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ghostbustermelanieking · 4 years

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okay hear me out on this; archivist melanie au

• the major switch in this au is that melanie's encounters with war ghosts and the end of ghost hunt uk happens earlier -- right around the time gertrude dies. the other major switch is with melanie's father. who is still in ivy meadows when the corruption and john amherst comes, but he manages to survive. melanie is visiting when it happens and gets him out alive, but not before they've both encountered plenty of the corruption

• when gertrude dies, there's no obvious candidate for the archivist in elias's eyes. there's sasha, but she isn't marked by anything yet, and since gertrude wanted her, elias wants to avoid promoting her mostly out of spite. there's others who have been marked -- tim for example -- but none of them feel quite right. he transfers sasha, tim, and martin to the archives with the subtle offer of a promotion to head archivist for one of them, but he makes no promises, like he is still holding out for someone else... and then the very first week, they get a live statement for the Archives, a real one. from former ghost hunter, doubly marked by the entities already, melanie king

• melanie is as skeptical of the Institute as she is in canon, but it seems worth it to go in and give a statement. just to talk to someone who might believe her. (georgie has been telling her she should talk to SOMEONE about this, and this qualifies, right?) she hits it off with the archival staff, particularly sasha, and feels a surprising release after giving her statement. she keeps staring at the Archives, all the statements and unanswered questions -- and yes, maybe all of them arent real, but odds are that some of them are. that some of them might have answers. she definitely isn't expecting to be offered a job by the creepy apparent head of the place, but, well. she's gotten weirder offers

• melanie's primary focus in archiving is on investigation, and accrediting the various statements. she figures out the correlation between the digital and tape recordings pretty quickly, and starts disregarding any that will record digitally. and there's an even larger focus than usual on chasing down leads post-statement, something that melanie will often participate in herself. tim and sasha and martin are a little skeptical of an outsider taking a promotion that should've gone to one of them (or at least another employee), but they all warm up to each other at a decent speed. melanie and sasha hit it off to the point where melanie starts inviting her out with georgie, and then sasha starts inviting tim, and then martin, and the resentment more or less goes away after that

• melanie stays invested in war ghosts, and trying to figure out what happened with sarah baldwin (she reads the anglerfish statement and her eyes bug out when she recognizes the name from the follow up), but she latches onto figuring out other things. one of these things ends up being gertrude's disappearance. melanie has literally none of the history before she gets hired, and she gets curious after a few months, starts asking questions. sasha's able to provide the most context, having actually MET gertrude, but tim and martin have heard rumors of their own, and they end up swapping conspiracy theories for hours one night at the pub. someone throws out elias offing her. melanie can't quite let the stories go. she starts digging into gertrude's history in her spare time, wanting to put the pieces together. sasha helps her on that one, too.

• this is where jon comes in: he never works for the institute, but he stays interested in the supernatural. he also stays closer to georgie over the years, helps with research on what the ghost sometimes. this results in georgie being the only one who knows about the mr. spider incident. she ends up suggesting jon give his statement to the institute -- maybe a little reluctantly; she doesn't fully trust the institute, has seen how obsessive melanie has grown over the past few months, heard her talk about how creepy it is when she loses herself while recording statements. but she trusts melanie, and the others, and she knows they'll do proper follow up. maybe put jon's anxieties over the whole thing to rest.

• so jon goes in and gives his statement. and despite the fact that he and melanie don't see eye to eye on a lot of things (ghost hunt UK, how the institute is run, etc), he hits it off with everyone in the Institute, and seems intrigued by everything after it's all over. they promise to follow up on his statement, but there... isn't much to find. aside from a few mentions of the book on old internet forums, and a few potential missing person cases in connection, there isn't much to find. (jon's bully never reappeared, but this isn't a surprise.)

• the dead ends are disappointing, to a number of people. jon seems dissatisfied when he comes to follow up and they have nothing for him. georgie seems disappointed at the lack of clear answers. martin mentions once, to melanie, of how the statement reminds him of the carlos vittery statement, and maybe the two are connected? melanie suggests they look into it that evening.

• this time, jane prentiss doesnt follow martin home. why bother when the archivist is right there?

• georgie notices when melanie disappears; prentiss doesn't bother messaging her. she calls sasha and the others.

• georgie encourages melanie to quit after it's over, when melanie is staying in her guest room. tells her how worried she is. melanie agrees, she really does, but she isn't sure what else to do. even if she quits, the worms will still be in the institute (tim finds a nest under his desk three days after melanie gets out), and the mystery will still be there. she'll never know what happened to gertrude, never know the truth behind all these statements they've found. she wants to leave, can feel herself changing the longer she stays, but she isn't sure how she can leave

• things go pretty similarly after that. the only thing that's different is that jon feels guilty when he hears what happened to melanie, and comes by the institute to apologize. then he starts hanging around, asking sasha and tim and martin questions about statements and experiences and all of it, laughing stiffly and quietly at sasha and tim's jokes. martin sees how interested he is and actually invites him out on an investigation one night. melanie sighs and tells georgie to start inviting jon to pub night

• prentiss comes. this is the same. melanie kills the spider. she and martin and sasha end up in the storage room, tim is on the other side. tim saves melanie and martin. sasha goes up to artifact storage

• this is where things really change: sasha is taken, although she doesn't die. she's put in the table. but when the not-sasha comes up and hugs tim and martin in relief, asks worried questions, talks to the police and the employees and everyone like she is sasha... melanie still sees through it. she doesn't understand why this is happening because that is NOT SASHA. and tim and martin and georgie have no idea what she's talking about. the not-sasha just smiles at melanie when she protests and says, "don't you know me, melanie? it's just sasha. your good friend, sasha."

• melanie won't let it go. and she won't stay home and recover. she insists and insists until georgie says she believes her, and agrees to go along and help her look as long as melanie doesn't strain her leg. they go and they look in the archives one night, nearly tear it apart, and somehow they find it. the adelard dekker statement. it's the table.

• melanie tells tim and martin, but they don't believe her until she brings an axe down on the table, splits up and sends a shivering sasha tumbling down on the floor. until they are being chased with something with the face of the only sasha they'd recognize, and the real sasha is telling them again and again that it's not her

• they decide to quit, all four of them, tim and melanie still worm-scarred, tim and martin wide eyed and horrified by the way they don't recognize sasha. melanie ignores her sneaking suspicion that it won't work, ignores the sinking feeling, right up until she's standing in elias's office and he's smirking at all of them, stammering, unable to force the words out. i quit. but they can't

• melanie is furious. she shouts, she threatens, she pulls a knife on elias, but none of it works. it falls on deaf ears. no way out for any of them, even after everything

• the next morning, elias brings someone down to the archives and introduces them as a new archival assistant. it's jon, who's maybe a little eager, and certainly confused and hurt when everyone responds with horror

• elias meets melanie's eyes over her assistants' heads. he mentions how nice it will be to have someone new around, someone with experience in researching the supernatural... and what a shame it was that it couldnt be that nice young host of the what the ghost podcast

• they understand each other now. melanie grits her teeth and looks away. no way out now

#melanie king #wtgfs #tma #tma au #the magnus archives #magnuspod #i wanted to do this as a one shot and i still might but in case i cant...

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silver-lily-louise · 4 years

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Souls are a Serious Business

She doesn’t have all of her memories back, not yet, but she’s still collecting little fragments every other day; the way light catches in a familiar stained glass window, or the thwack of a bō, or the burn of a particular rune triggering a sudden recollection. But she’s gained something different today, a security that slots into place as some fear inside her is soothed – because now, she’s tied to the Shadow World in a way she wasn’t before.

In which Clary and Izzy become parabatai.

Read it on AO3, or below!

~oOo~

‘…If aught but death part thee and me,’ Izzy says, her voice strong and clear, her stance tall and proud. ‘If aught but death part thee and me,’ Clary repeats, a little breathless under the weight of commitment, because this is it.

With the final lines spoken, the bond shimmers fully into place, and Brother Zachariah smiles. ‘Isabelle Sophia Lightwood, and Clarissa Adele Fairchild. You are now parabatai. May the Angel watch over you and all those you protect.’

The room erupts into respectful applause (and one whooping cheer that Clary recognises as Simon), and Izzy’s professional composure breaks, her face splitting into a beaming smile as she squeezes the hand still linked with Clary’s own. ‘We did it,’ she says.

Clary laughs, pulling her new parabatai into a quick hug, a little giddy with the sudden doubling of her own happiness, her ribs feeling fuller for the second heartbeat she recognises beneath them now. ‘We did,’ she agrees. Not for the first time, her stomach twists in a strange sort of nostalgia and comfort – because she’s back. She doesn’t have all of her memories back, not yet, but she’s still collecting little fragments every other day; the way light catches in a familiar stained glass window, or the thwack of a bō, or the burn of a particular rune triggering a sudden recollection. But she’s gained something different today, a security that slots into place as some fear inside her is soothed – because now, she’s tied to the Shadow World in a way she wasn’t before. This bond is pretty much a magical guarantee of what Isabelle’s been telling her ever since her memories started to return, and brought with them the fear of losing all of this yet again: If the angels want to take you away from us a second time, they’ll have to get through me first.

With the ceremony over, the congregation start to advance, offering congratulations and well-wishes – and there’s a lot of them, both from within the New York Institute and from certain delegations of the Clave. Izzy’s Head of the Institute, after all – her parabatai ceremony was always going to be something of a political spectacle.

But eventually, the more politically-motivated guests politely take their leave, and their family are the only ones remaining in the ceremonial hall.

Simon is first – vampire speed and all that – and he darts from one side to the other for a moment, seemingly not knowing who to approach first, before apparently coming to a compromise and just pulling both of them in for a hug at the same time. ‘Congrats, you two,’ he says, flashing Clary a bright smile before turning to Izzy and giving her a gentle peck on the lips. ‘See?’ Izzy says, still grinning. ‘Not freaky at all.’ Simon looks back at Clary, his jaw dropped and his eyebrows knitted indignantly together. ‘You told her I said that?’ he asks accusingly. Clary shrugs, stifling a laugh at the look of utter betrayal on Simon’s face. ‘I mean, she’s my parabatai and my boss, Si. There’s not a lot of room for secrets.’

‘I don’t suppose you teach classes on that philosophy, do you?’ Alec asks, slinging an arm around Izzy’s shoulder as he gives a pointed look at the space behind Clary. ‘Hey!’ The offended voice comes from over her shoulder, and she smiles, leaning back as a circle of arms appear around her. ‘I tell you stuff. Eventually.’ She feels herself being turned around, and then she’s face to face with her boyfriend, automatically stretching up onto her tiptoes as she loops her arms around his neck. ‘Congratulations,’ Jace murmurs, his brashness fading as it always does when they’re like this, gazing at each other and letting the rest of the world fall away. Clary’s chest floods with a familiar warmth, and she pulls him down into a kiss.

Several minutes later, Clary and Izzy have almost made the complete rounds of congratulatory family members. Izzy is, apparently, determined to hug each and every one of them. In the spirit of family unity, Clary tries to follow suit, and almost makes it – even managing to secure a one-armed half-embrace from Alec – but then her and Robert’s eyes meet, and they freeze for a moment, before mutually extending their hands instead. There’s awkward, and then there’s awkward, after all. Maybe they’ll cross that particular bridge when she and Jace get married someday.

In any case, the last person Clary gets to – after extricating herself from Luke’s too-tight bear-hug, which possibly cracks one of her ribs but also makes her laugh because it’s so like old times – is Magnus, who was previously engaged catching up with Brother Zachariah when she glanced over. Now, however, his attention rests fully on her, and he gives her a warm smile as she steps into his arms briefly. ‘Well, Biscuit, how does it feel?’ ‘Good,’ she says honestly, returning his smile as she steps back, snaking her left arm around Jace’s waist again. ‘I’m glad we went through with it. Thanks for your advice.’ Magnus waves a hand dismissively. ‘It was nothing.’ He glances down at the spot just above her left hip, where the combo of low-rise pants and crop top leaves the new rune proudly exposed. ‘Left hip again,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Is it always placed there, then?’ Clary frowns, unsure of the answer – but at that moment Alec appears again, looming out of the crowd on the right and coming to stand beside his husband. ‘Not always,’ he says, gesturing at the rune, ‘but it’s a pretty common placement. It’s fairly accessible, and easily displayed, which has some ceremonial importance because of the nature of the bond. But it’s not as high-priority to reach and reactivate as things like strength or iratze.’

‘…Okay, starting to feel like I should have done some research before today,’ Clary says sheepishly. ‘This could have gone pretty badly, apparently.’ Alec shrugs, but he smiles a little, too. ‘Izzy had you covered, she knows all this stuff. You wouldn’t have ended up with it somewhere ridiculous, like your shoulder blade.’ Despite his airy tone, the comment sounds pointed to Clary’s ears – and a second later, she’s proved right as Jace sighs. ‘More than a decade ago, Alec,’ he says wearily. ‘Let it go.’ Alec raises an eyebrow in a way that suggests he is very much not going to do that, and Clary grins.

‘Well, regardless,’ Magnus says, as Izzy and Simon appear from the left and join their little circle of conversation. ‘It’s… an apt placement.’ His eyes seem to spark a little, and Clary narrows her own in suspicion. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Oh, nothing,’ Magnus says nonchalantly, even having the gall to throw a wink in her direction. ‘You’ll have to forgive an old man his little jokes. It’s not important.’

Clary frowns – but she hums in a grudging semi-agreement, preparing to let it go and change the subject. She’s interrupted, however, by Simon’s sudden laughter. ‘Oh my god,’ he says, and he looks practically gleeful. ‘He means that you’re joined at the hip.’

It takes half a moment to sink in – and then all three siblings seem to react at once. Alec rolls his eyes (though it’s Magnus, so he smiles too, of course), Izzy honest-to-god giggles (apparently, dating Simon is increasing her tolerance for stupid jokes), and Jace groans loudly (‘Come on, seriously?’). Magnus, for his part, shrugs – and then subtly offers Simon a low-five, which is quickly and eagerly accepted.

Clary, meanwhile, just smiles, looking around at her re-found family. These are some of the biggest players in the Shadow World, unbelievably powerful in terms of both magic and politics.

They’re also a bunch of idiots, and she is so, so lucky to have them back.

~oOo~

#shadowhunters #shadowhunters fic #shtv #clary fairchild #isabelle lightwood #shs #mine

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bubonickitten · 4 years

Link

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: tumblr // AO3

Chapter 7 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 7: panic attack/shutdown; hospital/ICU imagery. Jon meets his apparent quota of one (1) allowed swear per chapter. SPOILERS through S5.

Chapter 7: Zombie, Redux

There are hushed voices coming from somewhere deep below the unbroken whine of static filling his ears. Nearer, Georgie is saying something, but her words are too garbled for Jon to wring any meaning out of them. He isn’t sure exactly how long it’s been since he woke up, but he can feel his muscles cramping from holding the same position for awhile now, curled tight and taut and small.

…catatonia: a state of…

Fuck off, Jon thinks dully.

At least he’s not crying anymore. That stopped some time ago, all of a sudden between one moment and the next, and now he just feels hollow and raw. He knows what he would see if he looked in the mirror: puffy, reddened eyes, so reminiscent of a human – but with a glint of something hungry and monstrous behind them. Any sympathy or concern that anyone might feel at first glance would be quashed with one long look into those eyes, leaving only fear and revulsion and hostility in their wake. And they would be right to flee or freeze or fight, just as they might when confronted with any other predator.

Jon keeps his eyes closed.

“– a sedative,” comes an unfamiliar voice, finally reaching him through the haze.

“Does he look like he needs a sedative?”

Basira, Jon recognizes.

“We – we should really do some – some tests…” The first voice trails off uncertainly. A nurse, Jon assumes. He can feel the apprehension coming off them in waves.

No one knows what to do with him. There is no standard of care for a patient who spent the last six months as a seeming corpse with frantic brain activity as its only signs of life.

A zombie, Jon recalls wryly. The statement calls to him from within Basira’s bag: a taunt, a balm, and a poison all at once. He pushes the thought of it away.

None of the hospital staff like entering his room, he Knows. They certainly don’t want to deal with him now he’s awake. His circumstances present a medical marvel – the kind of mystery that most researchers would kill for a chance to study – but their curiosity was tempered by that overpowering sense of wrongness emanating from him. They were wisely dissuaded by the sheer dread of coming close to something so unquestionably inhuman.

Most people aren’t so curious that they would run headlong towards an ominous fate like the first person to die in a horror film, he supposes. It’s just one more way in which Jon was – is – such an easy target for someone like Jonah Magnus.

Distantly, Jon can feel himself start to shiver.

There’s movement to his right as Georgie sits on the edge of the bed, within arm’s reach but careful to leave a buffer of empty space between them. She tells him that he’s safe – he’s not, and neither is anyone else while he still exists in the world – and that she’s here – for now, but once she realizes how far gone he is, she’ll leave again – and that they’ll sort it all out – yes, and when they do, they’ll never stop looking at him like he’s a monster, and isn’t he?

The door closes behind the nurse, but the fear lingers for several minutes afterwards, like blood diffusing through water.

“Jon,” Basira begins, her tone resolute and impersonal.

“Give him a minute,” Georgie says.

“He’s had a minute. He’s had six months.” There is no malice in her voice, only a bone-deep exhaustion. Basira has been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders since the Unknowing. She’s barely had a chance to mourn Daisy; she’s wound tight from hypervigilance, made worse by the Flesh’s attack; she’s had to put practicality above all else, because sentimentality is a luxury that has long since been stolen from her. “He needs to answer some questions.”

Georgie huffs and turns back to Jon.

“Jon, can you hear me?”

He nods without looking up.

“Are you nonverbal?”

Jon can feel a faraway part of himself balk at the clinical flavor of the word. Georgie was always direct like this. Intellectually, Jon can appreciate having a term to summarize nebulous human experiences like this. Emotionally, he still has difficulty tolerating how exposed the practical application of those terms makes him feel.

Besides, the word doesn’t really apply to this situation, does it? Not in the traditional sense, at least. Not completely. So he shakes his head no.

He takes a deep breath and reluctantly looks inward to the Archive. There’s a spark of excitement, or relief, or maybe smug vindication from that alien part of himself when he finally gives in to the need, and he tries his best to ignore it and get it over with. He doesn’t delve too deeply, instead settling on the first thing that might work.

“I’m sorry, it won’t let me say the words,” he says, voice strained and raspy with months of neglect.

“O…kay,” Georgie says. “I guess that’s a no?”

“Hmm.” Basira doesn’t say anything else.

Jon starts picking through his library again, but nothing jumps out at him. His thoughts still feel sluggish, his mind packed with cotton. Or cobweb. Usually he’d shudder at that thought, but right now, he’s just too tired for that familiar fear to actually reach him through all the fog. He’s just spent months literally sleeping like the dead; why is he so tired?

When a full minute passes without a reply, Basira turns to Georgie.

“Could you give us some time alone?”

“No.” The immediacy of the refusal surprises him. He feels Georgie’s eyes on him, and he tenses. “I’m staying, Jon.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Then talk to him.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be involved in Institute business.”

Georgie hesitates, and Jon finally looks up at her. He’s careful not to make eye contact. It’s alright, he wants to say, you don’t have to stay – but he can’t.

“…anyone who doesn’t want to be a part of it, they can…” Jon says instead, faltering when he can’t find a good way to express the rest.

Back to the charades, I suppose, he thinks sullenly. He holds one hand out and walks the middle and index finger of his other hand across his upturned palm.

“Jon, why are you –” Georgie cuts herself off with a short exhale. “Do you want me to stay?”

Jon bites his lip. “Probably putting you in danger.”

“Yeah, probably, but that’s not the question I asked.” She sighs when she sees Jon’s puzzled expression. “Look, the only way I can think to approach all of… this is to break it into smaller pieces. It doesn’t mean I’m committing to anything else, it doesn’t mean that I can’t change my mind, it doesn’t mean that I can’t walk away later or set more boundaries. I’m not asking whether I should stay, and I’m not offering to get involved indefinitely or unconditionally. Right this moment, all I’m asking is whether you want me to physically leave this room for now and come back later.”

For a few minutes, Jon says nothing. If the question had been whether it’s safe to be near him, she already knows that his answer would be an emphatic no. Unlike him, Georgie knows when to cut her losses and leave. It would be condescending to assume that she needs him to protect her from her own choices, especially considering how, of the two of them, she’s the one who actually has a self-preservation instinct. She doesn’t have a choice, really. She can’t feel fear – one of the most basic survival tools – and as a result, she has to evaluate her circumstances much more constantly and painstakingly than others.

It must be exhausting, Jon thinks to himself. He knows what hypervigilance is like. Even if Georgie can’t experience the fear that goes along with it, it probably still saps her energy in much the same way.

He tries to force himself back on track. The question: Does he want her to physically leave in this moment?

No. He really, really doesn’t.

Jon closes his eyes, and Naomi’s statement is the first thing his mind touches: “Could you stay please?”

“Okay.” Georgie looks at Basira. “I��m staying.”

Jon feels some of the tension leave his shoulders, but he can’t help feeling selfish.

“Are you really okay with that?” Basira says, eyeing Jon. He can detect the unspoken question: You know what I’m going to ask. Do you really want her to hear the answer?

He does. Georgie deserves to know. They all do. What he doesn’t want is to hear what she has to say to him after the truth comes out.

But he nods anyway.

“Fine. What are you?” Basira says without preamble.

“’Are you secretly a monster?’ probably would have been a great opener,” Jon says acidly.

He flinches as the words leave his mouth. They were Sasha’s once – the real Sasha – said with a hint of playfulness, but now they just sound bitter. He’s fully aware that he has an overflowing stock of resentment bottled up inside him, hidden somewhere deep underneath all the layers of guilt and grief and self-loathing, but he wasn’t expecting the vitriol to slip out quite so easily. And he really, really can’t afford to start burning bridges, especially so early on.

But Basira seems unruffled.

“Alright,” she says with a shrug. “Are you?”

It’s complicated, he does not say.

When he reaches up to run a hand through his hair, the movement jostles the hospital bracelet affixed to it, catching his eye. He brings his hand back down and stares at it, hanging loosely from his wrist. He’s always been scrawny, but his arms look thinner than usual. Fragile. With a pang, he notices the scarring on his wrists, left there from where the ropes cut into him during his month in captivity with the Circus. By the time the world ended, they had faded somewhat. As they are now, they’re impossible to miss.

SIMS, JONATHAN, the wristband reads. Date of birth. Sex. Blood type. Patient identification number. Barcode. An allergy alert: amoxicillin.

Is he even still human enough for an allergic reaction to pose a threat? He could Know, he supposes, but –

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

He sighs, closes his eyes, and consults the Archive once again.

“It seemed almost human, from a distance, but as it got closer, I saw that it was –”

Jon quickly skims through statements looking for an appropriate fragment.

“…some newly-birthed monster,” he settles on. It’s blunt, and a bit petulant, but he may as well be honest. He resigns himself to whatever comes next.

Martin would have hated to hear him think like this.

Martin’s not here, some destructive, cruel part of his mind supplies.

“Why are you talking like that?” There’s the faintest tinge of aggravation in Basira’s tone now.

Before Jon can answer, Georgie gives him a skeptical, almost chiding look. “I doubt it's that simple, Jon. Why don’t you try that again?”

“I could see myself becoming one of those people and I fought very hard against the feeling of wrongness that seemed to be trying to worm itself into my mind,” he amends. Better. Probably more accurate, if he’s being kind to himself. (He’s rarely kind to himself.)

“That sounds more constructive than just giving up and deciding you’re a monster,” Georgie says.

She still seems baffled by the unusual quality of his speech, but he can tell she’s trying not to draw attention to it. Probably thinks it’s some neurological aftereffect of the coma. Not-coma. Whatever.

Who is he kidding? Georgie is sharp. She knows this is some supernatural nonsense – and there’s a simple, straightforward way to confirm it for her.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be the same person I was before.”

“I think that could be said of anyone. We all change from moment to moment, and – wait.” Georgie gives him a shrewd look as she registers the cadence with which he speaks. It’s undeniably familiar, but it’s not him. It’s his voice, but those aren’t his words. “Jon, was that my…”

“Statement – regarding the last words of a possible corpse,” Jon says wearily.

“Jon,” Basira says, her eyes widening just barely, “are you quoting statements?”

“The words repeated, as though on a recorded loop.” He gives an affirmative nod, just in case the words are unclear – which is often the case.

“Care to explain why?”

“I started to say something – but my voice died in my throat,” he says.

Then, changing tack: “…but it – it didn’t seem to be working right; all I could hear from it was the – faint noise of static, and…”

They probably don’t care how it feels, though, do they? They just want to know what it makes him now. His hands flutter in agitation as he tries to redirect, mind racing to find another statement.

“Okay, alright, I get the gist,” Basira says. There is a long, considering pause. “Can you just… write it down?”

The simple answer is no, but the easiest way to make them understand is with a demonstration. He holds one palm flat and with the other hand mimics writing on it.

Reaching into her bag, Basira produces a small notepad with a pen stuffed into the wire spiral binding. Jon pulls the pen out, rips the cap off with his teeth, and –

“Seriously, Jon?” Basira complains.

“Honestly, Basira, what did you expect?” Georgie snorts. “You can’t tell me Jon’s desk isn’t a graveyard of gnawed-up pens.”

Jon manages a tiny smirk at that. Most people were well-acquainted with his treatment of writing utensils after the first week of working alongside him. It had quickly become an office joke. About a month into his tenure as Head Archivist, he’d managed to chomp down on an exploded ballpoint pen. Tim had found him at the bathroom sink twenty minutes later, still trying to get the ink off his face and hands – and, of course, never let him live it down.

Well, until Jon burned the bridge between them, anyway. The good-humored ribbing and inside jokes gradually dwindled away, only to be replaced with corrosive distrust and resentment.

Jon’s smile fades just as rapidly as it had appeared. He flips to an empty page of the notebook.

He sets out with the intention to write a sentence of his own: Regardless of the mode of communication – verbal, written, sign – I can only borrow from statements.

It sounds too stiff, too academic, but it doesn’t matter. The moment the tip of the pen touches paper, Jon’s hand seizes. The tape recorder underneath the bed emits a brief crackle. When Jon tries to press down and begin writing, his fingers and wrist start convulsively twitching. A scalding pain starts to seep through his fingers and crawl up his arm, the recorder’s static oscillating along in time with the throbbing. When it upsweeps into a shrill screech, Georgie starts.

“Jon –”

Picking the pen up off the page, Jon holds up one trembling finger: Wait.

With a pained hiss, he shakes his hand out until the ache recedes. When he starts writing this time, it’s with the intention of reproducing a verbatim line from the statement of Jane Prentiss, regarding a wasps’ nest in her attic: I have tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words you could understand.

The words flow easily. The handwriting is a nearly illegible scrawl, but that has nothing to do with the Archive. Jon has always had poor handwriting, and it’s only gotten worse since his encounter with Jude. While his dominant hand is still usable, the burn scar contracture still affects his mobility and coordination to some extent.

He’s tried grabbing individual words from statements to piece together a novel sentence before, but just like speaking a single word in isolation replays every instance of it recorded in the Archive and leaves him reeling in the aftermath, trying to write a standalone word is risky. When he writes a word with the express intention of removing it from the context of a statement, every occurrence of the word floods him all at once. The force of it always overwhelms him before he can even start on the next word in his intended sentence. Usually he ends up dropping his writing utensil. Sometimes he passes out. Always it’s unpleasant.

It’s as if whatever power is enforcing the rules knows when he’s trying to bend them. Or Knows, more likely. Assuming he can assign self-awareness to the Ceaseless Watcher, that is.

Stop, he tells his wayward brain. Stay on task.

He shoves the pen back into the notebook’s spiral binding and hands it back to Basira, who returns it to her bag. The cap he keeps for himself, rolling it between his fingers now.

“What about BSL?” Georgie suggests.

Jon shakes his head no.

“How do you know?” Basira asks.

There are two answers to that. The first is that he just Knows. The second is that he’s tried. Martin knows a limited amount of signs, but Jon’s hands never cooperated when he tried to copy Martin’s motions. His fingers never wanted to curl into the correct shapes, his joints would lock up, and subtle movements would turn into violent tremors. Once, in a fit of stubborn frustration, he kept pushing back against the thing controlling his body. His arms went limp and numb, and he couldn’t use them for hours after.

Simple nonverbal signals – nodding, shaking his head, giving a thumbs up – seem to be, for the most part, whitelisted. Most charades and expressionistic gestures will also pass through the Archive’s filter. Formalized signing, though, is usually blocked.

The deciding factors seem to be intentionality and whether or not an attempt at communication is deemed to fit the definition of formal language. Sign languages, systems of writing, spoken words – all off-limits unless being used to reproduce the Archive’s existing records. The more imprecise and abstract the attempted communication, though, the more likely it is to escape the Archive’s strict conceptualization of language.

He and Martin experimented a bit with illustration and found mixed success. It was difficult to ascertain any concrete limits. The more abstract the intended drawing, the more likely Jon was to be able to produce it – though it tended to leave him drained and with a splitting headache regardless of how successful the attempt was. It did seem as though the intent mattered more than the result – which was probably for the best. Jon was no more of an artist than he was a poet, and it showed.

Any time Jon tried to ask the Beholding for clarification on the rules governing his new-and-impaired communication abilities, it gave him nothing but static in return. They had to find things out mostly by trial-and-error.

Luckily for Jon, Martin is observant and intuitive when it comes to reading people, and he’s a poet with a mind for the abstract. He was usually able to interpret Jon’s meaning with alarming speed and precision, and whenever Jon grew frustrated with his inability to express himself in a way that felt right, Martin would pose yes-or-no questions to try to help him narrow it down. He would always keep going until Jon was satisfied that he was understood. Even when they were in disagreement.

But Martin isn’t here, Jon’s treacherous brain reminds him again.

“Let me guess,” Basira sighs. “You just know.”

Jon gives a tired shrug. Even if he could use his own words, he may have had the same response. He’s never managed to have a conversation about his ability to Know that didn’t leave him feeling defeated. Sometimes it doesn’t seem worth trying to explain.

“Alright,” Basira mutters to herself, rubbing her temples now. “This makes things more complicated.”

You think? Jon wants to snap, and he’s thankful that he can’t. It isn’t Basira’s fault; she doesn’t deserve his ire.

“So, what does this mean?” she continues.

“I often find myself locked in a sense of esoteric paralysis on how to proceed,” Jon quips, borrowing from Adelard Dekker this time. He wonders if Dekker would have tried to kill him on the spot. He wonders whether he would have been right to do so.

Georgie stifles a laugh. Jon can hear the relief coloring it, and one corner of his mouth twitches into a smile again. She’s intimately familiar with his ill-timed gallows humor, and the fact that he can still draw on it so readily is a good sign. Another small piece of evidence added to the Jonathan-Sims-isn’t-too-far-gone column. She wants to believe it’s still him, he Knows, and wants to believe that he can get better – but there’s still a tiny, nagging ghost of doubt somewhere deep in her mind. He doesn’t blame her for that.

Basira isn’t as amused.

“Jon,” she groans, “please be serious.”

“It was definitely human once I could see, as it grasped desperately” – a skip ahead – “it was trying to say: ‘I’m sorry.’”

“It’s fine, just…” She sighs. “Try to answer the question.”

Jon closes his eyes again, brow furrowing in concentration.

“…so aware of the position I’m in, and keen to use that power to actually help people.” Referencing Tova McHugh’s statement makes him nauseous – the hatred and disgust he felt the first time he read it was directed at himself as much as it was at her. But it’s a fair comparison, considering what he was doing back then. “I’m trying to do good,” he adds, and hopes it sounds more sincere than Tova’s flimsy rationalizations ever did.

As expected, Basira looks unconvinced.

“Look, Jon, a lot has happened –”

“He already knows,” Georgie interrupts. “We talked – in the dreams, you know.” Basira does know. “About Tim and Daisy and Martin. And… and Melanie. He’s the one who told me about the bullet.”

“I thought Melanie figured it out on her own.” Basira’s eyes narrow as she looks at Jon. “How did you –”

“He said he knows things because of the Eye.” Georgie gives him a look that he can’t quite parse. Sympathetic, maybe? An undercurrent of disappointment, but without accusation. Frustration, but not directed at him – rather, it’s for him, on his behalf. “And he said that when he woke up, he would explain everything where Elias couldn’t overhear, but…”

“Maybe somewhere in your library are the words to explain what happened,” Jon says, unable to mask his dejection. “I suppose I’ll just have to try.”

“Still want to wait and do it in the tunnels?” Georgie waits for Jon’s affirmative. “Fair enough. I brought you a change of clothes.” Jon gives her a questioning look. “I’ve, ah, been bringing a bag each time I visit for the last couple weeks, in case you woke up. Just some things you left at my flat. I couldn’t find any trousers, so I just grabbed a pair of my joggers – which are definitely too big for you, but it should be better than a hospital gown, at least.”

Jon feels a grateful smile tug at his lips. He didn’t expect this level of consideration, doesn’t deserve –

“We should probably wait until a doctor signs off on your release, though.” Georgie stands and starts to move towards the door. “I’ll go to the nurse’s station, and –”

Jon shakes his head. “I cannot imagine what they would have thought of a person who could not die.”

“Well, you can’t just walk out of here. I don’t care how inhuman you think you are, you still need to be cleared for discharge.”

“I’ve no interest in becoming a resident medical marvel.”

It’s a hollow excuse. The first time around, the hospital staff couldn’t wait to rush him out the door. He doubts they’d ever processed a discharge so quickly before or since.

“Just stay here.” He’s halfway to ripping off his ECG sensors when she shoots him a stern warning glare. “Leave them.”

Jon responds with a peevish huff. Those sensors haven’t been connected to anything since the first week he was here. No one wanted to hear the incessant flatline, and –

Suddenly, he Knows all about the heated argument that was had regarding his DNR status. He had no next-of-kin to consult, so they were hesitant to mark him as DNR in advance. That meant that, since he was unresponsive – and his case was so unprecedented as to make any speculation regarding an outcome impossible – they should have been trying to resuscitate him. But they’d already tried that, and the consensus was that he should have been declared dead by the first responders. (Rumor was that his boss of all people had managed to convince them to bring him to the hospital for treatment instead.)

Under normal circumstances they would have declared time of death several times over by now and moved him to the morgue – except that brain death hadn’t occurred, and it didn’t seem like the absence of a pulse or respiration was having any effect on that in the slightest. Didn’t that render the entire discussion altogether moot?

And then Jon Knows how the only reason he was admitted in the first place is because Elias had a brief chat with the director of the hospital. He was, as always, very persuasive.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Georgie says when she hears Jon sigh. She stops at the threshold and looks back at him again just as he starts fiddling with IV cannula in the crook of his arm. He freezes and folds his hands in his lap, like a toddler caught reaching for the cookie jar. “Jonathan Sims, you’d better still be in bed when I come back.”

Jon rolls his eyes, but stays put. As Georgie leaves the room, Basira lets out a soft chuckle.

“No wonder she and Melanie get along so well.”

Jon refocuses at the mention of Melanie’s name. He makes a circular motion with one hand: Go on. When Basira gives him a blank look, he has a quick rummage through his catalog.

“– see any obvious signs of previous slaughter.” Trevor Herbert’s statement leaves a nasty taste in his mouth, but given Basira’s expression, it seems to have gotten his point across.

“Oh, the bullet?” Jon gives an enthusiastic nod. “Yeah, we, uh… we removed it. Melanie was reluctant at first, but I guess Georgie won her over. She’s… recovering. Physically, at least. She’s still angry, but not like before. Mostly, she just seems lost. And…”

Basira hesitates.

“…whatever protection it might have afforded you is severed.”

“Don’t read my mind, Jon,” Basira snaps.

Jon shakes his head: I didn’t.

“Whatever.” She drops into the chair next to his bed. He can see the fatigue in the way her shoulders slump. Basira has always had excellent posture, but right now, she looks ready to crumple. “Brought you a statement, by the way. If you want a fix before we leave.”

Something famished and greedy rears up inside him. It’s only with some difficulty that he manages to force it back. He can feel Basira watching him intently, and he avoids meeting her gaze.

“Well? Do you want it or not? You have that hungry look to you.”

Involuntarily, Jon’s eyes flick to Basira’s bag. He squeezes them shut again, shaking his head.

“Hm.”

Jon opens one eye and chances a glimpse of Basira. Her poker face is as flawless as always.

It’s stale anyway, he tells the persistent thing inside him. You’ve already got that one. Just pull it up and reread it if you want it so badly.

It continues scratching at the door.

Can’t you just be satisfied with Oliver’s statement and go back to lurking?

He isn’t sure why he’s acting like the craving belongs to something other. The Archivist, the Archive – they’re both him, even if they feel distinct from the human he used to be. It just helps sometimes, to talk to those parts of himself as if they’re backseat drivers. He used to do the same thing to his intrusive thoughts, back when he was still his own person. It wasn’t difficult to adapt his inner monologue to apply it to the Eye’s influence, even if it is ultimately a self-delusion.

The door opens and Georgie is back. The nurse trailing behind her looks like she would rather be literally anywhere else.

Here we go, Jon thinks sourly.

The hospital staff are clearly out of their depth. As it turns out, a rotating cast of specialists have been overseeing his case through the months, but it seems each of them did so for only as long as it took to hand him off to the next unlucky person in line.

Once he’s disconnected from all the (mostly inoperative) sensors and monitors, a nurse – he drew the short straw, Jon Knows – goes through the motions of taking his vitals a final time. Jon does him the courtesy of keeping his eyes lowered and tries to ignore the way the man avoids turning his back. He does not speak except to give short instructions – sit up, lay back, hold your arm out straight, take a deep breath – and Jon obeys without saying anything in return.

The current attending physician on duty makes only a cursory show of evaluating his condition. During the brief neurological assessment, she makes no comment on the fact that Jon hasn’t verbally answered any questions or even said a word. She’s barely there for twenty minutes before announcing that she should go work on his discharge papers.

“Shouldn’t he have a treatment plan?” Georgie tries. “Or – or referrals for follow-up, or something?”

“I, ah, have to discuss things with his treatment team,” the doctor says, already halfway out the door.

She doesn’t, Jon Knows. He hasn’t had a treatment team since the first month he was admitted.

“This is ridiculous,” Georgie mutters as the door closes.

Jon reaches out to touch her arm, and shakes his head when she looks at him.

“It is. It’s unprofessional.”

“Understandably, I think – it was entirely my own fault.”

“Stop that. You’re still a patient, you deserve some sort of – continuity of care.” When Jon chuckles, Georgie shoots him an indignant look. “What? You do.”

Now that there are no lines restricting his movement, he’s finally able to stretch properly. Doing so yields a series of devastating cracks and pops from his joints, and Georgie gives him a horrified look. He just raises his eyebrows at her: What?

When he sidles to the edge of the bed and puts his feet on the floor, Georgie stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to stand?”

No, he’s not, but if he has to sit here a moment longer he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

Predictably enough, he does have trouble standing on his own at first, but Georgie has no problem supporting his weight. Even when they were dating, she probably could have picked him up if he’d let her, and he weighs even less now. The bathroom is small, and he waves her off when she offers to help him dress. She hasn’t seen the extent of the scarring on his body, and he’d rather her not. Once he demonstrates his ability to stand using the handrail, she agrees to wait outside, but she stands near the door just in case.

Jon shouldn’t be able to stand at all, this soon after waking up from a six-month coma. He should have more muscle atrophy. He should need extensive physical rehab. He should still be in bed. Hell, he should probably be in some research facility somewhere, being poked and prodded and tested every which way.

He keeps waiting for the moment Georgie decides it’s all too much, tells him to take care of himself, and leaves.

Although he’s been here before and he knows what to expect, he still has to brace himself before looking at his reflection in the mirror. He’s haggard. Gaunt. His hair isn’t as long as it was where – when – he came from, only barely touching his shoulders now. It needs a wash. The burn on his hand is mostly but not yet fully healed. Same familiar dark circles under his eyes, same familiar speckling of shiny, pockmarked worm scars. His ribs are visible, and – he’s hit with a bolt of panic in the split second before he remembers that, yes, twelve pairs of ribs is the normal amount that he should have. Hopefully this time he can keep all of them.

The eyes staring back at him – only two – are still his own for now, back to the deep brown they’d been for most of his life before the Archive claimed its place. But he can see something sinister skulking behind them even now, and he knows that everyone else will be able to see it, too.

When he emerges from the bathroom dressed in a What the Ghost hoodie two sizes too big and practically swimming in a pair of Georgie’s joggers, he’s surprised to see that she’s still here. That she hasn’t changed her mind and written him off yet.

“Better?” she asks, and he nods appreciatively, if a bit timidly. “Sorry it’s not more your size.”

Jon doesn’t care. He hasn’t been this comfortable in… well, he doesn’t feel like calculating the time frame of the apocalypse. He doesn’t wait for the Beholding’s disapproval to hit him before he sends it a silent rebuff. At this point, it’s just reflex.

“I found you a wheelchair,” Basira says from across the room. “Just in case you need it.”

As she gives him a measured look, he feels like he’s being tested. It makes sense. The speedier his recovery, the less human he seems. But he isn’t going to feign infirmity. They deserve the truth from him.

There is a familiar dull ache in his bad leg, though. He could do with a cane, but his should be in his office about this time, and he doesn’t want Georgie to have to support half his weight until he has a chance to retrieve it.

“Well?”

He wavers a moment longer, then nods an affirmative and has a seat.

Just then, the door opens and a nurse enters, a new one this time. Jon makes the mistake of looking up, and when their eyes meet, he Knows that she has a statement for him.

The sound he makes as he claps his hands over his eyes is something like a strangled, panicked whimper.

“Jon?” Georgie places a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, um… sorry if I startled you, uh – Mr. Sims. I have some paperwork here, we just need some signatures before you –”

When she was nine years old, she was playing with friends in a drainage ditch. It was nearly dusk when they dared her to enter the tunnel, but she always was the bravest of them. She –

Jon digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees sparks, rocking back and forth slightly to distract himself from the compulsion snaking its roots through his thoughts.

– spent days wandering the gloom, and all the while, the frantic calls of the search parties echoed off the walls. Whenever she tried to call out a response, it would tighten its grip on her ankle: that warbling, mangled, broken-jawed thing with the –

“Leave them here,” Basira says curtly, crossing the room in a few long strides. “I’ll bring them to you when we’re finished.”

Jon can see the shape of the statement in her thoughts, but it’s not enough. He needs her story. She needs to tell it in her own words. She has to walk through that tunnel again, relive every twist and turn and shade of terror, and he has to experience it alongside her, all eyes –

“O-okay,” the nurse stammers, “I just – I thought I saw –”

– a second shadow, starkly visible even in the deepest dark, all dislocated joints and distorted –

Basira shuts the door on her mid-sentence and turns to face Jon.

“Jon. What was that?”

“…you’re not going to give the Watcher a statement,” he says, panting shallowly, hands still pressed to his eyelids. “You’re better than that.”

He isn’t sure whether he’s saying it for himself or for Basira. Both, maybe.

“She… has a statement?” Jon nods. “And you could tell just by looking at her?” Another nod. “That’s… hmm.”

“I could hear in her voice that she was afraid of him.” His elbows dig bruises into his thighs as he leans forward and draws his shoulders in tighter. “I was, too.”

“Does covering your eyes actually help?” Georgie asks, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. An attempt at grounding him. It helps.

“…it was enough to ease the relentless pressure,” he says, “if only a little bit.”

Jon pauses for a moment as he selects another statement.

“…wear a cloth across his face – hold my hand in front of my eyes –”

“Oh,” Georgie says, understanding. “Hang on.”

She withdraws her hand, but Jon can still feel her standing over him. A few moments later something is being lowered over his face and he goes rigid.

“It’s just my scarf, Jon. I thought we could use it as a blindfold.” Jon signals assent. “Okay. You can put your hands down now. Just keep your eyes closed.”

He waits patiently while she ties the scarf off at the back of his head and adjusts it, ensuring that it covers his eyes completely.

“Better?”

Jon lets out a shaky breath and nods. It’s a lengthy scarf and one end sits in his lap. He takes it in his hands and runs his fingers over the fabric: a nice texture, soft and warm and comforting. He wonders if – no, Knows now – Georgie knitted it herself.

For a few moments the room is quiet but for the scratching of pen on paper as Basira forges Jon’s signature on the paperwork.

“I’ll go hand this over and then we can get out of here,” she says brusquely. “Don’t take off the blindfold until we’re back in the Archives.”

Jon wasn’t planning on it.

End Notes:

Finished this chapter earlier than I expected. Not sure when the next one will be ready, hopefully sometime next weekend.

SO. A lot of exposition in this one, but I wanted to try to give a general outline of how Jon's statement-speak works, what limitations he's working with, and what loopholes he's already tried (and failed) to exploit.

Jon's verbal dialogue in this chapter was taken from statements in the following episodes, in order: MAG 019; 141; 112; 013; 026; 047; 115; 054; 094 (x2); 036; 054; 125; 032 (written not verbal); 156; 123; 155; 021; 064; 029; 010; 139; 042; 151; 125; 097; 099.

I realize that's... a lot of citations, so if you don't feel like scrolling and counting but you want to know what episode a specific line comes from, feel free to ask and I can tell you, lol.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #jonathan sims #georgie barker #basira hussain #tma spoilers

17 notes · View notes

siribear · 4 years

Text

whisper does wake up in the morning, unassailed by glory. deacon says she must be working out of another safe house. and so whisper lives another day. they scrub up as much as they can, change into cleaner clothes. deacon gets his favorite pair of jeans back.

‘good morning, you two.’ desdemona looks as if she slept little, but definitely slept. her eyes are brighter, clearer, and the cup of coffee next to her is still steaming.

‘des. carrington,’ deacon greets the two railroad officials, running a hand over his head. he’s foregone the wig today. no need for disguises around the people that know who he is. and so he scratches lightly at the ginger stubble that’s begun to grow in.

whisper toys with the end of her ponytail, combing out knots with her fingers. ‘so, what’s the plan, then?’

‘at least let us get breakfast first, partner.’

‘you’ve been spoiled, deacon. breakfast is in the coffee pot,’ desdemona says, lifting her own cup.

deacon is the only one not to indulge. desdemona and carrington fill their own mugs while whisper pours her first, and the doctor actually allows her to go first. coffee, an olive branch. once they’re ready, desdemona begins their briefing. ‘what information do you have on the brotherhood ship? i assume you two have scouted it out.’

‘it’s called the prydwen. and more than that, we’ve been aboard it,’ whisper says. all eyes turn to her. ‘i spoke with their elder, maxson. the squad that was stationed out of the police station was investigating a signal they attributed to the institute.’ she runs her finger along the rim of her cup, nails catching on the chips in the ceramic. ‘the minuteman general - ‘ it feels odd referring to herself in this way, but she has to make the distinction, now. lest carrington burn that olive branch. ‘ - offered a deal. information for information. and she just happens to know the location of a fallen brotherhood patrol.’

the holotape, distress pulser, and dogtags still sit somewhere at the bottom of her pack.

desdemona nods. carrington doesn’t look like he’s about to rip her head off again. small victories. ‘anything else to report?’

‘they’re obviously well-armed. they’ve got as many drones in power armor as we have railroad members, if not more. and that’s not even counting their foot soldiers.’ deacon shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘vertibirds, long range communication,’ he counts off. ‘we’re in trouble if we’re not careful. any more careful.’ he lets the warning hang in the air, for the other agents listening in.

‘tinker tom has already begun working on potential countermeasures. code name: red glare.’ whisper squints. as in rocket’s red glare? ‘we can’t let the prydwen stay here. or stay in the air,’ desdemona adds gravely.

‘perhaps they’ll leave once the institute is taken care of,’ whisper hopes out loud.

‘only if we ask nicely,’ deacon says with a shrug.

‘either way, the brotherhood is a threat we cannot ignore. whisper’s truce with them can get us what we need, but it doesn’t protect us if they turn their gaze elsewhere once the institute is gone.’

it’s a distinct possibility. and an unfortunate one. whisper has no wish to see paladin danse or scribe haylen or anyone else like them go up in flames.

‘on to the second matter. do you two remember a synth you helped reach ticonderoga?’

‘h2?’ whisper perks up. ‘yes, of course. is he okay?’

desdemona cracks a fleeting smile, gone as quick as cigarette smoke. ‘he’s fine, but dr. amari - ‘ carrington exhales audibly. so, still not happy about her knowing all of their contacts. desdemona ignores him, ‘ - is having problem moving him to the next checkpoint. malden center has been overrun by raiders. we have two options.’ she holds her hand out, two fingers extended. ‘one,’ she taps one finger, ‘malden center gets cleared for a final run, and we burn it immediately after. two,’ the first finger curls back as she taps the second finger, ‘we find a new route and h2-22 stays in goodneighbor until then.’

‘the longer he stays, the more danger he, our asset, and any future synths will be in.’ carrington frowns.

‘i agree. we have agents in the process of creating new routes with your new settlements,’ desdemona nods to whisper, ‘but it’ll take too long to co-ordinate for this run.’

‘so, we clear it, you burn it,’ whisper says simply. ‘there’s really no other choice. temporary danger versus compromising your asset in goodneighbor.’ she mimes weighing two items in her hands. ‘from what i understand, we need to go to goodneighbor anyway. we can let - dr. amari, was it? - know about the route directly, since it’s quicker than a dead drop.’ she looks to deacon, who shrugs.

‘a date at malden, then back for drinks in goodneighbor. sounds like a good time, to me.’

desdemona looks between them and rolls her eyes. ‘all right. as for any intel you get from kellogg’s brain - ‘

‘we’ll keep you informed via dead drop, boss lady.’

desdemona dismisses them after a few other matters. agents get assigned to shadow supply lines, opening them up to future synth railroads. whisper gives them names to look up, with a message from the general herself, just in case. drummer boy approaches her after the meeting and before she and deacon can depart, directing them to the furthest room, at the end of the catacombs.

‘PAM wants to speak with you.’

PAM’s room is a small office, less cluttered than the makeshift headquarters it’s attached to. rows upon rows of filing cabinets line the room, reminding her of nick’s office back at diamond city, but where nick had a plain desk, in the center of the floor is a single terminal. PAM, however, isn’t initially visible upon entering the room, and instead whisper is startled at the sudden sound of mechanical parts buzzing. the assaultron stands in the corner near the short set of stairs, mostly stationary aside from the upper torso shifting to follow her into the room. PAM’s claw-like appendages are raised at a 90 degree angle toward her, but still surprisingly unthreatening. much different from her encounter with the gunner assaultron.

‘drummer boy said you wanted to talk to me?’

the head pivots left, right, left. whisper, deacon, whisper. ‘engaging in human-robot interface,’ PAM’s feminine, robotic voice intones. ‘agent deacon and agent whisper. greetings.’

deacon doesn’t fully enter the room, just rests his hip against the railing with his arms crossed. it strikes her that deacon doesn’t care much for PAM. there’s no hint of amusement on his face, even behind the sunglasses. and whisper likes to think she’s gotten better at reading him.

‘go on, PAM.’

the assaultron isn’t offended at the curt greeting. ‘with the lost of augusta and the uncertainty regarding the safety of other safe houses, railroad alpha has determined there is a need for a new one. you have proven efficient in securing settlements. we would like you to establish a new safe house. designation: mercer.’

‘what?’

‘repeating message: with - ‘

‘no, i don’t - that’s not what i meant. i thought i wasn’t trusted enough. and now i’m given the responsibility of creating a whole new safe house?’

PAM is silent for a moment, mechanical parts whirring. ‘you have been given clearance.’ as if she’s a pre-war agent for the DIA. ‘a building named the coastal cottage has been deemed a suitable location.’

whisper checks her map after PAM uploads the location through the connector cable. the coastal cottage is a ruin of buildings, based on the old satellite picture, near salem. another checkpoint, much like outpost zimonja. ‘okay. it won’t be right away, but i’ll do it.’

‘please ensure mercer safe house is adequately supplied and defended. a caretaker will be sent once mercer has been established. thank you, agent whisper.’

topside, whisper waits until they’re halfway north to malden before confronting deacon. ‘you don’t like PAM, do you?’

she feels his shoulders shrug more than she sees them. ‘i don’t not like her,’ he says, the good humor in his voice painfully forced. ‘everyone counts on her to protect the railroad alone. the predictive analytic machine. that’s what PAM stands for. it’s what she did, pre-war, back at the switchboard. that’s where we found her. but she - ‘ he pauses, gathering his thoughts. ‘some time ago, an institute synth infiltrated one of our safe houses. PAM wasn’t the one that found the spy.’

‘but you were.’

‘someone did,’ he reiterates. he’s serious. no jokes, now. ‘PAM can keep us safe, but she can’t predict human nature. i suspect that’s why carrington lashed out last night.’

‘because carrington believes PAM.’ they follow malden river further north, past a large, abandoned boathouse. almost abandoned. whisper convinces deacon to detour briefly, and they exterminate the group of giant bloodbugs nesting within the building. ‘what does PAM really think of me?’

a dead body lies in the upstairs bathroom. on it, they find a note: a family hoping to sell a stash of chems hidden upriver to buy another brahmin. a story the minutemen will have to unravel later.

‘you’re an unknown quantity.’ the last two words he says in an approximation of a robotic voice, low and nasally. ‘no one expected your arrival at hq. not even me.’

and he was trailing her. ‘but you just said she can’t predict human nature.’

deacon hushes her quick and harshly. she pulls them behind the wall of the metro entrance. around the corner, there’s rustling. plastic tapping against pavement.

‘i know you’re there.’ the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight. deacon goes stock still. synths. gen-2s, just like the switchboard. ‘ i heard you.’ the monotone voice grows closer. judging by the amount of footsteps, there’s more than one. ‘i will find you.’

whisper braces herself, pulling deliverer from its holster. deacon brings up his rifle, back against hers, as he faces the other side of the wall. whisper brings one hand low, fingers against deacon’s thigh. she counts: on three. one tap. two taps.

halfway to three, she hears it. they both hear it, deacon’s back straightens up against hers. the wind up, then plastic synth parts cascading past the wall along with a shower of bullets. someone with a fucking minigun.

whisper puts both hands on deliverer and swings around the corner once the bullets stop. the gun has to cool down, and now’s the perfect time. she feels the cold metal of the minigun against her stomach just as she puts the barrel of deliverer against its owner’s temple.

‘god damn. whisper?’

the agent in question lowers her gun with a relieved sigh. deacon peers around the corner, coming up at her side.

‘hey, glory,’ deacon says casually, as if she and whisper didn’t almost just tear each other apart. ‘what’s up.’

glory punches deacon in the shoulder, hard. he buckles, grinning. ‘hq send you?’ at whisper’s nod, ‘that’s what we get for keeping secrets. i got my orders from griswold.’

‘well, we’re all here. might as well make it a party, right?’ whisper tries to light hearted, now that the tension has drained. no other synths have shown, so they probably just ran into a rogue patrol. conveniently next to a railroad route.

glory grunts, lowering her minigun. ‘if at all possible, can we not kill any more synths? i only killed these because i thought i saw someone run behind the building.’

‘thanks for saving our lives instead of the gen-2′s, glorious.’

glory punches him again. ‘you know what i mean, dee. i just - i dunno. i feel bad. whatever. party, right?’

‘desdemona said there were just raiders, so hopefully we just got very unlucky.’ it sounds even less convincing when she says it out loud, and neither of her companions look hopeful. ‘come on.’

#siri drabbles #oc: alice ward #series: we will all go together when we go

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maiaisbia · 5 years

Text

welcome to new york

Catarina goes to New York for the first time. She reunites with Ragnor and Magnus there.

Content warning to some references to pregnancy due to Catarina's work (no actual pregnant characters) and to period typical (late 1600s, early 1700s) racism.

Gen | Words: 1222 | ao3

Catarina hadn't seen either Ragnor or Magnus for some time. Because she liked to know as many non-magic ways of doing medicine as she could, so she could make spells that did the same work and so she could teach mundanes, she'd stayed in Paris. There she learned their traditional midwifery, before moving down to Buganda kingdom in central Africa where she had heard of a practice that was saving the lives of mothers and babies- a way to safely take the baby from the womb called a cesarean section. She hoped to bring this into her practice elsewhere, and share it.

When Catarina got back to Europe, she found that Magnus and Ragnor had both gone to the Americas. Deciding she could help people just as well across the ocean as she could here, she set off. Sailing was awful, and Catarina found that she spent most of the trip taking care of both sailors and other passengers. She made it to New York nearly drained of magic, and shot off a fire message to the boys tell them that they would need to come to her.

Ragnor finally responded, Catarina found she was in the wrong America and that Magnus was nursing the loss of his mortal lover. There was also something about pirates, which was rather concerning. Knowing it would take some time for them to reach her, Catarina decided to set up practice for the mundanes in the growing city of New York. There wasn't much in the way of Institutes yet in the new world and Catarina felt she would probably be safe doing what she could for the locals with magic and potions, and not get harassed by shadowhunters.

Help was certainly needed. Catarina ended up healing broken bones, delivering babies, scaring away racists, teaching some little ones to read, and all sorts of other tasks that came her way. In return, she was given safe lodging with different families, plenty of food, and near-constant company. Both the free blacks and those trapped in slavery learned quickly that she was the one-stop shop for solving most problems.

Months later, Catarina was working on a potion to help a young girl with extremely painful periods in the kitchen of the current family that was hosting her, when a young woman came in. The baby Catarina had saved from fever was resting in her hip, which caused Catarina to smile. The woman's expression though turned Catarina's smile to a frown and she stood.

"Is there something wrong Abigail?" Catarina asked, moving quickly to stand by the other woman. "Is your mother okay?"

Abigail frowned more, then nodded. "Oh Miss Catarina, no one's taken ill that I know of. But I was sent to warn you."

"About what?" Catarina said, relaxing a little bit.

"There's a fancy looking white man looking for you," Abigail said, worrying her bottom lip.

Catarina relaxed completely. "This fancy man, did he say his name is Ragnor?"

Abigail nodded, "Yes."

"He's a friend," Catarina assured. "Was there anyone with him?”

“Another man, Magnus.”

Catarina grinned. “I'm almost finished up here, do you know where they are?"

"I can take you to them, I think Mrs. Thompson is giving them the runaround," Abigail said, seeming to relax with Catarina and now just looking curious. "He's a friend?"

"Old friends, they both are," Catarina moved to finish the medicine. Mixing the last ingredients, she added, "I've been expecting them, they were down in Peru."

"A long journey," Abigail agreed, bouncing her baby.

Catarina put the medicine in a vile, and put that in her pocket. "Alright, let's go."

Abigail didn't really need to lead Catarina to Mrs. Thompson's, but she could tell the young woman was still curious. Catarina was planning to stay prim and proper in the face of the people whose respect she had gained, but then she saw Magnus and Ragnor. She couldn't help her excitement, as she and Magnus ran into each other's arms, holding each other tight. When she pulled away, she saw Ragnor was watching with a fond smile, so she promptly launched herself at him next, making him have to catch her. He pressed her tight, and then Magnus hugged her back, leaving her squished between them. It reminded her of the time they had all crammed into a bed in deep winter to stay warm. Magnus had insisted on being in the middle, then.

When they finally broke apart, Catarina blinked quickly, and saw her friends were equally affected and trying not to appear it. They really had been apart for too long. Ragnor cleared his throat, and shot a look over at Mrs. Thompson and Abigail who were openly watching them, "You've certainly been busy."

"Catarina you're wonderful," Magnus said with a grin. It didn't fully make it to his eyes, and Catarina remembered what Ragnor said. Magnus was hurting, and they needed to do whatever they could to help him feel better.

But she couldn't stop smiling just to have them beside her again. "You know me, I don't know how not to be busy. How was Peru?"

"Magnus almost had us become pirates," Ragnor said, deadpan.

"I thought we were never to mention that to anyone!" Magnus tossed up his hands.

"Catarina was always going to find out, once you got some rum in you," Ragnor rolled his eyes before turning to her. "How was Buganda?"

"Wonderful, I learned so much!" Catarina smiled. "But I’m almost sad to report I didn't become a pirate."

"It's not worth it," Magnus leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

"Noted, honestly not my first job choice," she leaned right back, and he gave her another smile, maybe a little bit more real than the last. They just needed to keep Magnus smiling. "Well, why don't I give you both the tour of New York, and maybe I'll put you to work helping me with a few difficult cases."

Giving Magnus meaningful work to do, work that would help people would get him back on track. Probably better than whatever they had both been doing in Peru. As she turned and waved for them to follow, she paused in front of Mrs. Thompson.

"Thank you so much for looking out for me," Catarina said, pressing the old woman's hand between her own.

"I see it wasn't needed," Mrs. Thompson's expression said that Catarina probably had some explaining to do, but there was still a smile.

"No," Catarina said, and that was a promise. "Ragnor and Magnus will be helping me, and there is nothing to fear from them. You have my word."

Mrs. Thompson gave Ragnor a weary expression, but nodded. "If they're as good of folk as you, we're lucky."

"They are," Catarina promised. "The worst they'll be is if you give them some of your brew."

Mrs. Thompson chuckled at that. "You'll all have to come by to share a bottle."

"Alright," Catarina said, and pressed a kiss to the wrinkled cheek. Then she turned back to Ragnor and Magnus. "We'll start at the little apothecary I've put together."

Magnus offered his arm to her, and she took it, then they both turned expectantly to Ragnor. With a huff, Ragnor took Catarina's free arm and she began to give the boys a tour of her current home.

#catarina loss #magnus bane #ragnor fell #my fic #mostly just some headcanons with a sprinkle of fluff #plot? i don't know it

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btgalaxy · 5 years

Text

Twisted

➳ pairing: yoongi x reader

➳ genre: mafia!au, angst, eventual smut, maybe fluff

➳ word count: 3k

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Chapter 3:

“And this here,” Taehyung points in the direction of the open space of which Yoongi surveys like a human embodiment of CCTV, “is the main training area, canteen, sparring ground. It’s the heart of the Enterprise.”

You nod, responsively, “why do they train so hard?” You gesticulate towards the men, throwing punch after kick after slap, all with the intention of slaughtering their opponent, “surely, there isn’t much actual fighting in this… business. I’ve never heard of some huge mafia war.”

“You think Yoongi would allow any of our goings on to be monitored by the government, let alone the press?” He scoffs, “the man isn’t the head of this place for nothing. The men have to be in top form 24/7, else the second the opposition find out we’re taking a day off or whatever, they’ll be here like a pack of wolves massacring the whole fucking place, it’d be a ghost town down here once they’re through.”

You swallow, “by the opposition- you don’t mean-“

“Damn straight I mean your ex. Man’s a killer. Doesn’t know a target from his parents’ faces.” There’s a glint of a smile on his lips.

You frown at what Taehyung is insinuating, employing a bitter tone, “don’t make up lies about him.”

“Duckie, there’s all sorts of rumours going around about him as it is. In case you haven’t realised, he’s sort of public enemy number 1 around here.”

You had noticed, actually. You’d noticed the glances people would give you as Taehyung was taking you around pointing out all the different departments to you, clearly aware of your relationship to Jimin. Some of the men would look you over once, then turn away in disgust, else others would smirk suggestively. To say the least, if you weren’t perceived as a sex object, you were someone nobody wanted to be involved with.

You and Taehyung walk through a new tunnel, close to where your room is situated, as he begins telling you about the origins of the Enterprise.

“Yoongi’s parents were the ones to find this place- an abandoned military HQ. It wasn’t as discrete; they built the house up top and battered it a bit so nobody would be tempted to come lurking around. Then, they bought the land above us and henceforth owned everything below it and the Enterprise was born. It’s a shame his folks aren’t here to see it now.”

As you saunter along, you push your mouth to one side, “did they die?”

Taehyung gulps back, glancing about momentarily with a nervous expression, “yeah, yeah they did.”

You don’t ask anymore questions regarding the former directors, after Taehyung’s apprehensive demeanour to which you pin down as it just being a touchy subject. You continue your exploration down the corridor, but as you turn down another darker, less accessible tunnel you notice a door, somewhat ‘pushed aside’ but from the worn metal on the handle you can tell it’s obviously opened frequently. And that smell in the air; like the smell of rubber, of alcohol, of… metal? You can’t really tell, but it’s prominent and lingers around your nose and mouth, threatening to waft up even further and poison your internals.

“What’s through there?” You interrogate, detouring away from Taehyung’s increased pace the opposite direction of the doorway to instead make your way over. A hand on your shoulder, however, prevents you from doing so.

“That’s out of bounds, duckie. Strict orders from above.”

“Then what’s that smell?”

“I can’t smell anything.”

You take a dramatic breath in, inhaling the pungent aroma deeply to make a point, “what do you mean you can’t smell anything,” you cough a little, “it smells like shit down here.”

“You probably just need to get used to it. It’s a long way from home, duckie.” He hits your cheek lightly, “come along.”

Disregarding your insistence that there’s something up with that tunnel, the door, the smell in the air, you trot along behind your tour guide, eagerly watching out for anymore dubious looking areas, though it’s a doomed endeavour; the place is an underground mafia institution after all- the whole thing is out of the ordinary.

“Here, I’ll introduce you to Kook and Joonie.” You recall one of the names, but aren’t entirely sure from where.

Yourself and Taehyung roam into what seems to be a security camera room, filled to the brim with PCs and technological equipment- all seeming far too advanced for any amateur to be dealing with. There’s a man sat in the chair at the very centre, with another leaning over him from behind, hand gripping the back of the leather seat. The two seem entirely consumed with some virtual game, yelling profanity at it and hitting each other when they mess up.

“Fucking hell Joon, have you got eyes? He was clearly in front of you,” he leans forward, smacking the man in front over the head.

“Get out you moron, I ran out of bullets.”

“Then reload you stupid fucker-“

The man in the chair groans before interrupting, “I can’t just reload-“

“Just press that button it’s not-“

“Fuck off already I’m the computer tech not you.”

“Doesn’t make you any less shit at this.”

“You little shit you-“

Taehyung interrupts the two with a cough, to which the man at the back of the chair turns around, revealing a bandage on his free hand and your eyes widen. Fuck, so that’s how you recognise the name. He looks you up and down, raising his eyebrows, then falls into a blank expression when you make eye contact. Taehyung simply smiles at the interaction, suddenly patting a hand over your shoulder.

“Y/N, meet Jungkook,” he announces, “I assure you he is just as sweet as he tastes.”

“Funny,” Jungkook snarls, merely glancing at you one more time before turning back to look at the game, “don’t expect me to get along with her, Tae. She did take- Joon fuck! Let me do it you bellend.” His hand is instantly reaching out to yank the controller from ‘Joon’s’ grip, shoving him from the chair so he’s forced to get up. You can’t help but allow your eyes to drift towards the bandage covering the bite mark, wondering how big a chunk you took out of it.

The man sighs, ambling over to you with a slight limp and a wooden stick in his hand, before Taehyung introduces him, “and this is Namjoon; the finest hacker and tracker you’ll ever meet.”

“Sounds like a porno,” Namjoon comments.

“I’m sure you’d like that,” Tae winks back, “Joonie is also head of drug shipments, and was part of the team that found out about you.”

“So you’re the reason I’m stuck here?” You turn to face the man adopting a deathly appearance to shoot glares his way.

He holds a hand up in surrender, “I can’t ignore my orders. Yoongi allowed me to come in with an injury- an unlikely occurrence in a place like this, so to start rejecting his demands would put me back out on the streets.”

You suddenly feel a little guilty, delineating that he must’ve been in a difficult situation with a clear permanent limp, “how did you hurt it?” You glance at his leg, to which he mimics, tapping it with his stick to create an unexpected clanging sound.

“Not hurt- gone. Amputated after they found a cancerous tumour in the muscle- I could either let it spread to the rest of my body and have to undergo years of chemo only to still die within a few years, or have it removed altogether. And now I’m part android, so naturally I got good with computers, which Yoongi thought was a good enough reason to let me in.”

You mull over the fact that not all the people here may be sick, twisted killers that you perceive them to be; some may not have had a choice, or it could’ve been a way out from a life they didn’t want to carry on living. Yes there are probably some near-psychopaths prowling about but you still become aware of the subtle moments of morality, hidden in the silence and behind the scenes of the vicious attacks.

“Y/N is gonna start training with Jin. We’re just headed over there to go introduce him.” Taehyung reveals, and Namjoon lets out a single laugh, clearly amused.

“Good luck with that. I’m surprised he’s agreed to train a girl.”

“What’s wrong with training a girl?” You interject, with a snappy tone.

“Nothing, nothing,” he insists, “it’s just Jin has a thing about training girls. He doesn’t like it.”

“Well he’s gonna have to like it. She’s starting tomorrow,” Taehyung reassures, wrapping an arm around you. You suddenly feel a lot more nervous to meet this man, fully aware he will be your main point of contact whilst living here as your trainer and for him to dislike that time with you just… well it wouldn’t be ideal.

You say your goodbyes to Namjoon and Jungkook, leaving them to yell incessantly at the computer screen after a minor debate about how those games actually contribute to their work- they just told you guns were guns, virtual or not. And that comment manages to bring up your defences again, with the realisation that even if in a former way of life they may have been innocents, now they’re killers. By their own will or not, if they aren’t actually killing people then they’re helping. It dawns on you this could be your new lifestyle also, but you push those thoughts back so not to succumb to the sinister outlook of your life now.

Traipsing down yet another tunnel, you hear the grunts and huffs of men throwing kicks and punches. The smacks against sandbags echoes against the stone walls and swims through your eardrums, threatening to explode them with every movement you take closer. The smell hits you next; of sweat and gym equipment. Then, as you walk through the main training area, you come face to face with your new mentor.

He grapples against another man, of smaller stature but fast pace, and dodges his hits stealthily before throwing his own, far better timed as they hit him dead on till he’s winded and bent over, wheezing. His hair sticks to his forehead, as he uses the back of his hand to wipe away a layer of perspiration and moves to his water bottle at the side, now making criticisms of the man’s skills.

“You rely on your speed, but you need to improve your strength. And your tactics are poor and predictable- don’t go for the first attack you think of, you’re quick enough to think first and to then make the unexpected move,” he gulps down a mouthful of water, swirling it around his mouth before swallowing it down, “go spar with the boys. You need to practise thinking before you hit.”

As the man jogs off, looking rather disheartened after that assessment, Jin whips a towel around his neck, finally turning to you and Taehyung stood watching. The dark expression on his face as he spots you indicates he has been pre-informed of your arrival, and you take a gulp when he begins to stalk over and Tae nudges you forwards with a smile playing on his lips.

“Jin,” Taehyung bows slightly in respect, which Jin reciprocates, although still not taking his eyes off of you.

“This is Y/N?” He scrutinises your figure intensely, almost making you squirm and recoil from his gaze.

“The one and only.” Tae shoves you closer again, and you snap your head round to glare at him before slowly turning back to face Jin, still looking you over again.

“She looks weak.”

“Well she’s never even set foot in a gym.”

“How do you know that?” You cry turning to Taehyung, suddenly feeling rather targeted.

“Read your file.”

You pout to yourself childishly, “I have been in a gym before.”

“It doesn’t look like it,” Jin finally addresses you face to face, “your arms and legs have no muscle, they’re just fat and bone.”

You wrap your arms over your chest, feeling conscious now he’s observing you so closely, “well I never needed to be strong or fast, or be able to fight.”

“It’s always good to be able to defend yourself.”

“I never needed to.”

“Clearly you did considering you got abducted and brought here?” His retort silences you instantly as you wet your lips, perhaps a little awkwardly with the sudden tense atmosphere. He sighs, looking at Taehyung and then returning to a punching bag hung up to the left, leaving you both stood alone.

“Jin?” Taehyung glances at you, then at him, now busy launching hits at the surface, “what time should Y/N be here tomorrow?”

“She shouldn’t be here tomorrow. She’s an unnecessary distraction from real work with the men.” A fire starts in the pit of your stomach. What a fucking misogynist.

“Yoongi said-“

“I don’t care what he said. This is my department and it won’t be ridiculed by some feeble female incapable of opening a jam jar, let alone fighting a trained assassin.”

You’re about to step forwards and begin rocketing insults at him at full force after slandering your whole gender, but another presence gets there before you. And you’re surprised to find Yoongi looming behind you, having watched the entire scene unfold before him and now stepping forwards, smirking as he comes into your eyesight.

“Jin, how are you this evening?” He asks, casually. Jin falters for a second, pausing from his punches to glance over, before nodding his head curtly and returning his attention to the equipment in front of him.

Yoongi nods, raising his eyebrows slightly, “so what seems to be the problem with training her?”

Jin carries on with his work out, not even glancing over at his boss, “she’s weak. She’s too far behind. She won’t catch up.”

“Well that’s why I’ve entrusted you with the job, over the other trainers. She needs a lot of work.”

The fact that they’re talking about you in third person right in front of your face further ignites the fire burning through your veins, but you refrain from letting your tongue loose on their blatantly rude manners, considering one is a mafia boss and the other a highly skilled combatant.

“She will hold back the other men.” He ceases all movement suddenly, panting as he looks over at you and Yoongi, “it’s not right to hinder the progress of my division for some girl nobody wants here.”

Surprisingly, Yoongi isn’t happy with Jin’s comment whatsoever, deduced from his squinted eyes and furrowed brows capturing the man in a fatal glare, “need I not remind you of what you owe me, Seokjin. She’s stronger than she looks. If you give her a chance, you may find she’s got a better work ethic than some of these so-called ‘men’ you’ve been training up for months.”

Your stomach leaps as Yoongi becomes to threatening, all at your cause. It seems fictitious that such a man could even attempt to defend your honour, but similarly you don’t look too far into it, considering he’s doing nothing that won’t benefit him also. And obviously Jin has some kind of debt to repay, that he ‘owes’ his boss.

Jin pokes his tongue in his cheek before exhaling in frustration, “be here by 4am in workout gear.”

A small hint of smile slips through your lips as he gives in, feeling something similar to victory as he concedes to Yoongi’s demands.

“I’ll work you to the fucking bone so you better get ready.” And with that he returns to his punching bag, arms tensed as he vents his irritation through the form of aggression.

You turn around to see Taehyung has obviously wandered off, and you’re now left with Yoongi, flicking his head to the side to follow him away from Jin’s area. You follow behind him, away from the main training grounds and towards a staircase leading up to his office. Once inside, he turns to you, smirking smugly.

“I believe you might have perhaps a bit of trouble with your new trainer.”

You let out a sarcastic laugh, “you don’t say.”

He grins back, looking somewhat satisfied, moving over to his desk, “if he does cause you trouble you need to tell someone. I need you trained, not collapsing everywhere.”

“Trying to be some kind of hero now are you?” You suppress a smile, etching its way onto your expression.

“Only for my new favourite.” He takes out a file from his desk, “I’ve got something for you.”

He passes you the envelope of paper, to which you take apprehensively, unsure about its contents. As you open it up, you’re shocked to find a collection of photos of you as a child, your family and your friends. All the photos from your childhood through to the day you broke up with Jimin and came here- all sorts of memories bundled into one folder and gazing up at you nostalgically.

“What is this?” You murmur.

Yoongi sits at his desk, “I figured you may not see them for a while. So photos are the next best thing. God knows it’s how everyone else copes.”

Although the whole concept is pretty morbid and you now know he knows where the people you love are, the gesture seems unusually kind. You do, however, take notice that none of the photos include Jimin- even to the extent of him being visibly cropped out of some. But you don’t mention it.

“Thank you.” It’s the first sincere thanking you’ve done since you’ve been held captive here, after not being able to voice your thanks to the old lady that left you books.

“It’s nothing.” Yoongi dismisses, and you simply roll your eyes in response.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” You start uncomfortably making your way to the exit.

He nods, brusquely, “I’ll look forward to it.” He glances up incredibly briefly, with a gratified smirk on his lips before you leave with an increased pace, a knot forming in your throat, restraining you from breathing.

And as you’re walking down the corridor, you reprimand yourself for being so friendly with a murderer. Flirting, even. You come to the decision it’s better to focus your mind on other things- the books the woman leaves and your new start to training as of tomorrow. You take a breath in. Focus.

Masterlist / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

#twisted #bts reactions #bts imagines #bts suga #bts mafia au #bts angst #bts fluff #yoongi smut #admin lottie

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hariboowrites · 6 years

Text

IW coda (2/2)

PART 1

SUMMARY: THOR AND JANE FOCUSED CODA TO IW bc i am who i am

She pops out on the ashes of a battlefield and realises her mistake.

“Halt!” She hears and wince. No, now she realises her mistake.

“Fuck,” Jane mutters, spinning in place, her hands up, as she comes face to face with Wakandan soldiers. They’re all pointing their spears at her and Jane yelps. “Sorry! I’m human! I’m— I’m Dr. Jane Foster. Your princess invited me here?”

The soldiers raise their eyebrows, unbelieving, and Jane can’t fault them. She only met Princess Shuri once at one of Jane’s lectures in Brussels not long after Wakanda opened itself to the world. She had handed Jane a very cool touch screen business card that Jane had tried to reverse engineer for about a month. She hadn’t manage.

I should have called first, Jane thinks, but the words that come out of her mouth are: “I have this!” And she digs into one of her jacket pockets and pulls out the card in question. Swiping her fingers across the screen, an image emerges from it with Princess Shuri’s face.

“Dr. Foster, I’d love to speak more with you about your Foster Theory. Please feel free to get in contact with me when your schedule allows. The details will be on the card. Bye!”

They look at each other, sigh, and lowered their spears.

Jane grins.

And this is why she never empties her pockets, Darcy.

In front of them the remaining ruling body of Wakanda are holding court with Rogers and Colonel Rhodes. Rhodes has just taken a call with Queen Regent Romanda and the remaining world council. Less than half of them remain; General Ross is gone. Thor watched as Bruce twisted his fingers together and mouthed a name. His hands fisted on his trousers. Natasha’s eyes flicked towards him. The name had not been Natasha’s. Thor knows little about what was happening between them as when he was last on Midgard he had been splitting his time between New York and where Jane was.

Jane…

Her memory burns deeply in him. Her home based had moved from London to Edinburgh not long after Convergence, but institutions around the world were constantly calling her to work with them. It had been an interesting way to see the world. The thought brings a sharp ache in his heart. When he left they had been on tense but good terms despite what he implied to Loki, but he lost Jane too. Maybe more fully than he ever allowed himself to think. She could be gone now, like half the world, like half the universe, and every time he let his thoughts stray that way, he has to stop himself.

As Her Majesty and Rhodes continue their meeting with various world leaders, Queen Romanda offers Wakanda’s assistance. Her son was King until an hour ago, as he’s come to understand, and now she stands, straight backed, eyes wise, and heart most certainly broken. Thor tries not think of his mother, tries not think of how she looked after Loki’s first death. He thinks about he’s selfishly glad she did not have to live through his following two and Father’s. Or how she would have felt about Hela’s return. He can’t think on that, not now, not when Thanos lives and half the universe is gone. M’baku stands next to the Queen as she and Rhodes coordinate to bring Midgard back into balance. Families are gone, friends are gone, but so are many world leader and their governing bodies. In the aftermath, shock will reign, but once things settle down… good people have remained, but so have greedy and cruel people. Thanos did not better the universe, he only created instability in an already finely balanced scale. He did not understand. Thor only understands now as he watches the ashes fall.

Soon, he leaves the meeting room with Rogers, Romanoff, Banner, Rocket, Princess Shuri, and her guard. They follow the Princess, her eyes still red rimmed and pulling at Thor’s heartstrings, to her lab. Rocket clambers up Thor’s cape and settles quiet on his shoulder. Thor allows him. No father should lose his son. Once they reach the lab, he jumps down and curls up by a window. The Wakandans look at the talking racoon with wide eyes, but easy acceptance. The world they lived in now was not one were you could dismissed an ally, strange, small, and angry as they might be.

Rogers and Romanoff stand near each other. Okoye does not move more than five feet from the princess’ side. Banner hovers and paces across the room. At one point Natasha’s phone beeped and she looked down to it before moving to talk to Okoye about something.

So even now, in a room with allies and friends, Thor feels so completely alone. Useless in a way he never has before. Strombreaker pulses differently in his hand than Mljonir did. It harnesses his power differently, requires more from him. He guesses it’s a good thing that in the last fortnight his powers have been raging high within him.

Speaking off, he feels them now. Bubbling under his fingertips. He clenches his hand, fingernails biting into his skin. Thinking of home and Loki and Jane has not done any good to his temperament. He tries to think of Krog and Valkyrie and the remaining Asgardians who made it off the ship. He hopes they’ve found safe harbour. He hopes that with Asgard already gone, it’s population already halved by Thanos, the universe was kind to them and spared them all. Asgard indeed lives in the heart of its people, but if there are no people to keep its beat alive the Asgard is truly gone. The thought makes him hate Thanos more than he thought possible, it makes him hate Hela who if not for all the secrets in his family he may have loved. Something dark and bitter in him thinks they would have been well suited to each other. Goddess of Death and the warlord who courted it.

“Thor? Thor?”

Snapping back to the present, Thor turns. Rogers looks at him with kind, understanding eyes. Thor straightens. The captain’s empathy always shines clear in this eyes. “I am sorry, my mind drifted away from me.”

He nods, “It’s okay. We were just wondering… can you get us to Thanos?”

Thor considers this. He lifts Strombreaker. “I do not have Heimdall’s power of Sight across the universe. I cannot find someone who is where I don’t know, but I can get us off planet should we need to.”

Banner makes his turn around the room. “We have to find Tony too… I mean, if he’s—“

“We’ll find him,” Rogers says. Thor wishes he could sound as confident as him. Everything in him is struggling to keep it together. “And then we’ll find Thanos—“ The name sparks new anger in him, his fingers light up.

Everyone looks at him. Rocket lifts his head for the first time in a while. “You okay, big guy?”

Thor nods. He is not, but he has to be.

He has to be.

“You sure—“

His fingers spark.

Natasha gets cut off as a pair of guards enter the room.

“Okoye, Princess, there is a woman who—“

“Thor!”

Jane’s voice rings out and everything inside him stops. His focus narrows on her and her face as she turns the corner. She pushes past the guards that were flanking her and rushes across the room to him. He notes they go and stop her, and tenses, ready to intervene, but Okoye catches their eye and nods at them. They stand down.

It’s the most natural thing in the world to catch her in his arms and wrap his arms around her. His power immediately settles back into his skin at the feel of her weight under his hands. Jane’s arms are tight around his neck and he clutches her, her feet skimming off the ground. If she feels the remainder of the sparks in his fingers she says nothing; she’s familiar with the edges of his power anyway. He can feel the whisper of his name against his neck. How her body relaxes into his, her relief physical. His own body echoes it. The tightness in chest diminishes slightly. He buries his face in her hair for a second before pulling back to look into her eyes.

They are familiar and shining. He lifts one hand from her waist to wipe at the corner of her eyes.

“Jane,” he says. The first word in days that does not bring him pain.

Her fingers smooth through his hair. She closes her eyes for a beat. “You’re okay, you’re okay....” she mutters and looks into his eyes. “Your hair...” her eyes narrow and she touches his right eye and he knows she sees the difference in their colour. “Your...” He shakes his head. Not here, but now. She gives him a familiar sigh as her fingers skim his jaw. They’ll be talking about it later.

Jane leans back, her touch soft. He wants to lean into it further. He loosens his hold enough to let her touch the ground despite that everything in him wants to pull her in closer.

“Thor, what happened?” she asks, voice steady, but scared. “I was in Cape Town on the phone with Darcy when she... then other people around me— My mom didn’t answer the phone. Neither did Sif.” And while that surprises Thor, but there’s no time to dwell on his friend and the flash of pain in his heart when he remembers Heimdall’s sacrifice. “What happened?” Her voice breaks. “What happened?”

Thor hates he’s the one that has to tell her he failed, but she deserves to hear it from him.

“Thanos got the stones. We— I was too late,” he says. The name creating a new spark of pain in him. Jane looks at him and grabs his hand. She squeezes his fingers and slips them between her own. Thor grips her like a lifeline. He is surprised at how much her touch settles him still.

“It wasn’t your fault, Thor,” Rogers cuts in, reminding Thor they are not alone. Jane turns to face him. Steve smiles at her. “Hi, Jane.”

Thor takes a deep breath. Rogers is wrong, but it’s not the time for that. “Let us all talk,” he says instead.

Jane nods, shifting to stand at his side, as she looks across the room. As soon as she see Shuri, she blushes.

“I’m so sorry, Princess. I used this to get your guards to let me in,” and she pulls out a very small electronic card.

Princess Shuri smiles. “It’s alright, Dr. Foster. It is why I gave it to you. Though I thought you would call first, but under the circumstances I understand why you didn’t.”

Jane shrugs . “Yeah, sorry. It was rude, I know.” She turns to their friends. “Hi, guys.”

“I just got your message,” Romanoff says with a small smile. “A little more warning would have been nice. How did you get here so fast?”

“I’ll explain in a second. Hey, Bruce.” She reaches out to Banner, who steps up and gives her a slightly awkward hug since she’s still holding Thor’s hand. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Banner grins; his first since Thor landed on Earth. “Hi, Jane. It’s good to see you, too.”

She snorts. “Understatement of the year. Catch me up?” She steps forward, tugging on Thor’s hand as she moves. Thor walks towards Princess Shuri with her. He doesn’t want to let go of her hand and thankfully Jane is not forcing the matter. As they fill Jane in on what’s happened in the last few days across the universe, Thor and Banner add in what happened on Sakaar and Asgard. Jane starts when he skims over what happened to Asgard and Heimdall and even Loki. She meets his eyes and while she says nothing he can see how her entire body sags, how her eyes mist, and she chokes back a sob at what she sees in his gaze. Her grip on his hand tightens and she presses her forehead to his bicep. He feels her lips brush his skin in silent comfort. They have too much to talk about. Banner, a good friend, better than Thor had thought a week ago, covers for them and quickly starts to explain what he knows of Stark, trapped somewhere in space. It gives Thor time to regroup before he adds in the facts of his journey these last few days. Rocket adds his own colourful commentary as Thor explains the creation of his axe. Jane to her credit only blinks at the talking raccoon.

“And is Eitri alright? Is Nidavellir still working?” she asks. He had almost forgotten he had taken there once to meet Eitri. How she had studied Nidavellir, how she wore a piece forged from there on her person, still. He can feel it against his palm.

Thor nods, catching the glint in Jane’s eye. “He does. Do you need his help?”

Jane hums. “Maybe later…” she says, pulling her bag closer to her. She turns to Rogers and Rhodes, who came into the room as they explained the situation to Jane, “So first thing first. You guys wanna find Tony, I mean, if he’s still—“

“Thor can get us into space,” starts Rogers. “His ham—his axe brought him here, didn’t it?”

“It did,” he affirms, quietly enjoying how Jane’s eyes light up at the fact. That she is still here, that her eyes still brighten at the science of Asgard, that her mind still looks for answers to reach the stars allows him to feel normal for the first time in days.

Turning to Rogers, he explains just how calling the Bifrost with his axe works. “But only if I know the location. It’s why I could get here. I do not have Heimdall’s power to look through the stars and locate a person in a place unknown. I require previous knowledge of the location. I cannot just call the Bifrost across the universe if I don’t know where I’m going even if I know who I’m looking for. Once I get closer to a location I can guide it better, but first I need to know the place I’m aiming for. But Jane, you can, can you not?”

Jane looks at him and bites her lip. The warm flare of affection and attraction at that familiar gesture makes Thor grin. He knows that look well. She can. He could kiss her. It surprises him how much he wants to right now.

“Not yet,” she says. Reaching in her pocket she pulls out a small device. “Tony helped me with some of the nanotech and the arc reactor, and I can now make the portals I used during Convergence to get around the planet. I didn’t want anyone to know I had the technology yet, it’s still mostly untested, and not as stable as I want it to be.” She swallows, her eyes flicking away from him. “I still get some vertigo if I go across the planet, but that’s what I was hoping Princess Shuri would help me with,” she says, turning to the princess. “Except now I think we might need to try to get a bit further than North America?”

At her words, Princess Shuri grins, her eyes (still a bit puffy form her earlier tears) crinkle from her smile. “Oh yes,” she moves across the room and holds her hands out for Jane’s device. Jane hands it over easily. “I think I can definitely help with that, Dr. Foster!” She pops the device under a Wakandan scanner and starts moving around her lab. Okoye gives a grateful look at Jane as she looks over her charge. Banner moves closer and eagerly listens to the princess explain Jane’s device and her idea to help boost Jane’s portals to span the universe. Rogers and Natasha walk over to Okoye and Thor knows they’re about to beginning planning what they’ll do next once the princess and Jane get the device to work. Thor knows he should go over to them, and he will, soon, but right now Jane is still by his side. She’s standing next him, her hand still in his, her eyes on the princess and her device, and soul intact.

Thor will move. He will plan with his friends, he will avenge his brother and the universe. They will fix this somehow, but for now, for this moment, Jane is here. He thinks about he told Rocket on the way to Nidavellir. What more do I have to lose? Glancing at Jane, he realises is not willing to find out. He did not know what he had still, but now he does.

She must feel him looking at her and glances up at him. “Hey, you okay?”

He nods, and it feels true. “Better now that you’re here.” He lifts their joined hands and kisses her fingers.

She laughs, reaching up to cup his jaw and raises herself up on her tiptoes. Her lips brush against his cheek. “Same, you know. I didn’t think I’d— I’m… I feel better when you’re around.” Grabbing her bag, she nods her head toward the corner of her lab. “By the way, I have something else to tell you. I might have gone to Norway a month ago when I saw some Bifrost readings there.”

Thor lifts his brow, curious. Jane hands the bag to him and he pauses at the weight in it. He looks at her and realises she’s been holding it with easy for some time. Her eyes meet him and she grins.

“Surprise,” she says, eyes bright and Thor feels hope again.

#thor odinson #jane foster #fosterson #thor x jane #jane x thor #mcy #fanfic #wip #idk if i'm gonna anythign else #but maybe

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the-magnus-archives-archiver · 6 years

Text

Vampire Killer

Case: 0100710

Name: Trevor Herber Subject: His life as a self-proclaimed vampire hunter Date: July 10th, 2010 Recorded by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

Right then. Been almost 50 years I’ve been meaning to pay you people a visit and get this down on paper, but I finally got here. So where to start? My name is Trevor Herbert, like I put at the top of your form there, and I’ve been homeless for most of my life. In fact if you lived in Manchester there’s a good chance you’d have heard of me. They call me “Trevor the Tramp”. I mean, I’m not exactly easy to miss am I, and I’ve been living there in public view for so long I guess I’ve become kind of an institution. Helps that I’ve always had a kind of uncanny knack for guessing people’s ages. People will come up to me on the street and ask me to guess their age, and I’ll tell them and most of the time they’ll be shocked when I get it right. It’s fun. So everyone around Manchester knows about Trevor the Tramp, sure. I hear someone even made me a page on the Internet and it got a few thousand likes. I don’t know exactly what that means but it sounds nice. Obviously that’s not why I’m here, though, is it? No, I’m here because I have also dedicated my life to finding and killing vampires.

I have killed five people that I know for sure as vampires, and there are two more that may or may not have been. There is one man I have killed, unfortunately, who I am now sure was human, but I also know he was a violent criminal so I try not to feel too badly about that. I’m sure it’s hard to accept for anyone, even an organisation such as yourselves, but I do not have proof to give you except for the vampire teeth that I will leave with this statement. Do not feel bad about reporting me to the police for the murders, as I am sure you must, since I have recently received a diagnosis of late-stage lung cancer and it is doubtful I will be living much longer anyway. That is the main reason for finally putting down on paper the details of the mission I have been secretly undertaking for the last half a century.

I killed my first vampire in 1959. At that point I was still living a mostly normal life, save perhaps for the abuse my family was subject to from my father. He was a vile man who ended up killing my mother in ’56. It was a clear-cut case of drunken murder but the courts ruled it as an accident and my father stayed out of jail. Luckily, myself and my brother only had to endure four months of unpleasantness from him before he finally finished drinking himself to death. I was thirteen when he finally died and my brother was fifteen. Following his death, there were several attempts to rehome us as orphans but they always split us up, and we couldn’t be doing with that, so we’d generally run away. After a while it became so we were happier finding our way on the streets than in another stranger’s home.

It was in autumn of 1959 that we were taken in by Sylvia McDonald. It wasn’t any sort of official fostering agreement, but it was getting to be quite cold at the end of October and it just saw us shivering in a side street next to the Kings Arms Hotel, as it was back then, on Tipping Street before the ring road took it over. Looking back I believe it to have been visiting the pub for the purposes of locating down and outs for use as victims and in my brother and myself, I must say, it successfully found some. It looked like an older woman, a widow I assumed, from the way it dressed in black and had a strange manner, which I now know to be the mark of the vampire, but back then I paid no attention to it. Many of the older folks had lived through both wars and it was not uncommon for them to be somewhat strange. I thought this was the case with Sylvia McDonald and after a small amount of discussion my brother and I agreed to the offer of food and shelter.

Let me say a little bit about the vampire’s manner, because once I taught myself to read I read as much on the subject as I could and it isn’t covered often or clearly in those books I have found. You see, from my own observations I believe a vampire to be more like an animal than a man. That is not to be taken as merely a turn of phrase but more to do with how they work. I do not believe vampires are human in anything more than their appearance, nor have I ever seen evidence that they create more of their kind through feeding. One thing that should be noted is that they do not speak. In fact they are in my experience totally silent, having no need for air and no room in their throats for a windpipe. They are able to make themselves understood, however, with absolute clarity, though the manner through which they do so has never been clear to me. When Sylvia McDonald came to us in the alleyway that day, we understood that was the name it gave itself and that we were being offered a meal and a bed, even though it never uttered a single sound. More than that, I do not recall the fact that it never said a word as striking either of us as strange in the slightest. I have never fully understood how they are able to do this, and I doubt that I ever shall, but I can only assume it to be some instinctive form of hypnosis or mind control.

Another misconception I have always faced when trying to discuss vampires is that people think they cannot go out during the day. They can. While I have witnessed them avoid direct sunlight if possible and wear generally more covering clothes when moving around during the daytime, they seem to have no significant problem doing so. I would describe them as weaker during the day, but whether this is scientifically due to the sunlight or simply because evil has less power in the daylight hours is unclear to me. Sylvia McDonald came to us on an overcast afternoon and enough of its pale flesh was uncovered that, were sunlight to truly harm a vampire, then it would likely have been destroyed.

On that afternoon my brother Nigel and I agreed to go back to the house of Sylvia McDonald in the hopes of a roof over our heads for a little while. She lived on Loom Street, which is still there, though the house itself was torn down long ago and there’s just a bit of scrubland now where it used to be. I sometimes go there to pay my respects, since my brother has no burial or grave I can visit. The house was old, even when I went there in 1959, and entering it I was hit by a stale, coppery smell that I did not recognise as old blood at the time, since I was barely 16 and did not have then the experience I have now. The furniture and wallpaper had clearly not been changed in many decades and a thick layer of dust covered everything. Even the floor was pale with dust except for a stark line where Sylvia McDonald moved, the train of its dress dragging behind it. I remember wondering whether Sylvia McDonald walked exactly the same route through the house always, as I saw other clear lines of passage in the rooms we passed through. None of the furniture looked used and when I picked up a book from one of the shelves the pages were solid with damp and mould. I began to feel very uneasy at this point, but whatever powers of persuasion the vampire had calmed me enough to continue following it with my brother.

We went up the stairs and I was led to a small room with a bed in it. I was made to understand that this would be my room and was left there as Sylvia McDonald led my brother away to the room next to it. When it returned it brought a bowl of fruit and offered it to me. The fruit was clearly a few weeks old and in various stages of rotting, but just to appease the thing I found an apple and a couple of grapes that seemed edible and I ate them. It watched me silently the whole time and then turned and walked out towards Nigel’s room. By this time whatever the creature had done to make me compliant seemed to be starting to wear off, and I was realising just how wrong everything was. I was also realising that it didn’t look like there was any easy escape from the house. All the windows I had seen were barred, and I recalled Sylvia McDonald had locked the sturdy-looking front door behind it after we had all entered. So instead I just laid down in the old musty bed and I waited.

Couldn’t rightly say what I was waiting for, but soon enough it got dark and I assumed Sylvia McDonald had gone to sleep, not yet realising the manner of being that I was dealing with. I wanted some light to comfort me but the old house seemed to have no electricity at all, so I used my cigarette lighter on a candle I found next to the bed and crept towards the door. It wasn’t locked, thankfully, and I left the room assigned to me and walked over to where I believed my brother was. I went in and found him lying in his own bed, pretending to sleep. After a bit of talk it became clear that Nigel was no happier with our situation than I was and we both resolved that another night on the cold streets was better than staying with this strange woman. As we talked through possible ways to escape, however, we heard a rustling sound outside the door, and the handle began to turn. Not wanting to anger our strange host, I crawled under the bed to hide, while Nigel returned to pretending to sleep.

From my vantage point under the bed, I could see the door open and the skirt of Sylvia McDonald enter and move towards the bed. I simply laid there and tried not to make a sound. I am not proud of this and sometimes have a certainty that my inaction led directly to my brother’s death, but most of the time I accept that if I had alerted the vampire to my presence then I would also have died. Either way, the fact of the matter is that I did nothing as I heard the sounds of a struggle overhead and Nigel’s strangled cry. The creature turned quickly and hurled him down, something fell to the floor in front of me, but I didn’t look at it, my eyes locked on Sylvia McDonald as it pounced upon my brother. It opened its mouth for what I then realised was the first time since we met it, and I could see nothing inside save for a dozen long, thick, pointed teeth like a shark. In one fluid movement it plunged those teeth into my brother’s neck and tore out a great chunk of flesh. Blood started to spurt from Nigel’s spasming body, as Sylvia McDonald’s throat began to twitch. Its jaw detached and a long tubular tongue about the thickness of my forearm snaked out of its throat and clamped onto the gushing wound. There was an awful slurping sound, the first noise I’d ever really heard the creature make, as the tongue sucked the blood from my brother’s throat. I just lay there watching as its stomach began to distend and swell, the now bulbous belly straining against the black dress it wore. After the longest ten minutes of my life, the vampire finished. Its tongue retracted back into its throat, still dripping blood onto the now-pale corpse of my brother, and it lay back upon the floor, apparently contented.

As this had been happening all my energy had gone towards not screaming or giving away my presence. But as the vampire lay satiated on the floor, I turned my attention to what had fallen from Nigel’s hand when he had been dragged out of the bed. It was his pocket knife. I had no idea what a small knife like that would do against a creature that seemed far stronger and faster than me, but I didn’t see any option other than to try. I moved so slowly as I reached for the knife that at times it seemed like I wasn’t moving at all. I was worried that the creature would spot me and strike as it had with Nigel, although I now know that smell is in fact the vampire’s major sense and, with all the blood around, there was little chance of it detecting my scent. Grasping the knife in my hands, I crept over towards the creature as it placidly digested my brother’s life, until I stood over it. I felt a sudden surge of rage and adrenaline come over me and with a speed and strength I never knew I had, I plunged the knife into Sylvia McDonald’s blood-bloated stomach.

It burst like a sick balloon, and blood began to pour out. The creature’s eyes shot open and it clutched at the wound desperately. Its throat was not capable of uttering a scream but its face displayed a silent pain and anger as it flailed on the floor. Stumbling back, trying to wipe the blood from my eyes, I felt an unexpected burning in my hand. I realised I’d touched the still-lit candle on the bedside table. I don’t know what I expected to happen when I grabbed the candle and pressed it to the dry part of Sylvia McDonald’s dress. I was just trying to find anything else I could do to harm it before it could recover from its split belly, but I certainly didn’t expect it to catch like dry tinder. The fire spread quickly over its repulsive form, though it did slow somewhat where the clothing or flesh was still moist with blood. It struck me that the vampire must be a very dry creature when not fresh-fed and engorged. Perhaps I had struck before the liquid could spread throughout its body.

Whatever the reason, Sylvia McDonald was alight, and to such a degree that the rest of the room was starting to catch fire as well. I was distraught at the idea of leaving this house without my brother, but he was clearly dead and I needed to escape. I recalled the vampire had been carrying a handbag when we first met it, and had used a key from it to lock the front door. It did not have the handbag with it now, though, so I began to desperately search the other rooms of the house, trying to find it. I did find it in the end, in what I assume to be the vampire’s bedroom. I’ll not describe it in detail, except to say that it appears to be where the creature took most of its meals. Hopefully that makes the picture clear enough for you. I found the key, though, and escaped that house before the fire did me any serious damage. I was terrified of the police coming and thinking I was a murderer, so I didn’t stick around. I just fled into the night.

It was almost a decade before I encountered another vampire. I’d been living on the streets all that time, occasionally in and out of various institutions, and had just about managed to convince myself that Sylvia McDonald had just been a bad reaction to the stress of watching my brother’s murder. It was in the late 60s that I learned different. It was 1968, I remember because that was the year United won the European Cup, and I did quite well out of it – people being generous to begging when they’re happy over a sports win. On a Friday night I would generally spend my time around the Oasis Club in Lloyd Street and hit up for change anyone who was slightly the worse for drink. Well, this night in particular I was doing quite well, as it was a warm June evening not too long after the Cup Final, and everyone was in a good mood.

Now about half eleven that night I spied a stranger all turned out for dancing, making his way from the club with a lady friend. I reckoned they might be good for a tanner, so made my approach. I gave them the spiel and waited. The man looked at me and I understood he wouldn’t be giving me any money, and I stepped away. It was as he turned to leave I realised that he hadn’t opened his mouth, and memories of Sylvia McDonald came rushing back to me in a flash. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I followed behind them at a distance. I didn’t try to hide or disguise myself, as I had long since learned, and it’s true now as it was back then, that no-one pays any real attention to a tramp. As I watched, I saw the clearly drunken woman asking this stranger questions and each time he’d just look at her and she’d smile as though he’d given some reassuring answer and stumble on behind him. All the while he never once opened his mouth.

I didn’t rightly know what to do about this. I had no weapon save my brother’s old pocket knife which I had kept sharp all these years, and while I was pretty sure of what I was seeing, I was still hesitant to attack with no provocation and no plan. As we walked, I kept an eye out for any discarded wood or timber and, sure enough, noticed a broken wooden palette partially sticking out of a bin. I grabbed a long shard and used my knife to quickly hack it to a point, ignoring the splinters. While I had not, at that time, done much research into the creatures I faced, believing as I did my experience as a youth to be the product of a disturbed mental state, I was still aware of their supposed weakness to wooden stakes. I had now followed the vampire, who I would later find out called itself Robert Arden, and its victim back to the building where it apparently lived. It let itself in the front door and the woman followed. I wasn’t fast enough to get in before the front door closed and obviously didn’t have a key, so I went round the windows and, luckily, it seemed the vampire lived on the ground floor.

I watched through the window as it led its victim into a sparsely furnished living room. I couldn’t see any obvious signs of previous slaughter, but I remembered how cleanly Sylvia McDonald had sucked up all the blood from my brother, so this did not strike me as odd. I gently tried the window and found it locked, so searched the garden for the heaviest stone I could find and watched what was happening inside. I had to be sure. Soon enough Robert Arden moved smoothly behind its now-seated prey, and finally opened its mouth to reveal those rows of shark-like teeth I knew would be there. I hurled the rock I held through the window, showering the room with broken glass and causing the woman to scream in shock. Robert Arden raised its head in surprise and for one moment our eyes locked and I knew I had made a terrible mistake. The woman looked at her monstrous companion and, seeing his now open mouth, screamed her terror even louder. In a single movement, far quicker than I expected, Robert Arden was through the window and on me. I struggled and fought, but it was far stronger than I was, and I could barely keep its jagged teeth from finding my throat. It was the first and last time I ever touched a vampire’s skin with my own. The flesh was cold and spongy, like the inside of a bruised apple, and I felt bile rise in my throat even as I fought for my life.

Finally, its teeth bit into my neck. Not enough to kill me outright but with enough force to cause the blood to flow. At that moment I saw a sort of frenzy enter the eyes of Robert Arden and with a spasm its leech’s tongue surged from its throat and I felt it attach to my neck. I do not know if you’ve ever felt your blood being sucked out of you, but I would not recommend it.

Now it is at this point I have something of an admission to make. For the three years preceding this event, as well as on and off through the years since, I have had a relationship with the drug heroin. I tried it for the first time shortly after Nigel’s death and since then I have periodically relapsed. I have always tried to keep this a secret, as I am aware that I have a certain reputation to uphold and I would not want it to be damaged with the revealing of my addiction. But it is important to this account, as I believe it was whatever heroin still remained in my system that night that caused the vampire Robert Arden to remove its tongue from my neck and start to shake, as though having a violent choking fit.

I lay there, trying to compose myself enough to fight back, when I became aware of the screaming. The woman, who had been brought in as a victim, was standing over the flailing Robert Arden, stabbing it repeatedly with a kitchen knife. Strong and quick as it was, the vampire didn’t seem to be able to cope with the sudden onslaught of violence and was on the ground. This gave me the precious seconds I needed to get to my feet and locate my improvised wooden stake. I took aim and plunged it into where I believed the thing’s heart should be. It was easier than I thought it would be – the chest was soft and yielding and there didn’t seem to be any ribcage to stop the blow. Robert Arden went rigid and froze, apparently unable to move its body, though I saw its eyes darting around wildly.

It was at that point the woman whose name I never discovered, dropped the knife and ran. I never saw her again, but she had already saved my life. I took out my cigarette lighter and set Robert Arden alight. Like Sylvia McDonald before it, it caught fire in a matter of seconds and, by the time the police arrived, there was nothing left but a small patch of scorched tarmac. I was lucky that night, and nobody saw anything or called the police before I was finished and had made my way from the scene but I was always more careful after that.

Following that night, though, I was never again worried that I might have been wrong about the existence of vampires. I always kept my eyes open for them, although sometimes I was too eager, as was the case of Alard Dupont who I killed in 1982 and later discovered was a human. It is my belief that they are very rare and feed only infrequently, as all evidence I have seen points to their feeding being fatal. If there were many vampires or if they ate often, the number of disappearances would quickly become noticeable to the rest of society. I do not know what they do with the bodies of their victims and this has always perplexed me, as they do not have any mechanism for eating solid food and I do not believe there are many, if any, cases of murder where the body is found completely without blood. I certainly do not think they rise as vampires themselves, as the vampire population seems far too small for this to be a possibility.

Archivist Notes:

According to Martin, who was here when they took this statement, it was at this point in writing that Mr. Herbert announced he needed some sleep before continuing. He was shown to the break room where he went to sleep on the couch. He did not awaken; unfortunately succumbing to the lung cancer right there. Martin says the staff had been aware of how serious Mr. Herbert’s condition was and had advised him to seek medical aid prior to giving his statement, but were told rather bluntly by the old man that he would not wait another second to state his case. I can’t decide whether this lends more or less credibility to his tale.

Regardless, there is substantial evidence to support the version of events told by Mr. Herbert in all aspects except the vampirism. There is a news report of a 1959 fire that consumed a house on Loom Street and apparently claimed the life of an 18-year-old boy, although no mention is made of the homeowner, and a police report from 1968 confirms the disappearance of Robert Arden in Manchester amid circumstances of violence, including a broken window and signs of a fire, though no human remains were found. There is also a murder report concerning one Alard Dupont, whose partially burned corpse was found in his home on August 2nd 1982. Unfortunately Mr. Herbert was never able to give details of others, so we cannot corroborate further.

There was, however, a small bag left on top of this statement, which appears to contain six shark teeth of varying sizes. According to correspondence with the Zoology Department at King’s College, they didn’t match any currently known species.

Personally, I don’t know what to think. I certainly don’t believe in wild tales of vampirism, but I can’t help but notice that the statement above appears to be a photocopy of a photocopy, and can’t find these supposed vampire teeth anywhere in the Archives or the Secure Containment Room. I don’t know where the originals are but the file number is listed among multiple information requests from the Institute’s government and law enforcement contracts. It may be that they take Mr. Herbert’s statement far more seriously than I do.

Source: Official Transcript and Podcast (MAG 10 Vampire Hunter)

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #MAG #MAG10 #MAG 10 #VampireKiller #Vampire Killer #Statement #The Hunt

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timboallthetime · 6 years

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From Wired.com author Paris Martineau

TUMBLR WAS NEVER explicitly a space for porn, but, like most things on the internet, it is chock full of it anyway. Or at least it was. On Monday, to the shock of the millions of users who had used the microblogging site to consume and share porn GIFs, images, and videos, Tumblr banned the “adult content” that its CEO, David Karp, had defended five years prior. In the hours after the announcement, sex workers panicked, users threatened to leave, and—in classic Tumblr fashion—online petitions calling for change gained hundreds of thousands of signatures. But Tumblr’s porn ban isn’t about porn or Tumblr at all, really. It’s about the companies and institutions who wield influence over what does and doesn’t appear online.

When Melissa Drew, an adult content creator and model, logged in to Tumblr Monday afternoon, she was greeted by a deluge of unfamiliar posts and notifications. Her usual feed, perfectly curated after nearly a decade of tinkering, was awash with panicked posts from fellow adult models, memes about the policy change, and goodbye posts. Drew’s personal blog, which she had relied on as a public-facing way to tease the content available to her Patreon subscribers, was lit up with notifications from Tumblr informing her that most of her posts violated the new rules.

When Yahoo bought Tumblr for $1.1 billion in 2013, critics warned that premium advertisers wouldn't exactly be clamoring to run ads in a sea of porn. Yahoo CEO Marissa Mayer disagreed, arguing that targeting tools would keep content that isn't "brand-safe" (read: porn) away from ads. In an interview shortly after the acquisition, Karp doubled down on the platform’s openness to porn. “When you have … any number of very talented photographers posting tasteful photography,” said Karp, “I don't want to have to go in there to draw the line between this photo and the behind the scenes photo of Lady Gaga and like, her nip."

But the nip line has indeed been drawn, and it’s a doozy. Though Tumblr’s Monday announcement had technically only prohibited depictions of sex acts, “human genitalia,” and “female-presenting nipples,” a much wider swath of Drew’s feed was quickly caught up in the ban. “I had everything from nude, censored nudity, and lingerie photos flagged,” she told WIRED. “I still haven’t dealt with removing all of them yet—I just sort of heavy sighed and closed the tab.”

Safe Space

In interviews and messages with WIRED, more than 30 sex workers, porn consumers, and creators on Tumblr lamented the loss of what they described as a unique, safe space for curated sexually themed GIFs, photos, and videos. Many users who had used the microblogging site as their primary source for porn were at a loss when asked where they would go after Tumblr’s ban on “adult content” goes into effect on December 17. For the thousands of sex workers who used the site to share their own explicit content in a controlled, relatively contained manner—not to mention the countless others who used that content to fill the hyper-curated feeds of some of the site’s most popular porn blogs—the crackdown’s consequences are even more difficult to unpack. And researchers say the ban could shrink Tumblr’s user base, which already appears in turmoil over the decision.

The move comes less than two weeks after Apple pulled Tumblr from the iOS App Store after child pornography was found on the site. Though the offending illegal content was removed quickly, according to Tumblr, the app has yet to return to the App Store (it was never removed from the Google Play Store). In its most recent blog post, Tumblr stated that its longstanding no-tolerance policy against child pornography should not be conflated with the move to ban adult content. The latter, Tumblr argued, was inspired by a drive to create “a better Tumblr.” But these sorts of decisions aren’t made in a vacuum.

In March, Congress passed the Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act and the Stop Online Sex Trafficking Act (or FOSTA-SESTA for short). Lawmakers hailed the law as a means to give prosecutors more tools to combat combat sex trafficking. But the statute also tinkered with a bedrock provision of internet law, opening the door for platforms to be held criminally and civilly liable for the actions of their users. The law’s passage immediately led to the closure of several sex-work-related online venues, such as Craigslist’s personals section, numerous subreddits, and Patreon’s support for adult creators.

In interviews, more than a dozen sex workers told WIRED that the support and openness of adult-content creators on Tumblr had attracted them to the site. They described the site as notably more empowering and friendly than more traditional venues for explicit content, like PornHub, and relished Tumblr’s freedom and opportunity for virality. Many used the site to promote their paid content on other sites, interact with fellow sex workers, and screen clients.

Liara Roux, a sex worker and online political organizer, told WIRED via email that the options for finding adult content online are diminishing, and consolidating with big companies “and away from community generated content and independent creator friendly platforms." This, Roux says, is dangerous: "As mainstream sites slowly remove sexual content, which often is how queer and other marginalized communities are able to connect, it will become difficult for both sex workers and these communities to have an online space to exist."

App Store Sway

The ubiquity of the App Store gives Apple considerable influence over online content. Historically, Apple has taken a sex-negative approach to policing, with former CEO Steve Jobs once famously stating that “folks who want porn can buy an Android phone,” but the company’s influence extends beyond the iOS sphere. In the days after it was delisted from the App Store, Tumblr ramped up its moderation efforts, erroneously deleting numerous SFW and NSFW Tumblr accounts unrelated to child exploitation and abuse, and pushed out an update for its Android app that forced all users to have “safe mode” toggled on, restricting access to explicit content. Then came the porn ban.

Apple’s App Store review guidelines prohibit apps "with user-generated content or services that end up being used primarily for pornographic content.” The key word here is “primarily,” as all popular social media platforms are rife with porn, but Apple mostly seems to care about how easily accessible it is. Case in point: Apple pulled a number of Reddit apps from the App Store in 2016, citing issues with an NSFW content toggle, which, when activated, could be used to view pornographic content. The iOS Reddit apps currently available on the App Store have built-in features that prohibit porn subreddits from appearing in search, and make it extremely difficult for users to find NSFW content in-app without labor-intensive workarounds.

Tumblr likely could have instituted a similar content-censorship-based workaround, but it didn’t. Instead, it has gone with what appears to be an all-out-ban of “photos, videos, or GIFs that show real-life human genitals or female-presenting nipples, and any content—including photos, videos, GIFs and illustrations—that depicts sex acts.” Photos of nipples that appear to belong to a female-identifying person—which may be a difficult category to define, judging by the attempts of other platforms, like Instagram, to do the same—may be permitted so long as they are shared as part of a non-sexual context like a post showcasing breastfeeding, pre- or post-birth, post-mastectomy, or gender confirmation surgery. Written erotic content, along with nudity in art—“such as sculptures and illustrations,” says Tumblr—are alright, too. To draw the distinctions, the company says it will use a mix of machine learning and human moderation, and that all appeals for posts erroneously flagged as adult will be reviewed by “real, live human eye(s).”

Tumblr users are already finding problems with the flagging system. Classical paintings of Jesus Christ were flagged, as were photos and GIFs of fully clothed people, patents for footwear, line drawings of landscape scenes, discussions about LGBTQ+ issues and more. “In its early stages, Tumblr is using a poor system for flagging content,” says Abigail Oakley, a researcher at Arizona State University with a focus on Tumblr communities. “Having a certain number of flags on your blog (regardless of their validity) also removes the blog from Google searches, which is another form of censorship.”

Casey Fiesler, an assistant professor at the University of Colorado who specializes in fandom culture on platforms like Tumblr, thinks Tumblr’s crackdown will likely lead to a mass exodus of users. Fielser also worries that the LGBTQ people and sexual assault survivors who use Tumblr as a space for support could inadvertently be affected by the ban. “Even for fandom participants who don't create adult content themselves, this kind of policy feels like an attack on the community,” she said.

Consumers and creators of porn on Tumblr aren't entirely sure where they'll go next. While many sex workers mentioned Reddit and Twitter as two popular alternatives, they lamented the platforms' lack of community and sex-positive culture. Similarly, more than a dozen people who said they had used Tumblr as their primary source of porn for years praised the site's social, judgment-free culture, which many cited as helping them understand their sexual orientation. "The technology is out there to allow users to continue browsing a variety of porn from independent producers, but it will require a shift back in how people think of the internet," said Roux, the sex worker and political organizer. "I'm hoping these kinds of controversies encourage content creators to take as much control over their distribution channels as possible and inspires tech companies to solve the issue of bringing content to users without hosting the content themselves."

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pameluke · 6 years

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A MATTER OF TRADITION by Pameluke | @janoda

After a hard week, Alec just wants to spend a quiet night with Magnus at the loft. Alas, Magnus already has plans, and long-standing traditions can't quite be postponed, so Alec tags along.

Written for the SH Hiatus Flash Bang - Bingo Square Snowy Days - Team Blue

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

It has finally stopped pouring, after a week of non-stop rain. Alec's relieved, too weary to deal with wet clothing. He's just had a terrible week, a horde of Drevak Demons causing havoc in the city for days. Half of the Institute was down with some mysterious illness Iratzes won't cure, possibly caused by demonic poisoning. Izzy thinks the Drevak poison might have mutated, but she hasn't figured out yet what's caused it. Which means he's had two Silent Brothers for guests for two days now, and he's been on his toes the entire time. They'll never stop making him feel uncomfortable.

Luckily, everybody is in the clear since this morning, and although some of his people are still in recovery, that means the Institute isn't understaffed anymore. He can finally go home for a couple hours. Let the next emergency be taken care of by Jace and Clary rather than by him in person.

He just wants to be home, kiss Magnus, have something warm to eat that isn't food from the mess, and cuddle on the couch.

Which is why he can't quite hide his disappointment when he arrives at the loft, only to find Magnus dressed in heavy winter clothing, getting ready to leave. He doesn't let the disappointment stop him from kissing his boyfriend though, pulling him in by his heavy scarf.

"I thought you didn't have clients tonight?" Alec asks, fingers still tangled in the soft fabric of Magnus' scarf. He doesn't really want to let go. The loft is warm, Magnus is warm, and Alec can feel a part of him unclench that only seems to relax when he's touching Magnus.

"I don't, it's a personal thing. Tradition as it were." Magnus pats him on the chest, then leans in to kiss him again, slow and tender. He sighs a bit when they part, keeps his eyes closed. "I would have asked you along, but I expected the Institute to keep you for at least another two days."

Alec shrugs, slides his hands down Magnus shoulders and back, lets them rest against his waist. "Donna and Lindsey got back on their feet a lot quicker than I thought they would, so we're fully staffed again." He kisses the tip of Magnus' nose, just because he looks cute, all bundled up in his winter gear. "I thought I'd spend the rest of the day and evening with you."

Magnus smiles at him, strokes the hair from his forehead. "That would have been nice. But you look like you could use some rest. I'll probably be gone until tomorrow, so you should catch up on sleep."

Alec groans, lets his head fall softly against Magnus'. "I haven't seen you for days..." He knows he's whining a little, and their separation has been 100 percent due to his responsibilities as the Head of the Institute, but he can't help it. He's missed Magnus, and more than anything else–more than a hot bath, a warm meal, even more than the 'I haven't seen you for six days' sex–he's missed spending time with Magnus. "Can I come with? Where are you going?"

"Denali," Magnus says. "Hence the outfit."

Alec lifts his brow. Magnus is many wonderful things, but a creature of winter he is not. "You're going to Alaska?" Alec slips a hand down Magnus' pants. "Does that mean you're wearing hot, winter, underwear? One of those woolen things with the feet attached?"

Magnus slaps his chest. "It's not the 1800's gold-rush, Alec. I'll let you know there's winter underclothing that's more fashionable."

Alec grins, pulls Magnus closer. "I should definitely come. I can keep you warm when you eventually get tired of the cold."

Magnus smiles, shakes his head a little. "I'm not sure it'll be something you enjoy?"

Alec shrugs. "As long as you're there, and I'm with you, I'll enjoy myself, Magnus."

"Okay, but then we'll have to get you some appropriate gear." Alec knows that particular glint in Magnus' eyes, he gets it every time he gets to dress Alec. "I could just draw a heat rune," Alec claims, even though he knows resistance is futile. He doesn't really want to resist anyway. There's something very personal about Magnus taking care of him with his magic, something special that makes him feel loved.

So he'll gladly let Magnus do his thing, watch him while he magicks up the heavy winter clothing. It's not as bulky as Magnus'–Magnus knows he likes his freedom of movement–but it's still undeniably winter gear. Not really flattering, and a little strange to move in.

"Stele is in your pocket," Magnus comments, while he puts a warm, fleece hat on Alec's head by hand. "Sure you didn't steal it this time?" Alec teases. Magnus grunts, pokes Alec in the stomach, even though the thick fabric of his winter coat makes it barely noticeable. "If I'd known you'd hold that over me forever, I wouldn't have told you."

"Uhuh." Alec pulls Magnus in for one last kiss before they need to leave the loft to do who knows what.

Magnus lingers, arms wrapped around Alec's shoulders. It's a little awkward with all the padded clothing between them, but Alec doesn't care. Magnus' lips are as intoxicating as always.

Magnus steps back, puts on a hat of his own, a dark burgundy one that matches his scarf, and draws a portal. He hands Alec a pair of mittens, waits until he's put them on, then pulls him through it.

The snow is blinding. Magnus hands him a pair of glasses to counter the bright light around them everywhere. Once his eyes adjust to the light, the view is magnificent though, and Alec grasps Magnus' hand. When Magnus had said Denali, Alec hadn't expected for them to end up on an actual mountain, but rather somewhere in the park. Denali Mountain itself rises up behind them, but they're above the snow line, valley spread out below them. He's still not sure what on earth they're doing here, but he's glad he gets to see this, experience this moment with Magnus.

"It's beautiful," he says. Magnus hums. "I know. I always think I remember, but every time I return, I'm amazed by the power of Denali all over again."

"I didn't think this was your thing, nature and all." He pokes Magnus in the side. "You always seem such a part of the city."

Magnus snorts. "Says the New Yorn born and bred Shadowhunter. Besides, I need to keep you on your toes somehow."

"You always do." Alec squeezes Magnus' hand. "Now, where to? And what are we doing here?"

Magnus sighs and squeezes Alec's hand back, but firmer. "It's a long-standing tradition of Ragnor and mine, to come and haunt Denali. He had a cabin halfway up this mountain, like the cold and loneliness. It started as a way to keep curious hikers away, but then it got to lead a life on its own, and became some sort of tradition."

"Ah," Alec hums non-committedly. He's never quite sure how to react when Magnus talks about Ragnor. There's something so vast and unfathomable about losing a friendship that spanned centuries, Alec can't imagine what that must feel like. So he does what he always does when Magnus talks about Ragnor: pulls him closer, wraps his arm around him, and listens.

"He always was a grouch, didn't much like company, but honestly, I think he just enjoyed scaring people. Always found a way to be around for Halloween as well."

Magnus is quiet for a bit, tucks himself in a little closer, pompom of his hat tickling Alec's cheek. "I didn't come last year, it still hurt too much. But I missed it. So I figured, what better way to remember him than keep the legends he started going?"

"Sounds good," Alec says. "Did the tradition involve alcohol of any kind perchance?"

Magnus smirks. "Copious amounts."

He pulls himself loose from Alec but doesn't drop his hand, guiding Alec through the snow. It's not too difficult a hike, even with the cold air. Alec feels the stress of the last week fall off of his shoulders. He's still a little tired, still feels like he could sleep for a day or two, but his mind is clear, the sky is blue and the air is brisk. He feels more alive than he has for days.

After a while, the climb gets steeper, and Alec is starting to wonder if they should have brought climbing gear. But then he spots the wooden cabin, embedded into the mountain flank with a large plateau in front of it, and he figures they'll make it there unscathed.

Then there's a small, bright red creature running for him, and two snow-balls almost hit his face. When he straightens himself to see where the attack is coming from, Madzie has wrapped herself around his legs, almost making him trip. "Alec!!"

Alec lifts her up and twirls her around. "Madzie! As badass with snowballs as with magic I see!" He sets her down in the snow, and she immediately ducks down to make a snowball. Magnus is smiling at them, but the smile disappears when Alec ducks down as well. "Alexander, don't you dare."

Alec dares, especially with Madzie there as the cute distraction. Although to be fair, she's surprisingly accurate when she throws her snowballs with magic, so maybe Alec's the distraction. He's sure he's cute too. Magnus gives as good as he gets, but the snowboots make him a little slower than normal, so eventually, Alec manages to catch him. They topple down in the snow, Alec on top of Magnus. His cheeks are rosy with the cold, and his eyes are shining with mirth and glee. Alec simply has to kiss him. "Your lips looked cold."

Magnus smiles even brighter. "They still are. You should kiss me again." Alec dips down, but he should have know better than to trust him, because the moment he closes his eyes to enjoy the kiss, Madzie jumps on top of them, raining down an array of snowballs on Alec's head.

"I yield, I yield!" He yells while Magnus pushes him off of him. He and Madzie high five, while Alec lays defeated in the snow.

"So much for Shadowhunter reflexes," Magnus teases.

Alec dusts himself off. "You know, I'm starting to think there's some truth to those old Nephilim fables warning for warlocks and their bewitching ways."

Magnus smiles, pulls Alec to his feet. "Does that mean I'm bewitching?"

"Always."

Madzie has no patience for them now the game is finished, so she pulls them both towards the cabin, where Cat is waiting for them, hot chocolate in her hands.

"I don't remember snowball fights being part of your tradition with Ragnor," she says, her voice teasing but kind.

Magnus shrugs. "Definitely not, but it's never too late for new traditions."

It's warm in the cabin. It's cluttered with a whole slew of knick-knacks and odd things, like a statue of a three-legged unicorn, or a swaying stack of bowls that should tip over any second, but doesn't. It reminds Alec somewhat of Magnus' eclectic apothecary, only the sense of style is decidedly more... old cat-lady.

It's still cozy in a way though, and apparently Cat has conjured up dinner, because once they've struggled out of their winter coats, they immediately get to eat. It's delicious and hearty, and Alec feels himself further relax while Magnus teases him by telling Madzie and Cat about Alec's Terrible Stew And How Magnus Saved The Day.

"It was the recipe!" Alec says multiple times, but no one believes him.

After dinner, Magnus makes mulled wine, which tastes kind of weird to Alec, but it's nice and warm, and they all go outside again to watch the sunset. Below them on the slope, they can see lights of a mundane campsite, but otherwise, the night is lit by the bright moon and stars only. It's beautiful.

Magnus claps his hands. "It's time."

Madzie cheers, adorable in her red coat with bright yellow lemons. Everybody walks a little further out on the field, so Alec follows them down, curious to see what they'll do.

"Okay, Madzie, just like we practiced. The scariest you can make it!" Madzie grins. She claps her hands together in a move that reminds him of Magnus, and suddenly a huge black wolf appears in front of them. It's a little see-through in places, and the illusion is obvious in the way it glides rather than moves over the ice, but it's definitely impressive.

"Not bad," Magnus says. He's standing behind her, doing complicated moves with his hands, adding more meat to the illusion, making it bigger.

"We don't really want the locals to go wolf-hunting again, though," Cat comments, and with a swish of her hands, the creature morphs into a weird mix of wolf and moose.

"What are you guys trying to do with this?" Alec asks.

Magnus grins, mischief obvious in the glint in his eyes. "Like I said, Ragnor was a bit of a hermit, didn't appreciate people coming on his terrain. So he started to occasionally scare the locals. Enough to keep them away from the region, but not enough to start witch-hunts or attract the curious. Just some local myths."

"Uhuh." Alec can't help but be a little skeptic. "And no mundane every wanted to learn what was up? Don't they have those reality shows about people stupid enough to hunt monsters?"

Magnus smirks. "They do, and that's where the wards come in. Just enough power to make you walk in circles." He spreads out his hands, makes the monster grow two extra tails. "It all adds to the mystery."

Alec looks at the lights of the mundanes camping below them, looks at the emptiness of the mountain, eery but beautiful in the moonlight, looks at the happiness on Madzie's face. He thinks of the many sad and quiet nights Magnus has spent thinking about Ragnor.

Turns out he doesn't really care about this technically being out of regulations.

"What's your favorite color?" he asks Madzie. "That should be the color of its eyes."

Madzie nods seriously, waves her little hands. The eyes of the monster turn a bright, unnatural purple. Its mouth is open, supposedly to make sure the locals see it's many, many teeth, but to Alec it's obvious the illusion is grinning at him.

"Let's send it down," Magnus says, approving of the final look. He and Cat, with Madzie between them, move in tandem, the dance of their hands as fluent and magical as the creature hurtling down the mountain.

"To Ragnor," Magnus says, as he finishes a complicated movement of his hands.

"To Ragnor," Cat echoes him.

Alec can't let them do this alone. He finds his stele in his pocket, activates his Power rune, and taps Madzie on the shoulder. "Watch this," he says and winks at her. She grins excitedly, grabs his hand while she watches the creature close in on the campers.

Alec holds his free hand by his mouth and lets out an inhuman cackle. The rune makes it terribly loud, makes the sound carry down, all the way to the campsite. More lights flicker on.

Madzie squeezes his hand.

"A sound that scary asks for some mist," Magnus says approvingly. There's a soft smile playing around the corner of his mouth, and Alec likes to think that's his doing.

He activates his hearing rune, curious to hear the camper's reaction.

"Where's this mist coming from? It was supposed to be a clear night!"

"Did you hear that?"

"Fuck off, Marly, you're just trying to scare us with your Monster of the Mountain story again."

"I'm serious, Kenny! I heard something!"

Alec waits for a beat or two, just enough time for the campers to listen to the quiet and relax when they don't hear anything. Then he cackles again. Besides him, Madzie giggles.

Below them, there's a scream, and it's definitely not Marly.

"Fuck. Was that a hyena?"

"Oh come on, Russel, there's no hyena's in Alaska."

"There could be! You hear about zoo escapes all the time."

"Five, four, three..." Magnus counts down slowly, mirth obvious in his voice.

"Did you see that?"

"Fuck, I saw it move."

"Is that a moose?"

There's more screaming when Magnus and Cat make the monster sweep through the camp.

"MOOSE DON'T HAVE THAT MANY TEETH!!!"

There's more yelling below, the campers frantically moving through the camp, flashlights shining everywhere.

Magnus and Cat don't linger though, let the monster disappear with a final wave of their hands. Alec lets some time pass, then cackles for one last time.

Madzie claps her hands. "That was fun!" Cat sweeps her up in her arms, kisses her on the forehead. "It really was. And Ragnor would be proud of your monster. But it is bedtime now, kiddo."

She ignores Madzie's protesting and carries her back to the cabin.

Alec sticks around and watches Magnus who's watching the still frantic campers below them. The moonlight makes him look even more magical than usual, shimmer on his cheeks looking like faerie dust.

He's smiling when he looks up at Alec, but his eyes are wistful and a little sad. "I really miss him," he sighs.

Alec steps closer, pulls Magnus into a hug. There's nothing he can say to make the loss feel easier, but he can support Magnus like this, by holding him close.

"I'm really glad you came along," Magnus says into his coat.

"Me too, it was fun." Alec pulls Magnus in a little closer, presses his nose in the fabric of Magnus' hat. "I think I would have liked Ragnor," he says.

Magnus snorts. "Ragnor didn't much like anyone." He kisses Alec's shoulder, turns around in his arms so he can watch the campers panic in the night, while he leans against Alec's chest. "But you might have grown on him."

Alec squeezes Magnus a little tighter. The long days are trying to catch up with him, exhaustion creeping into his bones, but he'll stand here with Magnus as long as Magnus wants to.

"You know, tomorrow, we should really go and leave monster footprints in the snow, have them disappear into nothing," he suggests. He smirks at the idea of the campers finding them on their way down.

Magnus turns around again, smile so wide it's brightening his whole face. "You really never stop surprising me, Alexander." He buries his hands in the fur lining of Alec's collar and pulls Alec close to kiss him.

In the morning they'll tease the mundanes some more, and then they'll have a drink in the dive bar of the small village at the foot of the mountain, where they'll listen to Marly and Kenny tell their tall tales of their adventures with the Monster of the Mountain.

But tonight, it's just them and the moonlight. It's a night for them and the mountain. A night for slow tender kisses under the stars. It's never too late for new traditions.

#malec #malec fanfiction #malec fic #alec lightwood #magnus bane #otp: shade and glitter #otp: open hearts #shadowhunters #jan writes fic #jan by jan #APPARENTLY I BATTLE ANGST WITH FLUFF #FOREVER BITTER ABOUT RAGNOR FELL #i honestly don't know what this is

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dfroza · 3 years

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to re reclothed.

this is an act of grace. of Light.

Paul illuminates this through writing in Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament with the 13th chapter of the Letter of Romans:

Every person must submit to and support the authorities over him. For there can be no authority in the universe except by God’s appointment, which means that every authority that exists has been instituted by God. So to resist authority is to resist the divine order of God, which results in severe consequences. For civil authorities don’t intimidate those who are doing good, but those who are doing evil. So do what is right and you’ll never need to fear those in authority. They will commend you for your good citizenship.

Those in authority are God’s servants for the good of society. But if you break the law, you have reason to be alarmed, for they are God’s agents of punishment to bring criminals to justice. Why do you think they carry weapons? You are compelled to obey them, not just to avoid punishment, but because you want to live with a clean conscience.

This is also the reason you pay your taxes, for governmental authorities are God’s officials who oversee these things. So it is your duty to pay all the taxes and fees that they require and to respect those who are worthy of respect, honoring them accordingly.

Don’t owe anything to anyone, except your outstanding debt to continually love one another, for the one who learns to love has fulfilled every requirement of the law. For the commandments, “Do not commit adultery, do not murder, do not steal, do not covet,” and every other commandment can be summed up in these words:

“Love and value others the same way you love and value yourself.”

Love makes it impossible to harm another, so love fulfills all that the law requires.

To live like this is all the more urgent, for time is running out and you know it is a strategic hour in human history. It is time for us to wake up! For our full salvation is nearer now than when we first believed.

Night’s darkness is dissolving away as a new day of destiny dawns. So we must once and for all strip away what is done in the shadows of darkness, removing it like filthy clothes. And once and for all we clothe ourselves with the radiance of light as our weapon. We must live honorably, surrounded by the light of this new day, not in the darkness of drunkenness and debauchery, not in promiscuity and sensuality, not being argumentative or jealous of others.

Instead fully immerse yourselves into the Lord Jesus, the Anointed One, and don’t waste even a moment’s thought on your former identity to awaken its selfish desires.

The Letter of Romans, Chapter 13 (The Passion Translation)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 32nd chapter of the book (scroll) of Isaiah that looks at restoring Justice:

Look, a good king, right with God,

along with princes, too, will rule with justice.

For the people they’ll be like cover from the storm, a wall against the wind.

They’ll be like streams of water in a dry place

and the cool shade of a giant boulder in the burning sun.

Then the eyes of those who see will see indeed,

and the ears of those who hear will listen.

Careless and impulsive minds will take time to really understand,

and clear speech will return to the shy stutterer.

Fools will no longer be called noble-minded,

nor will criminals be respected.

For fools utter nonsense, and their minds are preoccupied with evil;

they regularly misrepresent the Eternal in what they say and do,

Leaving true seekers frustrated and confused,

the hungry with empty stomachs and the thirsty with parched mouths.

As for the criminals—their schemes are vile and evil;

they are constantly looking for ways to hurt the innocent,

To ruin the poor with their lies, and to twist a justified complaint.

By contrast, those who are noble have noble intentions,

and they stand confidently by their honorable words and actions.

Get up, you women who lie around in your life of ease;

hear my voice, you careless daughters, and listen to what I have to say.

Soon—in a year and a few days—you will shudder and shake;

your mindless lounging will come to an end, careless daughters.

For the wine you so enjoyed will be gone, with none to replace it.

There will be no fruit, no grapes to mash and juice.

Be worried, women of ease;

be bothered and anxious, careless daughters.

Strip off your fine clothes and replace them

with sackcloth; dress for mourning.

Beat your breasts over the loss of those lush vineyards,

over the vines, heavy with fruit.

Mourn over my people’s land, verdant and lush,

now the habitat of thorns and briars—

Yes, for all the happy homes and vibrant cities.

Palaces and bustling cities will be abandoned;

hilltop posts and watchtowers will serve as caves for animals;

wild donkeys and flocks will enjoy the wide open spaces.

So it will be until God pours out the Spirit from up above,

and the land comes alive again—desert to fertile field, fertile field to forest.

Then justice and truth will settle in the desert places,

and righteousness will infuse the fertile land.

Then righteousness will yield peace, and the quiet and confidence

that attend righteousness will be present forever.

My people’s homes and hometowns will be filled with peace;

they’ll relax, safe and secure.

Before such reconciliation, there will be cold, hard hail,

raining down when the forests fall and the cities are razed to the ground.

And you, you who plant on streams’ edges

and let your oxen and donkeys range free,

You will be happy.

The Book (Scroll) of Isaiah, Chapter 32 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Saturday, july 10 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about A to Z:

On the Biblical calendar, the fifth month of the year (counting from Nisan) is called “Av” (אָב) in Jewish tradition. The month of Av is traditionally regarded as the most tragic in the Jewish calendar. On the first day of this month, Aaron (the first High Priest of Israel) died (Num. 33:38), which was considered a ominous event. On the ninth day of the month (i.e., Tishah B’Av), the LORD decreed that the original generation rescued from Egypt would die out in the desert and be deprived from entering the Promised Land because they had believed the faithless report of the Spies and questioned God's love for them (Num. 13-14). Later both of the Holy Temples were destroyed on the ninth day of Av as well...

Because both of the Temples were destroyed on the ninth of Av, this date is remembered as lowest point of the “Three Weeks of Sorrow” (שלושה שבועות של צער) that began with the fast of the 17th of Tammuz (undertaken to recall both the shattering of the tablets after Moses discovered the people worshiping the golden calf and also the breach in the walls of Jerusalem by the Babylonians before the First Temple was destroyed). During this period, weddings and parties are forbidden. It is a time for solemn reflection and mourning for Israel.

The last two portions of the Book of Numbers (Mattot - Masei) are always read during the Three Weeks of Sorrow. The sages say these readings were selected at this time to ultimately comfort us as we look forward to the “apportioning of the land” -- i.e., the ultimate fulfillment of God’s promises to us. Indeed, the month of Av -- despite the sorrow of the loss of the Temple -- is sometimes called “Menachem Av” (מנחם אב) - the “Comfort of the Father.” One day the lamentations of our present state of exile will come to an end.

Menachem Av may also mean the “comfort of Aleph-Bet” (אב). The Prophet Jeremiah, who witnessed the destruction of the Temple, later wrote the scroll of Lamentations to commemorate this tragic time. The form of Lamentations is an acrostic based on the letters of the Hebrew Aleph-Bet (like Psalm 25, 34, 37, 119, Prov. 31, etc.). The scroll has five sections (perekim). The verses of the first two chapters and the last two chapters all are written in alphabetical order (א,ב,ג). The middle chapter, however, writes its verses using a triple Aleph Bet ordering, i.e., "Aleph, Aleph, Aleph," "Bet, Bet, Bet," "Gimmel, Gimmel, Gimmel," and so on. Since Yeshua is called the “Aleph and Tav” of God (האלף והתו) in Rev. 23:13, the comfort of the Father is revealed in Him! Yeshua is “et” (את), the direct sign and wonder of God!

Since the Book of Deuteronomy is mishneh Torah - a “retelling of Torah,” it can be said that the written Torah -- from a narrative point of view -- ends with the reading of these final portions from Numbers, and by extension, with the yearning for Zion. And so it is to this day. We await the return of our Messiah Yeshua while we live in exile here on earth. And even though the Temple of the LORD is spiritually present in the Person of the resurrected Messiah, it will be made fully manifest in the days to come: first in the Millennial Kingdom (after Yeshua’s Second Coming), and later still in olam habah (the world to come) as the eternal community of those redeemed by the Lamb of God (Rev. 21:22-23). So for those of us who hold faith in Yeshua as Messiah, our mourning for the Temple is really mourning for the Presence of our Beloved Savior. [Hebrew for Christians]

7.10.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

July 10, 2021

How Does God Hear?

“Hearken therefore unto the supplications of thy servant, and of thy people Israel, which they shall make toward this place: hear thou from thy dwelling place, even from heaven; and when thou hearest, forgive.” (2 Chronicles 6:21)

No less than eight times in Solomon’s prayer of dedication for the temple does he beseech God to “hear from heaven” (see 2 Chronicles 6:21, 23, 25, 27, 30, 33, 35, 39). But the obvious question is just how can God hear our prayers, especially those uttered only in silence?

The answer is in both God’s omniscience and His omnipresence. Although God is indeed on His heavenly throne, He is also right here! “O LORD,” David prayed, “thou hast searched me, and known me....thou understandest my thought afar off” (Psalm 139:1-2). He can, and does, hear our prayers. “He that planted the ear, shall he not hear? he that formed the eye, shall he not see?” (Psalm 94:9).

In a manner of speaking, He hears the prayers of redeemed children today even more directly than in David’s day, for we who trust in Christ have been indwelt by the Holy Spirit. “God hath said, I will dwell in them, and walk in them” (2 Corinthians 6:16). “The eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and his ears are open unto their prayers” (1 Peter 3:12).

God can indeed hear our prayers. But there are times when He refuses to hear! “If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me” (Psalm 66:18). “Behold, the LORD’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear: But your iniquities have separated between you and your God...that he will not hear” (Isaiah 59:1-2).

Yes, but if we ask anything according to His will (and this implies first living according to His will), “he heareth us: and... we know that we have the petitions that we desired of him” (1 John 5:14-15). HMM

A tweet by illumiNations:

@IlluminationsBT: With your prayers and gifts, the Hunsrik speakers will gain access to Scripture in their own language!

Learn more at: https://bit.ly/34ZCv1U

7.10.21 • 12:00pm • Twitter

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undeadimpulsereviews · 7 years

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Dead by Daylight

Kill or be killed, it’s a dog eat dog world, fight or flight, etc. Forget all of these sayings, for in this world none of them matter. You either escape the clutches of death for one more fleeting moment, or you die by the hands of a psycho killer. There is no refugee, no safe haven, no home to go back to. This is your life now.

Dead by Daylight, a four versus one multiplayer survival horror game from developer -, pits you and your friends against a blood thirty killer looking for sacrifices. Though it’s not a fight to the death, but rather a dark game of hide and seek. Dead by Daylight was released -, but the game has been around for some time now. It was in early access for quite some time, but now it’s out in full. I first heard of the game thanks to streamers during it’s early stages; however, I never played the game myself until it was fully released much later. After playing the game I can say that it’s definitely a fun game, but not without it’s problems.

Now I put some thought into this, and my current way of reviewing games doesn’t really work for games like this. Dead by Daylight is a purely multiplayer only game; so there is a big lack in story and character development. That’s not to say it’s not there, but other than character lore and back stories, there isn’t much. So I’ll be switching things up from here on out for certain titles. We’ll start with the visuals and soundtrack of the game, and look into the gameplay and performance of the game. How does it play online? How’s the community? I will briefly speak on characters and how they play in the gameplay segment, but nothing overly in depth. This new format will be the overarching format for future multiplayer oriented games from here on out, with some minor differences depending on what the game has to offer. Also I won’t be going back to re-review games following this format; my opinion still stands on those, give or take, and I still meant everything I said. With that said; how does the game perform? It was interesting back when it was in early access, but not perfect, and the problems start at it’s visuals.

Dead by Daylight looks great, for what it’s trying to sell; dark, depressing, and above all frightening. The atmosphere presented in the game is one that really gets your blood pumping in a thriller sense. Each killer has a map that is made for them, and each map feels like their own special hell. One of my favorites, in how it looks, is Lery’s memorial institute; this map belongs to a killer known as the doctor. The design of the stage is built to look like a distorted hospital; the ceiling is missing, operating tables are through about the stage, and the best part being the center. In the center of the stage there are operating tables and chairs aligned around the center ring; the center looks like a furnace, where you can hear the screams of the doctors victims.

The other maps of the game are a little more open than Lery’s, making the level a lot harder than others.

Aside from level design, we also have the characters. The survivors are pretty standard; each one is an original character to the game, save for a couple new additions from DLC. Though what really shines is the killers; Dead by Daylight has a plethora of original killers, each with their own skills and back stories. The trapper, the wraith, the hillbilly; these are the base three among a steadily growing roster. One of my favorites to play is the hag, but in terms of design we’ll go back to the doctor.

The doctor was released in the Spark of Madness free update for the game, and at that point was the games sixth killer. Just like all the killers before him, he looks like an experiment gone wrong. The big eyes and grin being forced open by metal, or the decaying flesh that also serves to conduct electricity. Not to mention the way the doctor acts in game as well. When he shocks you all you hear is a distorted laugh escape his mouth. It’s such a scary killer, that leaves a lasting impression.

As for the games soundtrack, it’s very limited. Dead by Daylight relies more on the lack of sounds to convey it’s atmosphere, then utilizing music. When a killer gets close, your survivor will start to feel their overbearing presence and a loud heartbeat will drain out almost every sound around you.The only times in the game you might actually hear music is in the menu before a match, and when you’re being chased by the killer. Though when I looked a little deeper into this I found that the soundtrack has just above thirty different tracks on it.

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A lot of these tracks are small; so they’ll most likely loop, or meld together with other tracks. I believe this is what gives the illusion of fewer tracks in the game. Though with what the game uses, it builds upon the atmosphere really well and gives this sense of dread as you’re being hunted. Now how does the game play? The game may look beautiful, but does it feels smooth to hunt or be hunted?

Dead By Daylight didn’t have a smooth upbringing; it was popular, but due to it being in early access, it had it’s problems. Now with the game fully released a lot of these bugs have been fixed, but not fully. For example, when a survivor is grabbed by the killer, sometimes the animation of being picked up won’t match with the models. This is a small graphical bug; it doesn’t really hurt gameplay, but I thought I should still bring these up. Since leaving early access, the game is definitely cleaner in terms of the glitches and bugs previously present. Though now the problems aren’t in the performance side of things, but the gameplay and the games community.

Dead by Daylight is a four versus one survival horror game; one team of four survivors must attempt to escape from the one psycho killer. Survivors must repair generators to power doors along the border of the map. Once five generators are fully repaired, the two door can then be opened. If the killer has killed all but one, or everyone but the one has escaped, a hatch will appear somewhere on the map. Escape by any means, but do it quietly.

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As for the killer, they must hunt down the four survivors before they have a chance to power the generators. One by one, the killer must hurt the other four; then place them on hooks around the map to sacrifice to the entity. The killers score depends on how many survivors are killed; it’s considered a win if at least two are sacrificed.

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Now the game is pretty simple for both sides; each has their ups and downs. For example, survivors are presented in a third person camera; while the killer sees in first person. This is a little disorienting, and makes killer games a little more challenging. Also, starting out both sides may feel under powered, survivors especially; though give the game some time and you’ll put up a fight.

Now basically speaking the game plays really well for what it’s selling; however, due to things like the ranking system or the lack of penalties towards poor players, the game takes a hit. When you start the game you are rank twenty. The system works where, depending on your performance, you’ll “fall” in rank. What I mean is that rank one is actually the highest rank in the game, and shows you’ve been putting the work in. This is fine on paper, but it’s easier to decrease in rank than rise. So there isn’t really anything keeping beginner players from playing with seasoned vets. The developers have said they’ll re-work the ranking system, but that will take some time.

One other problem, in my mind, comes from the newest killers. Recently Dead by Daylight has added some familiar face. Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger, Leatherface; three big name killers from popular franchises have joined the ranks. They play in an interesting manner, and I don’t doubt it’s fun to play them (Don’t currently own them myself); however, I find them extremely overpowered when looking at the original killers. Now Freddy isn’t out on console as of writing this, but the other two have been big among the audience. My biggest problem with them comes from how they can completely removes things that give survivors a fighting chance. Michael can remove his fear radius, meaning he could be right on your back and yet you’ll never hear that heartbeat. Plus, when he does this for long enough, he will go into a state that allows him to instantly down any survivor. Then you have Leatherface; he’s overly fast and can easily catch the survivor. Plus he has his chainsaw, which can down someone instantly. I wouldn’t have a problem with this if it was easy to avoid like the hillbilly; however, Leatherface can just charge the chainsaw and then get a speed boost throughout. Not to mention their perks are among some of the most broken perks in the game; many people play these two so they can get these perks on every killer. I hardly ever have fun when playing against one of these two; it’s not impossible to win, but still feels weighted heavily in their favor. Though this is more of a nitpick from my opinion, the real problems are universal to all killers.

The biggest problem comes from the lack of in game penalties towards players; you may wonder what I mean by this exactly. A good majority of this thought process comes from the idea of camping. A lot of killers will camp survivors that have been hooked; they’ll sit watching them from only a couple feet away, stand directly in front of them, or sit there hitting the survivor repeatedly. Killers gain nothing from hitting hooked survivors, and by sitting in front of them it makes it harder for them to be saved. In an old build of the game when the killer sat in front of the hook, the game wouldn’t allow the survivor to be unhooked. The developer changed this, making it possible to unhooked from different angles instead of straight on; however, this doesn’t stop camping. Even if you unhook someone, they’ll most likely just be hit down and re-hooked, or the killer will just grab the second survivor and hook them. The only saving grace is a perk named borrowed time; yet if the killer follows you, which they will, you’ll just be back on the hook. This makes the game extremely aggravating; there is no fun in this, when I play the game I’d like an equal chance of escaping just like everyone. Yet this becomes really hard when you have players like this. I can understand, with how the game is, that finding someway to remedy this is hard; however, this is one of the big things that kills how I view the game. This also brings me to my next point; like many online oriented games, the community is highly toxic.

Dead by Daylight is home to many, and among them are some fairly terrible people. The campers make up a good amount of these players, but there are a variety of people. Many of the toxic players you’ll meet will more than likely play killer, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t toxic survivors as well. Dead by Daylight is a team game in the end; unlike other survival game, you need to help each other if you wish to escape, and escape fast no less. Though you’ll get survivors that just wander the perimeter, or will purposefully lead the killer in your direction to save their skin for a few seconds. You may also run into those that will blame you for their death; you may not be able to save them for many reasons, but they just have to get their two cents in. Though as I said before, the most toxic players tend to be the killers. A decent amount of killers play in a very unsportsmanlike fashion. They try to find every chance to gloat, hence the reason they’ll hit hooked survivors. One example I can give in my experience comes from leatherface players; they’ll knock you down, in whatever fashion, and instead of pick you up and hook you, they’ll have you sit there and rev their chainsaw over your body as a means to gloat. This happened a lot for me; it was never warranted, and usually I was the first to get downed. So my team was still roaming and working, meaning the killer was just wasting time and effort to be an asshole. Though why stop their; no matter what you play, you’ll always find the players that have to get the last word. You could be an amazing killer, never camp and play to the best of your ability. Yet there will be times when player just can’t take the fact that they died. They use that Call of Duty logic and call you a hacker, or say you’re trash because they couldn’t take the fact of dying. Many people will rage quit; I have quit out of games, though mainly due to campers. When you quit the killer still gets points, but not as much as they could have. The community makes this game one of the most terrible experiences; it’s a fun game, but not without it’s share of terrible people.

Overall I give Dead by Daylight a 7.5 out of 10. My reasoning behind this doesn’t stem from the idea of the community. It may be a big problem, but the developer didn’t create the community, they created the game. Now I wish they would find a way to stop camping, and take these things more seriously, but that’s not up to me. My biggest reason for only a 7.5 and not an 8 is because of two things. The poor ranking system is a small part of it; sure they’re going to re-work it, but this has been a problem for a while now. The biggest reason is because the game feels extremely limited. The game adds flair through new killers, but in a basic sense it’s the same game as it was in early access. There is no diversity among objectives; just repair generators, and escape; this starts to get a little repetitive for me. I don’t like to overly compare games, but think in the sense of Friday the 13th. In that game you can repair one of two cars, repair a boat, kill Jason, call the police, or just wait out the time. There are many ways for the survivors to win, while Dead by Daylight only has the one. It’s essentially the same idea as a game like Overwatch having only one game mode; you may like team deathmatch, but playing only team deathmatch will start to get boring. This idea mixed with the community has caused me to take long breaks from the game; I have fun at first, but leave either angry or somewhat bored.

Next review is on the manga Ajin; once that’s done I’ll try to get things back in order for November. Thanks again for sticking with me and reading my reviews. Until next time.

#dead by daylight #gaming #video game #steam #playstation #playstation 4 #ps4 #sony #microsoft #Microsoft Windows #video games #survival #survival horror #unreal engine #xbox #xbox one #behaviour interactive

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wordsablaze · 7 years

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Together

(alaw pt.2) It doesn't matter what the situation is, even if it's life-threatening, because Alec knows that Magnus will make sure they're together. A malec scene written for Alec Lightwood appreciation weeks 2017. Enjoy!

"Magnus!"

The cry is almost thrown from Alec's mouth as he shoots upright, his eyes wide and his sleep forgotten.

"Magnus?"

This time, it's no more than a questioning whisper, a soft sound echoing in the silence. Alec can't help the panic that rises in his chest when he finds that the other side of the bed is cold, stiff, crisp, in the first rivers of golden sunlight falling through the curtains.

It's as if someone's taken his heart from his chest, pulled it apart, and roughly shoved it back in without making sure it'd stayed intact. It might be that the morning confusion is sending his logic haywire but he doesn't know for sure, so the worry bubbling inside of him is relentless.

He jumps out of bed faster than the blink of a child's irritated eye and navigates his way to the other rooms in their apartment, something in the back of his mind telling him to find the warlock that should have been asleep next to him despite the utter bewilderment running through his veins like a lion chasing after its prey.

"Mags?" Alec whispers, hesitantly stepping on the lush carpets.

He remembers the first time he'd woken up like this, shocked to find a desolate half of their bed. He'd thought that Magnus had left him behind to go and pursue a better, more stable relationship. Of course, the reality had been very different and Alec had eaten the best omelette ever made for him that morning.

Which is why he has faith in the High Warlock, almost fully certain that he's not left and that there's a perfectly logical explanation to why Alec hadn't noticed his return. After all, optimism is a way of life taught to him by Magnus – one of the only lessons he hadn't realised he was learning until dire circumstances presented themselves as the equivalent of an examination.

Alec refrains from talking as he walks through the open doors to their living room, his shoulders hunched, his jaw clenched, and his hands half curled into fists.

It's such a relief to see the sleeping form of a tired warlock draped over the couch that Alec doesn't even try to stop the soft smile that attacks his face. He simply glances over the warlock to look for any injuries and, when he finds none, gently sits beside him.

"Magnus?" he asks quietly, not really expecting an answer.

He gets one.

"Alec?" Magnus' voice is tired, slurred, but still full of love. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

"Not anymore," Alec replies, leaning his head on the warlock's shoulder and relaxing into the familiar touch of magic and affection.

Magnus smiles and wraps his arm around the shadowhunter, letting sleep wash over the two of them as if they'd been born to rest. Somehow, sleeping is easier when they're together.

And so Alec is initially confused when he wakes up the next morning, wondering why their silky bed has turned into soft fabric. It only takes a few bleary blinks and the sight of Magnus smiling widely to make him remember what had happened.

"Are you okay, love?" Magnus asks, brushing Alec's hair into a quiff.

"I dreamed that you'd died," Alec whispers plainly, knowing that any attempts to sugar coat his dream will end up in a disaster of miscommunication.

"It'll take a lot more than a nightmare to get rid of me," Magnus promises, lighting kissing Alec's nose before waving his hand to brighten the lights around them.

Alec grins at Magnus, throwing his arms around the warlock as he fully wakes up. Magnus laughs with surprise and Alec lets his eyes close again, simply listening to the heartbeat beneath him, using the soft thudding as a tether to consciousness.

"Aren't you hungry?" Magnus asks, stroking Alec's hair.

"Mm- mm." Alec's response is a clear no, even if the majority of the population wouldn't be able to tell.

"So, what, are we going to stay here all day?" Magnus inquires, bemused.

"Maybe?" Alec's voice is surprisingly quiet.

Magnus only takes a second to realise what the shadowhunter means. Of course the lone word doesn't signify a simple answer; it's much more than that because Alec values simplicity and abbreviations, even if that makes their conversations much more complicated to outsiders and eavesdroppers.

"You have a mission, don't you?" Magnus asks softly, the question acting as its own answer.

Alec sighs, finally unwrapping himself from Magnus and sitting back with his legs crossed. "I have to go."

"I don't understand, darling. Why is this any different to your other missions?"

Alec swallows nervously, biting his lip so hard that his eyes water. He winces immediately, and Magnus grabs his hands, gently brushing circles over his runes. They stay silent for at least a full circulation of the clock's hands, until Alec builds up the strength to say the words stuck on his tongue.

"I might not be able to come back," he blurts eventually, swallowing visibly.

Magnus blinks.

"You might not…?"

Alec nods. "The clave has a way of getting there but they don't know if a return journey is possible."

Magnus takes a deep breath as Alec glances over the room, as if suddenly interested in architecture. This time, the silence between them is anything but comfortable. It's loud and piercing and brimming with worry.

"When do you leave?" Magnus asks. He knows that asking Alec what they're going for won't provide any answers but he has to know how much time he has left, he has to.

"Today," Alec whispers, already regretting not having told his boyfriend sooner, "We leave later today."

"Alexander…" Magnus sucks in a breath. "Are you telling me this might be our last few hours together?"

Alec shrugs.

"I won't let that happen." Magnus shakes his head. "I can't let that happen."

"Magnus…" Alec's tone is pained, remorseful.

"Alexander, why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't-" he waves a hand helplessly- "I wanted you."

"If these were our last few hours together, I wanted you to be you. I didn't want you to be worried or sad, I just wanted to see your smile so I could leave you without a goodbye," Alec continues, "I didn't want to say goodbye, Magnus, I didn't want to make it final."

"And you thought I would be okay with that? Alexander, I have lost too many people to see you walk away and expect you back, only to find that you purposely left me with a loose end." Magnus' voice is deadly quiet, full of truth and love and regret.

"Magnus, I-"

"No. No. You don't get to make that choice for us, Alexander. You don't have the right."

And, with that, Magnus is gone, and only the faint smell of glitter and warmth remains in front of Alec.

His emotions twist in his stomach, writhing and knotting themselves into a trigger for his tears. He lets his tears fall, squeezing his eyes shut tight and rocking back and forth. He's not sure what he regrets, he just knows that he should have chosen a different path, a better path, a path that included Magnus. He should have chosen a path where the two of them ended up together.

By the time he figures out how to stand, there's an alarm ringing from his phone to tell him he should be heading back. He stares at it in a numb shock, unsure of whether he'd woken up late or if he'd spent half the day exhausting his tear ducts.

Either way, there's no time to think about where and when the time went.

Alec quickly gets himself ready, washing his face to banish the redness in his eyes. As he leaves, he slings his jacket over one shoulder, trying to ignore the echo of his boots on the pavement, the dull hum of mundane life buzzing like a painful reminder of the hurt look in Magnus' eyes and the alarming crack in his voice.

It's still early when he reaches the institute so he heads to find his team, knowing that they'll all be ready and waiting, equally as nervous but determined. He doesn't pay attention to what happens next, blurring everything out until they're standing at the portal that leads to their mission.

Then, suddenly, the world is clear again; He can see the magic waiting for them to step through. It's a reminder of Magnus' warm embraces and magical touches, the way they cuddle under the stars and kiss in the rain.

The others all go before him, steeling themselves and almost racing to get it over with and find out if they'll survive, while Alec takes a deep breath as he clenches his fists.

Just as he lifts a foot to step through, a hand slips into his.

His eyes widen.

"No." A breathless, disbelieving whisper.

"Quite the contrary," Magnus replies gently.

"Magnus…"

"Did you really think I would let you go?" Magnus asks, raising one prefect eyebrow.

Alec smiles. Despite the rage and confusion and alarm spiralling around his head, he smiles. He smiles because he's once again assured that Magnus does truly love him, and that he need not fear the warlock leaving or being disappointed in him.

"We go together."

Magnus squeezes his hand and Alec feels one of his rings digging into his skin, but it's a comfortable reminder of their interlocked fingers and matching smiles.

"We go together," Alec echoes.

The portal blinks at them as they step through, eyes closed, hands clasped firmly together, grinning sadly, hopefully. Alec can feel Magnus being tugged away by the portal but he holds on, leaning towards him and wishing nothing but for the two of them to remain with each other.

When they step through, he can't help thinking that his heart must be exhausted from the pain he's put it through. He doesn't care though, only worried about Magnus' hand in his and the way their gazes meet like an eclipse.

"Together," they chorus, turning away from the portal.

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oliveratlanta · 4 years

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Homage to 9 great, historic Atlanta buildings reborn as restaurants

The seductive interiors of Southern Belle at the 1930s Briarcliff Plaza in Poncey-Highland. | Southern Belle/Georgia Boy

Both old and new, these eatery spaces shine in remarkable settings from Decatur to downtown

News recently broke of the closing of fine dining restaurant Rose & Rye inside the “Castle” building on 15th Street in Midtown. The ambitious eatery made media waves when opening in 2017 for its team of women holding top positions, from management to chef staff, but with the building’s current owners filing for Chapter 11 bankruptcy in November and putting it on the market, there are fair questions to be asked about whether or not building out an eatery inside a historic space is something Atlantans will support as the city changes.

Let’s hope so.

The fact is, restaurants and bars dotted all around Atlanta are not only surviving but thriving in architecturally significant buildings that have stood long enough to claim “historic” status. Here are some of the standouts.

Ponce City Market

Jonathan Phillips/Curbed Atlanta

Walking in from street level to Ponce City Market’s Central Food Hall feels like stepping into updated history—only more fun, especially when you’re hungry.

As one of Atlanta’s most iconic and important renovated landmarks, listed on the National Register of Historic Places, this former Sears & Roebuck Co. distribution center is full of corporate offices, retail shops, and random experiences. But it’s the food and drink that keeps folks coming back.

Chief among PCM attractions for those arriving with appetites are the Italian restaurant and market Bellina Alimentari, Ton Ton ramen bar, Biltong Bar for cocktails you’d hardly expect to be fantastic since they’re served alongside dried cutlets of South African beef jerky, Tasty China Jia (the crispy quail is wildly spicy but worth it), H&F Burger, and casual Mexican restaurant Minero, whose standout chicken wings are shaken in brown bags full of spice before plated in front of you. Also don’t miss the food in other areas of the property, including Root Baking Co. on the second floor, Pancake Social on the outer edge facing North Avenue, and The Roof, where Slater Hospitality runs beer garden 9 Mile Station and the secretive 12 Cocktail Bar, which has its own elevator, security, and boasts the highest public perch in the building, in a space where a historic radio program was once broadcasted.

The Brasserie and Neighborhood Cafe at Parish

Tucked into the side of a sloping hill next to the Beltline, where Inman Park meets Old Fourth Ward, Parish’s presence on Highland Avenue doesn’t just predate the latest round of restaurants and bars to arrive in the past decade. It’s been around since 1890, and the building is (almost) all that’s left of the Atlanta Pipe Factory Terminal Building.

Photo: Lisa C Writes/Eater Atlanta

The two-story restaurant is inspired by New Orleanian cuisine, although the menu has shifted to more tavern-style eats like orange-glazed, pan-seared salmon (but with French lentils). They still serve a good chicken and sausage gumbo, alongside a solid brunch of chicken and waffles, shrimp and grits and corned beef hash, but it’d honestly be nice to get some beignets.

Google/Zagat

Parish’s charming exterior on North Highland Avenue.

By George

Photos courtesy of Curio Collection by Hilton Hotels

The Candler Building’s elaborate lobby.

Hugh Acheson isn’t new to opening a restaurant in or near a historic bank. Take for example his first Atlanta restaurant, Empire State South, which sits across the street from the Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta. This time he’s in the Candler Building, completed in 1906 by Coca-Cola co-founder Asa Candler, who also put a financial institution of his own—Central Bank & Trust—on the main lobby floor of the 17-story tower.

By George, which leans into Acheson’s French cuisine aspirations, is the featured restaurant for the building’s new status as the Candler Hotel, part of Hilton’s Curio Collection.

The dinner menu offerings (the wonderfully tart steak tartare or the expertly prepared steak diane could both turn a vegan into a vampire) remind you that Acheson is clearly comfortable in his Canadian skin, and intends to set a new dining standard in downtown. Breakfast and lunch are also served, and superstar drinks-master Kellie Thorn is behind ingenious sips that make proper use of cognac, armagnac, and other French spirits.

Beyond the food, the space is surrounded by marble to a level you’re not likely to see duplicated in any new restaurant in or outside Atlanta, unless it’s by someone with Coke money.

Exterior detailing at the Candler Building.

Wonderkid

Sean Keenan/Curbed Atlanta

The former milk production facility’s revised facade.

Now that tenants are arriving in this Reynoldstown adaptive-reuse development, Atlanta Dairies is once again ready to milk the benefits of its funky Art Deco, Memorial-Drive-facing facade and prime Beltline location.

Beginning in the 1940s as a dairy co-op, it now houses Wonderkid, a classic diner from the teams behind such successful F&B brands as King of Pops, The Lawrence, and Bon Ton.

Chef Justin Dixon (previously at The Shed at Glenwood) turns out delicious interpretations of classics, such as the falafel waffle and roasted chicken pot pie, served from 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. After that, the late night menu goes back to breakfast, and lets anyone that’s always rapped along with OutKast on the chorus of Rosa Parks but never actually tried fish and grits to get their fill. The cocktail program is also a standout, the beers range from wonderfully cheap (but still great), to Atlanta-based crafts, and it also has the distinction of being the first place in the world dishing KoP’s soft-serve, which is obviously apropos for the concept.

Livingston Restaurant + Bar and Edgar’s Proof & Provision

Proof & Provision

A social space with early 1900s origins.

The Georgian Terrace Hotel dates back to 1911, famous for a screening of Gone with the Wind that attracted major stars of the day, including Vivian Leigh, Clark Gable, and Lawrence Olivier.

Today, Livingston, an elegant two-story dining hall named after Atlanta’s 37th mayor Livingston Mims, attracts folks hungry for a Southern meal, from breakfast through dinner and on to brunch, with special pre-show dinner options for Fox Theatre ticketholders. For later-night bites and cocktails, there’s Edgar’s down below Peachtree Street, where bourbon and more is poured until midnight on weekdays, and until 2 a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays, for guests on black leather banquettes between brick columns.

Kimball House

Square Feet Studio

As the former depot was being transitioned from what used to be Depeaux.

While the controversial white paint might make it hard to envision Golden Eagle and Muchacho as a former train station built in 1891 (more on that in a minute), you can immediately tell that’s what Kimball House used to be, as you approach the formerly forest-green Decatur Square restaurant and bar at 303 East Howard Avenue.

Known for serving some of the best and freshest oysters in the city (apparently KH’s partners, who are also behind Krog Street Market’s Watchman’s, are soon to begin farming their own oysters in Alabama), it’s also notable because the details of the interior and exterior retain some of the energy of motion you feel in any transit station. The tiled floors, high ceilings and tall windows give the feeling that you’re passing through a place where people who make moves have been coming for years, and will continue to do the same.

Matthew Wong/Eater Atlanta

Kimball House’s throwback interiors.

Southern Belle and Georgia Boy

Southern Belle/Georgia Boy

There was a bit of a scare when The Plaza on Ponce (or Briarcliff Plaza, depending on whom you ask), was sold in 2017 to Charlotte-based Asana Partners, particularly among Atlantans who’re big fans of watching indie/campy films at The Plaza Theatre, preceded or followed by a sturdy meal at the beloved Majestic Diner, which itself has been serving customers 24 hours a day since the start of the Great Depression. Late last year, two new restaurants opened on the property: Southern Belle and Georgia Boy.

The former is a restaurant homage to the wife of Chef Joey Ward (a talented protégé of chef Kevin Gillespie), while the latter is a hidden entry chef’s kitchen with a mind-blowing tasting menu, which changes at Ward’s whim but has included such inventive items as a fully edible snow globe. And while GB’s aesthetic leans much more steely, Southern Belle’s lofty interior, including a tall, deep-blue-painted archway, exposed brick and original tin ceiling, make it feel like a dining hall that’s been ringing dinner bells much longer.

Krog Street Market

Asana Partners

The pioneering food hall’s main entrance.

It’s only right that Krog Street Market has high-quality restaurants, since the Beltline-adjacent building opened in 1889 as the factory for Atlanta Stove Works, where cast iron was used to make sturdy cooking ranges.

After a few years of operating as an early iteration of Tyler Perry Studios, the factory was purchased and turned into a market food hall, where today you can take almost anyone that’s hungry and be pretty sure they’ll leave satisfied.

From the impressive pizza pies at Varuni Napoli, to the seafood entrees, oysters and fabulous cocktails at Watchman’s (try the pineapple pancakes from their great new Sunday brunch), the top-tier burgers at Fred’s Meat & Bread, the always reliable dumplings at Gu’s, or the burns-so-good hot chicken at Richards’ Southern Fried, the only things that probably don’t taste good are the flowers, dog treats, and soaps from the retail stands.

Golden Eagle/Muchacho

Ansley Atlanta Real Estate

Back more than 80 years ago, when the Beltline was a two-word phrase, this Reynoldstown building was constructed as a train depot. After being abandoned in the mid-20th century, it sat vacant for decades until restaurateur Jerry Slater took it over and opened popular cocktail bar H. Harper Station in 2010.

While H. Harper sadly didn’t last long enough to see the arrival of the renewed, single-word Beltline (it closed on April Fool’s Day 2016), the space was quickly purchased by one of the owners of Ladybird, another Beltline restaurant and bar, and opened as two separate restaurants—Golden Eagle and Muchacho—in 2017.

There was a bit of controversy when the new owner decided to paint the brick building, but things have since calmed down, thanks to favorable opinions of GE/M’s ambiance. What also doesn’t hurt: breakfast tacos and coffee worth eating and drinking at Muchacho, plus Golden Eagle’s respectably delicious tavern food (prime rib specials on Mondays, whole cast-iron-roasted chicken) and very fancy cocktails. Spirits enthusiasts seem to agree that, while Slater’s drinks were stellar, Eagle’s beverages are similarly brag-worthy.

Andrew Thomas Lee/Eater Atlanta

The bar at Golden Eagle.

source https://atlanta.curbed.com/2020/1/29/21113875/atlanta-buildings-restaurants-architecture-history

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