalise."

wonwoo crosses his arms. "interruption deduction."

wonwoo: 194, you: 191.

"hey! you interrupted me earlier!" you bite back.

"technically you had nothing left to say." and then, "what about babies born deaf or dumb?"

you hate how slimey his reasoning is. there's got to be some loophole. this guy's got the soul of a lawyer but the major of an english lit. what the heck.

you huff, squaring your shoulders. "that's because you interrupted my train of thought! and about disabled babies -"

"you need to think faster," he says quickly. "what was it about disabled babies?"

... wonwoo: 195, you: 191.

you settle for crossing your arms, leaning against the wall of the intersection. "well, i concede the point about disabled babies, but only because the nuance is controversial and cannot be covered in a fast-paced environment as such."

as you finish your sentence, the bell rings. wonwoo eyes you cautiously. the rush of students stampeding off to their next class breezes past the both of you, cocooning you in a whirl of noises and varying degrees of body odour or thickly-layered deodorant.

wonwoo leans in, and repeats a set of numbers to you.

"...380," you echo back.

he nods, and turns to join the stream of migrating salmon towards their final destination. advanced calculus. what a nerd. you can't believe you actually know someone who takes that willingly in the arts stream.

"...380," you repeat, walking off to your own class.

"so you're telling me," kimmy says, placing a hand in front of you.

"interruption deduction," you blurt out.

kimmy retracts her hand warily like you're a particularly grotesque descendant of some arachnid monstrosity. "you have jargons. ugh."

"kinky," chan says, tapping at his game.

kimmy shoves him out of the seat. chan winces, though his fingers never leave the screen.

"freaking hell, i almost died!"

kimmy snaps her fingers at you again. "you mean to say he gave you his number after that weird mating ritual you guys went through."

you hold up a finger. "first, yes, but only to continue the argument, and secondly, it's not a mating ritual. he's wrong about-"

"but it is weird," kimmy says. "you talk to the guy you claim to hate-"

"-he's misguided and-"

"-you claim to hate," kimmy emphasises, slamming your finger down, "every. single. lit class, and it's not even for class participation."

"that's a good idea," chan says, thumbs pummelling down on his phone. "two birds with one stone."

kimmy grabs your hands, beseeching. "please just use your head and think."

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_seventeen+right+here_11294

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_like+ocean+waves_11653

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_twenty+four+seven_12472

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_boom+boom_18273

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_gibun+gibun+gibun_17349

wonwoo [2024]: jesus christ.

wonwoo [2045]: alright, some of them are good.

you [2046]: see??????

wonwoo [2046]: always exceptions to the rule.

you [2046]: u g h

you [2046]: are you serious

wonwoo [2047]: i did say some of them were good.

you [2047]: h a

wonwoo [2047]: i never said there weren't good ones.

wonwoo [2047]: i just said that page poetry is generally of higher quality.

you [2048]: by what standards?

wonwoo [2048]: you haven't been able to prove the longevity of any particular slam poem.

wonwoo [2048]: wouldn't you say that's the problem?

wonwoo [2048]: its circulation isn't tied to any specific culture or reinforced thereafter.

wonwoo [2049]: therefore: oral tradition doesn't apply here.

you [2050]: ..........

you [2050]: why longevity? why does it need to be tied to any culture? why rate slam according to the criteria of page poetry?

wonwoo [2050]: that's because you haven't set a criteria.

wonwoo [2051]: boom.

you [2051]: christ.

you [2051]: brb im going to work on history essay

you [2053]: this is n o t a cowardly retreat!!!!!!!!!!

wonwoo [2053]: you said it

you [2054]: i will be back!!!!!!!!!!

when you join her at lunch, kimmy gives you an odd look. you respond by pretending to change tables. she holds you down.

"where's wonwoo?" she says.

you roll your eyes. "join the club."

"no, seriously," she says, angling her head to glance behind you. "where is he?"

"how would i know?" you throw your hands up in the air, narrowly endangering your cutlery. "first vernon, then jeonghan, then professor lee, then this weird guy from whatever abstract math, then-"

kimmy pulls away. "from math?"

you fling your hands out at her, smiling widely at her scrunched up nose. "don't worry. i made sure to sanitise myself after contact."

kimmy groans. "not the point."

"then?" you wag an eyebrow. "you were spooked when he started joining our table."

"yeah," kimmy deadpans, picking up her chopsticks and pointing them at you. a dribble of soy sauce falls from it. "but since then he's been coming over every day without fail to bicker with you and so i got used to it."

you spread your arms out, appreciating the space and the rare stab of freedom and uncontested territory. "and now we are delivered from all our burdens."

kimmy pokes around at her noodles. "so you don't know where he is."

"lady!" you exclaim, jabbing your fork at her fishball. "no! i'm not a wonwoo-detector!"

she pauses, ignoring your heist. "you have his number."

"yeah?"

kimmy gives you a meaningful look. "are you going to check if he's sick?"

"why?"

you've done it. kimmy's finally reached maximum-incredulity. for a moment you feel the urge to reach over your head to see if you've sprouted extra limbs or a third eye. with the way she's gawking at you, you think you might have regressed into a blobfish.

she presses a hand to her temples. sighs, and then steadies herself. "okay. at the very, very least, aren't you going to make sure he doesn't miss anything in class."

you think about it. "he's got other friends."

kimmy presses her fingers together like a steeple over her nose. BOI. "you are his friend."

"i wouldn't say friend," you say, shuddering at the word, even as you tug your phone out. "it's more, like-?"

you choke out a questionable, questioning sound. kimmy has a glimmer of hope in her eyes before sighing it away again.

you [1236]: hey you sick?

wonwoo [1236]: yeah, a bit.

"yeah, he's sick," you report.

kimmy chews on her noodles. "tell him about class?"

you [1238]: so for lit today we went through freudian vs feminism, as well as why slam is better than page, and the homework is reading chapters 11-13

wonwoo [1238]: nice try.

you [1239]: you're not that sick then

wonwoo [1239]: i haven't moved an inch since freefalling onto my bed at 7 last night.

you [1240]: müde

wonwoo [1241]: is that german?

you [1241]: pun.

wonwoo [1242]: if you have to explain it it's not that good.

you [1242]: precautionary measures for a foolproof pun.

wonwoo [1243]: hey i'm sick remember

you [1243]: whats new

"it's cute and all," kimmy interrupts, drawing your attention back up to her, "to see you smile like a fool, but we got five more minutes and your food isn't gonna eat itself."

you frown, hard. "not smiling like a fool."

kimmy waves you away. "just eat."

when she rises to put away her tray, you turn back to your phone.

wonwoo [1244]: mean :(

wonwoo [1245]: ?

you [1247]: gtg class

wonwoo [1247]: oh okay bye

you [1247]: ttyl

wonwoo [1250]: thanks, btw.

you[1251]: np

mingyu, from his other class, saddles you with a stack of math notes. holding them in your arms feels like an allergic reaction. you follow his haphazard instructions to get to wonwoo's room. the security guard doesn't even blink when you walk into the building. so you do.

the dorms are unexpectedly clean. doors are plain and apparently functional, the hallway is well lit, and noise isn't much of a concern. then again, it is a school day.

you reach wonwoo's room. knock twice. the door opens to show a young lady with a dark red lip.

"is this wonwoo's room?"

she nods. "yeah, he's sleeping now."

you notice the way she's got on a too-large shirt. wonwoo's worn that in one of your lit classes. you hand her the stack of notes.

"these are from his math class."

she takes them. "ah, thank you! is there anything you want me to tell him when he wakes up?"

"no," you say.

the door closes on you. you look down and see a pair of black strappy heels next to plain sneakers.

wonwoo [2143]: did you come over?

you [2146]: yeah

wonwoo [2146]: thanks, for the notes.

you [2148]: np

the reality of things don't sink in until you're stuck in a library cubicle, knees barely brushing against wonwoo's (that giant) and huddling over the table to doodle little devils on his side of the paper. you glance up, head almost bumping into wonwoo's, and then zip back down to jot another idea.

come to college, they said. it would be intellectually stimulating, they said.

you can't believe you're prepping for a presentation by going through all of your arguments for and against slam poetry with him. it's all chan's fault, you think bitterly, watch as he separates argument from argument with careful underlines. suggesting to actually make this class participation.

talk about exploitation. something doesn't sit right with you.

"so when we debate," wonwoo whispers, focused and oblivious. "you'll bring up this point in rebuttal to this. see how that works?"

you hum. "yeah."

"right. then for closing-"

you crash your head into the table with an obnoxiously loud slam. wonwoo flinches in his seat. the librarian narrows her beady eyes on the both of you.

"i think we'll get an a for this," you mutter.

wonwoo looks at you, caps his pen, and leans back in his seat.

the debate goes well. everything happens as anticipated. you're able to uphold the integrity of academic investigation. whatever that means. wonwoo doesn't interrupt you. the nuances of your arguments are spared sufficient time before their expiration.

(he looks bored.)

but that all goes to hell when you realise the class gets to vote. you turn on wonwoo: did you know this?

he averts his eyes. a sure sign of guilt.

something gnaws inside of you, worse than that time when you found kimmy's concoction of green onions, dr pepper and baking soda. it was an infusion alright. but the smell left you retching for days on end.

the worst thing is, you don't know why you feel this way now.

you don't know who won. everything happened in a blur and now you're stomping out of the hallway, tugging the zip of your bag close. wonwoo catches up. you walk faster.

"well, congrats," he says.

"take your congratulations and shove it up your ass," you bite back.

wonwoo holds his hands up. "what's wrong?"

you swivel to a stop, fixing him with a shrivelling glare. "leave me alone."

wonwoo backs off. you turn the corner and run for class.

wonwoo [1225]: hey are you alright? wonwoo [1227]: what's wrong? wonwoo [1232]: is it something i did? wonwoo [1240]: ?? wonwoo [1255]: i'm sorry? - "you look like shit," is the first thing kimmy says to you. "is it wonwoo?"

you stab at her fishball. "no."

she rolls her eyes. "i didn't hear anything when i was walking over from the north wing, so something's up."

"nothing's up."

kimmy shakes her head, placing his chopsticks down. "when you come running to my class crying, i think something's up."

you scowl at her. she winks back. and then rearranges her face to something more sombre.

"did you guys..." she leans in. "break up?"

you swat at her. "what?"

chan slides into the seat next to her. "i've been summoned by the allusions to love."

kimmy shoves him. "just because you play love live doesn't mean shit."

to you, she says, "look. you have his number-"

"i have your number too."

she pinches your lips together. "shut up. you walk each other to the next class faithfully without fail-"

you swat her hand away. "that's because he's being a prick-"

"you have inside jokes that nobody else gets."

"that's the point of inside jokes."

kimmy squeezes your cheeks together this time. god, those hand grips are working. "when he's gone, people ask you where he is. after that debate, you came to me crying. and the best part is you let him steal your fries."

she releases her hold on you, allowing you the chance to breathe. and then immediately choke.

kimmy, satisfied, returns to eating.

"oh my god," you say, eyes wide. "oh."

"yeah," kimmy echoes, "oh."

the realisation does you no favours. "...he's off-limits. he's got a girlfriend."

chan finally detaches from his game. the whimsical sounds of squeaky little gems fade away as

he lets his character die. "what?"

"there was a girl in his room," you say.

kimmy rounds up on chan. "you never said anything."

"i didn't know!" chan protests, "i thought-"

he falls silent. you stuff your face with fries.

the rest of the week is horrible. you can't help but notice how wonwoo pulls out his phone, sighs, and replaces it in his pocket before shooting you looks. it sucks, really, to be so aware and want to not be.

before you can pack up and leave, though, wonwoo strides over with his freakishly long legs. "saturday night."

you look at the pamphlet he's offering you. slam night.

"please come," he says, exhaling slowly. "at least - consider it."

he leaves it in your hands, and bolts out of class.

you hate that you're considering it. you hate that you're already here. you hate that you're still hoping. there's no reading between the lines because everything is so blurred and reckless and there is no way out of this. so here you are, sitting at the side, going to this slam because you've gone to all the other slams anyway.

"hey, you're wonwoo's friend," a girl says.

you look up. it's the girl with the red lip. "yeah."

she smiles, sitting down gracefully next to you. "that idiot said he'd be slamming."

maybe you should have gone home. out of all you'd expected from this evening, you didn't think sitting with your crush's girlfriend is one of them.

"maybe he's trying to impress someone," she continues, winking at you. "my brother can be so thick."

before you can ask her what she means, the emcee starts to welcome everyone to the event. you sit patiently, trying not to bounce your knee when the epitome of grace is right beside you. the first few acts pass by without much enthusiasm. you shuffle in your seat.

and then wonwoo comes up. there's polite applause as he scans the darkened crowd. he pauses in your direction, and smiles. you turn to his sister(?). she spares you an undecipherable look.

"hello," he says into the microphone. "i'm wonwoo, and up till recently i was sceptical towards the fine art of slam poetry."

you snort.

he continues, "but i've been converted, maybe, to see the beauty of paying tribute to the ancient origins of poetry. i'm not a poet, but shakespeare is, and he's pretty ancient as far as i know.

"so here's sonnet 130."

#seventeen #seventeen imagines #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo scenarios

185 notes · View notes

3skellsandakid · 4 years

Text

TempusTale - a Short (compact) story.

AU Been moved to @tempustale

In the beginning there was a whisper, an echo, a spark of light... and then Time Began.

Time did his duty and watched over the timelines, keeping an eye on each one, making sure nothing was a miss.

He wandered through the clockwork hallways, which had small pocket watches hanging from high above, so high that the beginning was lost to the dark void above, each one a life, each tick a soul beat.

The older child was called Star and the younger was called Sun, or Sunny as they came to call him, for his name was perfect for him, lighting up a room with his happiness.

It was nice, peaceful and happy...

Until the anomalies started to change the Timelines and Time felt a disturbance across the multiverse.

So they lived like this, watching, observing, protecting; and only interfering when required of them to do so.

The Tempus outcodes, Sun, Star And Father Time.

#tempustale #tempustale sans #tempustale papyrus #tempustale gaster #tempustale Sun #tempustale Sunny #tempustale Star #tempustale Time #tempustale Father Time #my undertale au #undertale #my au

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lumierebros · 7 years

Text

Movie Buff Questions

1. Favorite action film?

Imogen: Die Hard, Terminator 2

Shakya: The Dark Knight, Terminator, Alien, Ip Man +any Tarantino

2. What movie(s) could you watch over and over and not get tired of?

I: Grease, Inception, Gone Girl, Superbad, Hot Fuzz

S: There Will Be Blood, Deathproof, Grease, Django Unchained, Birdman, Whiplash, plus again, any tarantino let’s put it at that)

3. Any old school favorites (pre-70s)?

I: Rear Window, North By Northwest, Breakfast at Tiffany’s

S: On the Waterfront, Citizen Kane, Rebel Without A Cause, Psycho, A Streetcar Named Desire, Casablanca, Singin In The Rain, Dr Strangelove, 2001, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, The Apartment, The Graduate, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, 12 Angry Men, Ben Hur are allllllllll amazing

4. Top 5 directors?

I: David Fincher, Sofia Coppola, Christopher Nolan, Wes Anderson, Denis Villeneuve

S: Paul Thomas Anderson, Martin Scorsese, Stanley Kubrick, Quentin Tarantino, Coen Brothers, Damien Chazelle/Alejandro G. Iñárritu

5. Favorite dead actor/actress?

I: Grace Kelly, Heath Ledger, Audrey Hepburn, Anton Yelchin

S: Heath Ledger had a lotttt of potential and Brando was great too

6. Favorite movie from the 90’s?

I: Clueless, Fight Club, Seven, Saving Private Ryan, American Beauty

S: Goodfellas, American Beauty, The Big Lebowski, Boogie Nights, The Usual Suspects, Good Will Hunting, Reservoir Dogs, Fargo, Dances With Wolves, Scream, Sister Act, Trainspotting. American History X, Forrest Gump, Casino, Leon, Schindler’s List, Jurassic Park I could go on and on

7. Ever been/are you such a hardcore fan of an actor actress you watched/will watch any movie they were/will be in?

I: James McAvoy

S: Christian Bale, Gary Oldman, Leonardo DiCaprio

8. What movie are you looking forward to coming out the most?

I: Star Wars the Last Jedi, Blade Runner 2049

S: Alien: Covenant, Dunkirk

9. Pixar or Dreamworks?

I: Pixar

S: Pixar, but Dreamworks for Sinbad, Prince of Egypt and Spirit

10. Favorite animated movie?

I: Fantastic Mr Fox

S: Spirit, Fantasia, Ferngully

11. Favorite musical?

I: La La Land, Grease, The Lion King

S: Singin’ In The Rain, Grease, Moulin Rouge, La La Land, Oliver!, The Sound of Music, (does High School Musical count )

12. Are you against book-to-movie adaptations?

I: Nope

S: Noooo

13. Your guilty pleasure movie(s)?

I: The Narnia movies, X-Men Apocalypse, The Proposal

S: Burn After Reading, Snatch, In Bruges + Independence Day, Ace Ventura hahahaha

14. Robin Williams or Eddie Murphy?

I: Robin Williams

S: Robin Williams easily

15. Favorite chick flick?

I: Clueless, Ever After

S: When Harry Met Sally (is that a chick flick or)

16. Ever watched a movie just because you heard the effects were awesome?

I: Star Trek (ending up loving it), Avatar

S: Avatar, Gravity, District 9

17. Favorite indie film?

I: Memento, Lost in Translation, Drive

S: Reservoir Dogs, Drive, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, American History X

18. Favorite movie heroin?

I: Sarah Connor, Princess Leia, Liz Bennet, Lisbeth Salander

S: Ellen Ripley

19. Favorite movie action hero?

I: John McClane, Indiana Jones

S: Jason Bourne, The Terminator (arnie)

20. Ever read a book so you could understand the movie?

I: Gone Girl, The Life of Pi

S: A Clockwork Orange: Watched the movie to understand the book, but never got past the first 20 pages or past the rape scene in the film

21. Favorite kids movie?

I: How To Train Your Dragon, The Parent Trap

S: Space Jammmmmmmmmm

22. Favorite Disney movie?

I: The Beauty and the Beast

S: Snow White (childhood fav)

23. Favorite movie soundtrack?

I: Anything by Hans Zimmer, Howard Shore (LOTR)

S: Anything by Hans Zimmer, Justin Hurwitz and Howard Shore. PLUS Proven Lands - Jonny Greenwood, Dirty Walk and Doors and Distance - Antonio Sanchez, Revenant theme- Ryuichi Sakamoto, Nightcall- Kavinsky, The Child Pt. 1 & 2- Jed Kurzel, any classical pieces in Kubrick films.

24. Movie that makes you cry every time?

I: Atonement, Schindler’s List

S: Schindler’s List, Titanic hehe

25. VHS, DVD, or Blu-ray?

I: I watch my stuff online srry

S: VHS was amazing, we had a massive collection when I was younger. Nowadays I would say Blu-ray purely because of quality. Quality of sound is more important to me though (BOSE!!!).

26. Best experience going to the movies

I: Seeing Star Wars The Force Awakens in Gold Class

S: When my boyfriend randomly picked me up at 10pm to go see Arrival as a surprise because I’d mentioned I wanted to see it once.

27. Top 5 actors?

I: Matthew McConaughey, Christian Bale, Ryan Gosling, Ethan Hawke, Leonardo DiCaprio, Daniel Day Lewis, Ewan McGregor plus all the ones Shakya mentions that I don’t mention-- I LOVE EVERYONE

S: Daniel Day Lewis, Leonardo DiCaprio, Kevin Spacey, Robert DeNiro, Jack Nicholson, Gary Oldman, Christian Bale, Ed Norton, Benicio Del Toro, Christoph Waltz, Javier Bardem

28. Top 5 actresses?

I: Amy Adams, Lupita Nyong’o, Viola Davis, Naomie Harris, Felicity Jones, Natalie Portman, Kate Winslet, Brie Larson

S: Natalie Portman, Frances McDormand, Emma Stone, Ellen Page, Julianne Moore, Amy Adams, Michelle Williams, Kirsten Dunst

29. Movie you completely regret seeing?

I: X- Men The Last Stand

S: 2012, The Accountant, Pacific Rim, Nymphomaniac P1 & 2

30. Movie you wish was never made?

I: X-Men The Last Stand HAHAHA

S: Eragon

31. Movie your parent showed you?

I: The Wizard of Oz, Grease

S: Legit everything, we still have Movie Night every Friday (and we’re not allowed rewatches)

32. Last movie you watched?

I: The English Patient

S: The Apartment

33. An overrated movie?

I: Batman (1989), also agree about The Notebook

S: The Notebook, Super 8, 500 Days of Summer, Brokeback Mountain, Zoolander, Rain Man

34. An underrated movie?

I: Before Sunrise, In Bruges, The Nice Guys

S: Nocturnal Animals, Drive, Snatch, Blood Diamond, Dogma, Biutiful, Tree of Life

35. Favorite comedy movie?

I: Hot Fuzz, Superbad, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Blazing Saddles

S: Burn After Reading, Tropic Thunder, Annie Hall, The Big Lebowski, Wayne’s World, Snatch, Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey, Borat

36. Movie quote you live by?

I: “I’m so much happier now that I’m dead. Technically, missing.” You know, bc fuck Nick Dunne.

S: There’s not any quote I LIVE by but I do love this scene:

‘Michelangelo? You know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations. Him and the pope. Sexual orientation. The whole works, right? I bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling. Seeing that. If I ask you about women, you'll probably give me a syllabus of your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid. I ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right? "Once more into the breach, dear friends." But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap and watch him gasp his last breath lookin' to you for help. If I asked you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet, but you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes. Feelin' like God put an angel on Earth just for you, who could rescue you from the depths of hell.’

37. Movie quote that will always make you laugh?

I: “Where the white women at?”

S: ‘I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast!’ ‘You eat pieces of shit for breakfast?’ -long pause- ‘No!’

‘Shut the fuck up fat man this ain’t none of your goddamn business’

‘I have uh..uh.. lactose reflux’ ‘You’re lactose intolerant or you have acid reflux? They’re different things’

‘A shootout is a fucking shootout!!....Like a Western’

‘You think that’s a Schwiiiiiin’

‘I eat the Canadian? I don’t know what you’re talking about’

‘I don’t read the script, the script reads me’ ‘What the hell does that even mean??’

‘oh nothing Tommy, it’s….tip-top, it’s just i’m not sure about the colour’

All the other quotes I find funny are completely random movie quotes that my family has just turned into a joke and that we can easily incorporate into conversation e.g. ‘whadaya gonna do ranger rick, shoot me?’ ‘I could do that’, ‘you sir, too sir’, ‘I don’t want Nenat’, ‘I drive’, ‘you want uhhh money or something’, ‘yeah i like dags’, ‘there is no spoon’ ETC you get the point

38. Film(s) you’ve watched on a date?

I: Any action/superhero movie that has come out recently.

S: The Conjuring 2, La La Land, Arrival, Sausage Party, The Accountant (bf loves accounting but it was shit), Fantastic Beasts, Captain America: Civil War, Shine (anniversary reshow with Geoffrey Rush doing a q&a after teehee), Nocturnal Animals, Suicide Squad, Moonlight, Sully, War Dogs, Jason Bourne, heaps more that I can’t remember

39. Favorite cult film?

I: Pulp Fiction, Fight Club

S: The Big Lebowski, Taxi Driver, Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction

40. Directors you’d like to see work together?

I: David Fincher and Denis Villeneuve could be interesting

S: Coen brothers and Guy Ritchie would be fkn awesome OR Coens and Tarantino would be screenplay heaven

41. Actors you’d like to see work together?

I: Felicity Jones and Oscar Isaac (can you imagine the chemistry)

S: Miles Teller and Emma Watson ;---)

42. Films you wanted to watch, but never got around to watching?

I: American History X, 28 Days Later

S: Amadeus, The Deer Hunter

43. Favorite teen movie?

I: Clueless, 10 Things I Hate About You, Fast Times at Ridgemont High

S: Juno, Grease, The Breakfast Club, Rebel Without A Cause

44. Top 5 favorite films?

I: American Psycho, Her, The Grand Budapest Hotel, Seven, Inception, There Will Be Blood, Inglourious Basterds, LOTR, No Country For Old Men ARGH SO MANY

S: There Will Be Blood (no. 1 fav), Good Will Hunting, No Country For Old Men, Raging Bull, Fargo, The Dark Knight, Goodfellas, LOTR, American Psycho, Deathproof, Tree of Life, The Usual Suspects, So many so many.

45. Favorite superhero film?

I: Logan, X-Men Days of Future Past, The Dark Knight

S: The Dark Knight, The Incredibles

46. Favorite cop film?

I: 21 Jump Street, Hot Fuzz, The Departed

S: Reservoir Dogs, Fargo, Seven, Mystic River, The Departed, Silence Of The Lambs

47. Favorite road trip film?

I: Fear and Loathing Las Vegas

S: Borat HHAHAHAH

48. A disappointing film from your favorite actor?

I: Pick any rom-com of Matthew McConaughey’s

S: Jack Nicholson in The Bucket List and Anger Management. So fucking bad. Good actor, shit movies.

49. A disappointing film from your favorite director?

I: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

S: The Lovely Bones, Only God Forgives

50. The first movie you ever remember watching in theaters?

I: I don’t remember any, but the first film I saw was A Bug’s Life

S: I genuinely have no idea

51. A movie that was better than the book?

I: The Shining (lmao bc Stephen King hates the movie)

S: Yeah The Shining and There Will Be Blood (based on Oil! which was beautifully written but nothing beats PTA’s adaption)

52. Vin Diesel or Bruce Willis?

I: Vin Diesel is so cute but I like Bruce better

S: it’s not a motorcycle baby it’s a chopper

53. A movie that not many have heard of that you’ve seen?

I: Hunt For the Wilderpeople

S: Vampire’s Kiss, Children of Men, Ip Man (VERY good foreign film), Dr Strangelove, Inherent Vice, Shame, Biutiful, Macbeth, Cool Hand Luke, Room In Rome, To Sir With Love

54. A movie that changed the way you view the world?

I: To Kill a Mockingbird

S: American History X

55. Favorite sci-fi movie?

I: Star Wars, Star Trek, Interstellar, Arrival, Gattaca

S: Alien, Predator, The Thing, Interstellar, Arrival, Terminator, 2001, Matrix, The Fifth Element, E.T

56. Movie you completely nerd-out over every time it’s mentioned?

I: X-Men, Star Wars, LOTR

S: LOTR obviously

57. Movie that you’ve seen all the behind-the-scenes action for?

I: Inception

S: LOTR again, hours on end of it omf

58. Movie where your favorite actor was the only good part?

I: Natalie Portman and Ewan McGregor in the Star Wars prequels

S: Leonardo DiCaprio in The Basketball Diaries

59. Movie from an actor you hate that was better than you expected?

I: Kristen Stewart (Adventureland), but I don’t hate her at all, I was just surprised at her performance.

S: Mo’Nique in Precious, never hated her, she’s brilliant, it was the first performance I’ve seen of hers and it made me despise her character so much. SO GOOD but so awful.

60. Most visually stunning movie you’ve seen?

I: The Revenant

S: Tree of Life, 2001, The Revenant, Apocalypse Now, The Master, Interstellar, LOTR, Jurassic Park

61. A movie your parents introduced you to?

I: The Wizard of Oz, Life is Beautiful, Grease

S: Hahahaha basically every movie no joke, but my dad showed me lots of Chaplin

62. Favorite genre?

I: Thriller/crime/mystery/suspense

S: Drama, gangster movies, thrillers/horror/psychological thriller/horror you get the jist

63. Least favorite genre?

I: Romantic comedies

S: Romcoms or superhero movies (not including tdk)

64. Comedy movie that you didn’t find funny?

I: Sausage Party

S: How to be single, Anchorman, Sausage Party

65. Horror movie that didn’t scare you?

I: The Conjuring, Paranormal Activity

S: Insidious just so bad, The Exorcist, The Shining, Rosemary’s Baby, Let The Right One In (Swedish version NOT American Let Me In). None are terrifying, just extremely unsettling and disturbing

66. Favorite remake of an old movie?

I: The Departed, True Grit

S: True Grit, The Thing, Scarface, The Departed

67. A movie that started a passion for you?

I: Her. The first “good” movie I watched that got me into film culture.

S: Well I was brought up with hundreds of great movies from my childhood which made me love film as a child, but standout ones from my childhood I can remember especially well are LOTR, Spirit, Fantasia, all very music based films too

68. A movie that sparked an interesting conversation?

I: Interstellar (about time, paradoxes, and space)

S: Donnie Darko, No Country For Old Men, Psycho, The Usual Suspects, 2001, Whiplash -- all have brilliant final scenes, Split: my bro and I spent an hour talking about what makes a good movie and why it was so bad

69. The main movie you remember from your childhood?

I: Grease… slightly inappropriate for a kid but most of the adult stuff went over my head anyway

S: Lord Of The Rings of course, first full length film I was shown and Neverending Story is another one I remember well.

70. The first movie you saw on it’s opening night?

I: Star Wars The Force Awakens

S: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows P1 and P2, La La Land

71. A move that made you ache for love.

I: Before Sunrise

S: Blue Valentine

72. Favourite foreign film/s?

S: Let The Right One In, Life Is Beautiful, Cinema Paradiso, Ip Man, City of God, Pan’s Labyrinth, REC, Biutiful

73. Favourite horror film/s?

S: The Shining, The Exorcist, Rosemary’s Baby, Carrie, Halloween, Texas Chainsaw, Psycho, REC.

#q #lumierebros #questions #sorry for long post

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dawnkiwi-blog · 7 years

Text

Fortune of A Broken Man - Chapter 3 - Avengers Fanfiction | Bucky Barnes-centric |

Word Count: 2,340

Chapters: 03/50 Status: Finished prior to publishing

Trigger warnings: Vulgarity / allusion to schizophrenia / mentions and explorations of mental illness / war and PTSD

[ could not find a good enough gif and the gif loader hates me lol bye ]

Chapter 3: Snakes

"You see that? Eyes of a killer. Stone cold and cruel," Lizbeth sighed.

An intern named Pamela stood beside her, doing her best not to quiver in fear.

"You do see it, right? The way he stares at you, just waiting.."

Pamela nodded vigorously. She stared wide eyed at Barnes who sat stock still in the center of the room on the floor. "He's so scary," she whispered.

Lizbeth barked out a laugh and clamped her hand down on the shorter woman's shoulder. Pamela is very, very short.

"I'm just fuckin' with you, love," Lizbeth giggled. "When I look at him, I actually see a very sad man. Probably a romantic. Aren't those eyes just dreamy."

Pamela wasn't sure of what to say. She leaned closer to the window, as though it could shatter if she so much as sneezed. "I... I mean, yeah, actually.."

Lizbeth's lips quirked in a smile but she didn't say a word.

Pamela continued, placing both hands on the window as she peered at him. "He's kind of got that James Dean vibe, I guess. Aw, he needs a hug."

"What he needs," Lizbeth said as she draped herself across Pam's shoulders, "Is for you to realise his eyes aren't telling you anything. They're just blue, and quite tired."

They stared at each other, amusement meeting confusion. "What...?"

Lizbeth steered her back to face Barnes, "Look," she pointed out, "The man is just sitting on the floor, staring at the mirror. There is nothing else to be said. He isn't anything but really, really fatigued. He can't even see you, this is mirrored glass," she said, tapping it, "He's just staring in our direction because logically, he's aware there's probably a bunch of prudish lab coats analyzing him right now."

"But... you said.."

"I know what I said. At first you thought he was evil, or something, and now he's your own Romeo, or maybe a frog that needs a kiss. And a shave. Nothing changed except what I said. It's all too easy to read too much into something. Pretenses kill."

Pamela blushed a deep scarlet, "Sorry," she muttered.

"Hey, it's fine. You're interning to learn, and look! Active learning!"

It had been nearly four hours since she had left Pam to colour coordinate the dossiers and categorically compile her research notes. It was completely unnecessary, of course, but it certainly made it easier for Lizbeth to decipher her own chicken-scratch.

According to the nightly recordings from JARVIS, Barnes had not slept a wink, but at least attempted to rest by taking up the cot offered to him. He had exceeded her expectations by a mile, and that bothered her more than she cared to admit.

Watching him now, it remained obvious that the man was in a deep fugue state. He would twitch every two minutes with less than a second of difference in the repetition. Every ten to fifteen minutes he would get up and wander seemingly aimlessly around the room before returning to his hunched perch on the side of the bed.

It made her restless just to watch him. Like clockwork, each calculated action resembled a man strung up like a doll in a childs play room. But it was impulsive, and reeked of fear.

Barnes had thankfully eaten Steves meal, and the cornflakes Pam had slid through the delivery slot on the door that morning. Even if she had nearly dropped the bowl in terror.

Lizbeth crinkled her nose at the memory of Steve's 'homecooked delight'. SPAM, with bonebroth soup. Smell is a powerful memory, and Lizbeth did not want to remember the heavy tang of preservatives. At least he'd taken her words seriously and gone with something Barnes would be hard-pressed to forget. She certainly wouldn't forget it any time soon.

Even now, Barnes was coiled tight like a grenade. He watched her through the mirrored glass. A wild animal calculating her intentions and tracking her habits. She stared back unflinchingly, perversely taking delight in the unease it brought him.

She had lied to Pam. Despite the mirrored glass technically obscuring them, Barnes seemed to be unhindered by it. His eyes bore into her. How he did this, Lizbeth did not know, but she'd hazard a guess it had something to do with his super serum abilities. Even the documents SHIELD had swiped from HYDRA prior to their collapse did not fully detail the extent of the super serum. Steve had kindly (re: waspishly) informed her that Barnes had been administered a bastardized version of his WW2 serum. But that really didn't tell her much.

One had to wonder, naturally, what went through his head. As far as she knew, the Ol' Doctor Strange could peer into the heads of those under his care, whether by force or permitted. Wanda, alike, could view the on-goings of his brain. Lizbeth had her own methods of examination. But if she forced her way in.. it would likely be easier to get through to the Hulk than James Barnes.

She pressed the buzzer forcefully.

"How do you feel, Mr Barnes?"

He stiffened almost painfully, eyes widening a fraction. Internally debating with himself as to whether or not to respond, he stayed mute.

"That's no fun," Lizbeth muttered. She pressed the buzzer again. "Would you like Mr Rogers to visit?"

He eyeballed her as though she'd kicked his cat.

"So much rage," she mused, "No wonder he was the perfect weapon for HYDRA."

As though doing so would bring him grevious harm, James nodded reluctantly.

"I'll have him sent up, then," she informed him, "My name is Miss Burke, by the way. Tony Stark hired me to get through to you. You know who he is, don't you?"

More silent rage.

"Well, he remembers you, Mr Barnes. Yet his morality has him showing you kindness. Like it or not, you won't come to harm here."*

He, obviously, did not believe her.

After the good Captain had responded to her summons, she had taken a seat on the leather couch. Her clipboard held sheets of crinkled paper dotted with notes, scribbles, and lewd drawings of the two men in Barnes' illustrious accommodation.

Steve had practically hurtled through the door, having apparently misunderstood JARVIS' request. He must have come from the gym, as he was dripping in sweat, and looked ready to fight a god.

Lizbeth wondered who would win a fight, Steve or Thor.

She started another graphic drawing.

Beyond the mirrored glass, Steve sat with James, trying to coax him into talking. While he had been fairly vocal yesterday, it seemed his situation had sunk in, and the man refused to even sigh.

It infuriated Steve for reasons he couldn't fathom. Lizbeth herself didn't care- she had all the time in the world, a nice salary, and access to whatever resources she wanted. She could probably kill in cold blood and have it hushed up.

"I'm telling you," Steve said, "Miss Burke is harmless."

Lizbeth snorted without looking up. Barnes looked no more convinced than she did.

"She's just a shrink Stark hired to help you. We just want you back, and in control, Buck," Steve sighed, wringing his hands. "HYDRA can't touch you here. We're actively hunting them, and their numbers have been reduced drastically. While you were in cryo in Wakanda, T'Challa signed a defense sanction with the White House. There's a North American task force scouring earth for any sign of them."

'Nice choice of words there, Steve,' Lizbeth thought, 'Specifying earth to a man who isn't aware mythology is actually history won't raise alarm bells at all.'

As if to prove her right, Barnes' eyebrow nearly floated off his face. Rogers mistakenly took this as a sign Barnes remained doubtful of his words.

"Our team has expanded, too," Steve said, nearly pleading, "It isn't just the six of us anymore. We have Wanda, Peter, Sam, Vision, and a number of SHIELD agents on board."

"Who the fuck is Peter?" Lizbeth said to herself. She ran through the faces of the Avengers and realised it was probably the Spider dude who like shooting sticky white stuff at people. She snorted, and returned to her drawing.

"Wanda is from Sokovia," Steve continued, staring at his feet. He spoke almost as if Barnes was in a coma, not sitting nary a foot away and scrutinising him. "And is an enhanced. HYDRA took her and her brother, and really did a number on them. But Wanda helped us destroy the Sokovian and Ukranian HYDRA bases during Ultron."

"Who he doesn't know," she sighed. "You're gonna give him an anxiety attack at this rate, Cap."

The hammer she had artifully sketched for Thor looked more like a popsicle.

"Peter is just a kid, but he tries his best. You remember him, right? He managed to pin you down on the hellicarrier."

Barnes frowned.

"Ah, a-and Sam is ex-military. A pararescue. You threw him off the helicarrier," Steve stuttered.

Barnes frown grew heavier.

"But, well, ah," Steve grew flustered, aware he was only making things worse, "Vision is nice. He was Tony's AI, but he stole the body Dr Cho made, before Ultron could have it."

"Jesus christ, you idiot," Lizbeth sighed, dumping her x-rated drawings and stomping over to the mirror. She stabbed the buzzer. "Steve," she cut in irritably, "Why don't you try not to give the man a stroke. You've now convinced him half the people in this building want his head on a stick."

Steve's head snapped back to glare at her. Barnes looked ready to explode. She sighed again, forgetting her finger was on the buzzer. A creepy woosh filled the air.

"Wanda is a telekinetic and telepathic enhanced who swore allegiance to the Captain. If that's worth anything to you, Mr Barnes. Peter is an idiot who is afraid of his shadow, and more specifically you, Barnes. He can't handle gore and hates HYDRA like the rest of us. Sam has forgiven you. I spoke at length with him about it, and he admits that, if he were you, he would have done the same thing. Vision is an artificially created human who put his newborn existence on the line for earth. None of these people pose a threat to you unless you are trying to harm them or their loved ones."

Silence reigned as Steve alternated between glaring at her and peering with concern at Barnes.

James himself had resumed his boring stare through the mirror. Completely at ease, Lizbeth stared back with a blank face. She wanted to shriek boo but the consequences could be mortal, so she refrained. Instead, she settled for meeting his eyes and displaying a weak sympathy on her face.

After a moment, he relaxed. Her actions indicated her honesty, and while he couldn't trust her, he could believe her.

Lizbeth knew how to lie through teeth, even better than she could breathe. Which can be hard, when one is a chronic smoker.

When Steve stepped from Barnes' room, he looked like he wanted to smack her through the wall and out into the muggy Manhattan air. She smiled breezily at him, curling her fingers in a suggestive manner.

"What are you playing at?" he spat, nearly shaking with rage.

Her eyebrows raised. "I didn't do anything, Rogers."

"Yes," he roared, uncharacteristically pissed off, "You did. You nearly f-you- what do you think that was, huh?"

She swallowed, contemplating the right answer. Truth wouldn't work in her favor, but if she lied, he'd smell it a mile off.

"I corrected you. Barnes' began to exhibit signs of an anxiety attack, which in his current state, could land one or both of you in the ICU. Given his past, the best thing for him is blunt honesty and no tip-toeing around sensitive subjects."

Steve stared at her with barely restrained something simmering in his blue eyes. She sighed and stood up, taking a step towards him. He briefly showed surprise before he closed himself off to her again. Unlike most, she casually walked towards the man who could crush her skull with two fingers as though she weren't a frail human, and he wasn't the big bad wolf. To be fair, Barnes' would probably be the wolf in this situation.

Although, frankly, Lizbeth embodied the Black Adder snake that would snap at a dogs heels.

Very slowly, giving him time to step away from her- which he didn't- Lizbeth placed a calming hand upon his forearm. "Steve," she said quietly, "I'm sorry. I know I showed you up, and that wasn't my intention, but I also didn't want you to push Barnes' back into his shell and set us back a week. You didn't do anything wrong. You know your best friend better than I know my left hand, but Steve, I'm a shrink, and I'm here to help. That includes you. You can tell me how you feel- about everything, towards Barnes, Stark, even me. But don't let yourself act in a way that will give you shame latter."

Her words cut through him like he was a sponge, and it rocked his composure. She had spoken like she knew him and it frightened him.

"You're here for Bucky and it should stay that way."

She gave him a knowing look. "How about we cut today short. Could you still prepare a dinner for him?"

He nodded sharply and nearly pushed her off him as he strode away hurriedly. After the door clicked behind him, she shook her head. "Definitely feel shame in the morning."

"Oh, Mr Barnes, what have they done to you?"

A/N:

*Anybody know what I'm referring to? First person to get it can have an OC named after them.

I would like to apologise for this late update. I had to leave my previous home rather suddenly and the last few days have been me settling into a new place. I needed to edit over this and make sure a few small details line up with what happens in the coming chapters.

The next chapter will be up tomorrow. I know this is somewhat of a filler chapter but it didn't flow right to be 1 super long chappy. Sowwy.

BAI

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