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Every Tudor Rose Has Its Thorns - CH 2 now live

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“So… you think they’re alive?” Jim asks, tilting his head.

“At least one of them is a ghost, I think,” she explains, walking towards the alley next to the theatre. They had gotten their tickets refunded due to “technical difficulties,” despite knowing that the real issue was far beyond that. “But the visions I had when Catherine and Anne went up for their songs… it felt really powerful. It could be more than one. Maybe all of them, just based on the pure strength of it.”

“What, so you think the ghosts of the ex-wives of Henry VIII are… haunting the performers when they go on?” Jim asks. “One ghost doing that, sure, but all of them? Seems pretty unlikely.”

Melinda frowned and looked down at the programme, flipping to the page where the actors were shown. She tilts her head. “You know, they never say what the actor’s names are in here. They just say Anne and Catherine and the rest.”

“Maybe it’s an acting thing?” Jim asks, though he clearly sounds like he’s fishing for an answer. “Some actors do that, live as though they’re the characters they are.”

Melinda nods in consideration, but goes back to the original theory: that the ghosts are involved.

“I mean, it’s not surprising that they would be earthbound if it is actually them,” Melinda says. “Not after everything they got put through.”

“Do you think they caused the technical difficulties?” Jim asks.

“I didn’t sense anyone else around, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility,” Melinda replies. “Why would they want to ruin their own show, though? It’s about their story, their lives being told-”

“No, they’re not ruining their own show.”

Jim and Melinda jump a bit as they hear a voice behind them. When they turn, they spot…

“You’re Maria, right?” Melinda asks. “You’re the drummer.”

“I am,” Maria nods. “I was hoping you’d still be around. I… I don’t know how to explain this, but I really think you should come with me.”

Melinda watches her for a moment before tilting her head. She slowly walks more towards Maria, gently taking her hand. There’s a slight jolt before Melidna is once again pulled into a vision:

She’s managed to avoid the guards, sneak into the premises, and get to her door. With a running start, she bangs through it, immediately looking down at a woman in bed. She looks deathly ill, yet oddly familiar…

Melinda can hear herself speak Spanish to the woman, crying as she holds her. She can see her arm gently push back some hair, gently speak comforting words to the woman she held, crying out her name as the former queen’s eyes start to dim and close:

“Catalina!”

Suddenly, Melinda was back to the present. Maria looks terrified.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt her, is she-”

“It’s okay, she’s okay,” Jim says, nodding. He keeps an eye on Melinda, though, just in case.

Melinda took a moment to clear her thoughts before she continued. “That was… the other side of the vision I had when Catherine of Aragon’s song came up.”

“Vision?” Maria asks, taking a step back in surprise. “Are you a witch?”

“No,” Mel is quick to dispel the theory. “But I do… have a gift. I can see the dead.”

Maria pales. Melinda narrows her eyes.

“How?” Melinda asks. Maria is quiet, so Melinda clarifies: “How are you alive and dead at the same time?”

She looks down at her hands before she looks back up at the couple. “I… I need you to come inside. To come with me to see the others.” She looks from Melinda to Jim and back to Melinda. “I promise, we’re not… we’re not bad. And we didn’t do anything to cause those issues.” She takes a deep breath. “Oh, I can’t believe Jane’s going to be right on this.”

“Right on what?” Jim asks, stepping forward.

Maria makes a face.

“She said she felt someone else on stage with us tonight. Someone cold. She’s been off ever since.”

That was enough for Melinda to follow Maria into the backdoor.

As soon as they walk in, Maria takes Jim and Mel to the dressing rooms. Melinda recognized the queens: Jane was sitting next to Anne, quietly discussing something. Catherine and Cathy were getting their things together. Anna and Katherine were on their phones.

It’s the latter that speak up first.

“I mean, I’m seeing stuff where people say their electronics went haywire due to a ghost,” Katherine says. “Even as common as we’ve been having it lately.”

“It could also be some faulty wiring, though,” Anna points out, scrolling through some searches. “Or maybe the wind that’s been picking up knocked something loose.”

“I swear, I felt a cold wind, and I…” Jane starts, but she freezes up when she spots Maria and her guests. “Who’s this?”

Maria clears her throat and steps forward. “Everyone, this is Melinda Gordon and Jim Clancy.” She looks directly at Catherine for the next part. “Melinda can speak to the dead.”

They’re all quiet for a moment before Anne speaks up.

“Oh really?” She asks, a hint of joking in her voice. Melinda grimaces at that; people usually are in disbelief, but the mocking tone some can get reminded her of the high school and college bullies. It’s not easy doing her job, after all.

“Yes,” Maria continues. “Actual ghosts.”

“How do you think she can help?” Cathy asks.

“How do we know to trust her?” Jane asks.

“I think I know the answer to both of those things.”

Before Melinda or Jim can answer, someone else has jumped to their defense: Melinda recognized her as Joan, the pianist. Right behind her was Bessie and Maggie. All three of them were in normal clothes now, bags left at the side of the door as they move towards the group and stand nearby.

“Maria,” Joan says quietly. “I saw you stumble on Catherine’s song today. You were looking right at her in the front row.” Joan looks over at Melinda, almost pitying her. “And you looked incredibly pale. I thought it might be a trick of the light, but I’m assuming you being here makes it not the case.”

Melinda nods, stepping forward. “I had a vision. I was in a bed, hurting, and someone barged into the room and held me as I died. It felt like the person wasn’t supposed to be there, but I needed her to be there.” She looks over at Maria, who is looking at Catherine. “I think it was you. You called her name as she died, didn’t you? You called for Catalina. That was who you were holding, as she died.”

Maggie frowns. “Not that I don’t believe you, but anyone who knows our histories knows that Maria held Catherine at the end. How do we know this isn’t a trick?”

“Because,” Joan says, “when that… vision… of hers happened, Maria looked completely out of sorts.” She steps towards the woman in question. “What did you feel?”

“I felt… connected,” Maria explains, moving to gently hold Catherine’s hand for support. Catherine, of course, holds it firm. “I felt like someone was connecting with me. And I… I heard Catalina’s cries. I heard what I heard when she died. Then I looked up, and it was Melinda.”

“Did you… see something… during Don’t Lose Ur Head?” Maggie asks, frowning.

Melinda shivered at the thought. “Yes. I saw someone being taken to the block. A young, red headed girl called for her mom-”

Anne stands up quickly, like a reflex, but Maggie quickly grabs her arm. It calms the woman somewhat as she sits back down. Jim stands a bit closer to Melinda as she backed up at the sudden movement, but with things calmer, she relaxes a bit more.

“Not quite how that went,” Anne says quietly, “but if Catherine and Maria believe you, I’m inclined to as well.”

“Sometimes my visions aren’t exact to what happened,” Melinda replies. “Sometimes they’ve got more symbolism in them then actual events-”

Melinda stopped, though, when a sudden chill fell through the air. She felt her head reeling with no warning; she put a hand to it and tried to breathe through it. Jim was calling for her, she knew this, but the voice became less and less her husbands and more and more like someone else.

The lights suddenly turned off.

And he appeared.

What hit her first was a wave of emotions - fear, jealousy, panic.. But mostly anger. A lot of anger. She couldn’t tell who he was exactly, as the Shadows around them were so thick, but he pointed to her and spoke; it cut through her mind like glass.

“You should not be here,” he said, and Melinda winced every time he spoke. “You should not be here.”

“Who are you?” She asks, but he screamed, and the Shadows rushed her, and everything went dark…

… only for the lights to turn on a moment later.

Melinda blinked; somehow, she had ended up crouched on the floor, hands on her head as she looked around. Jim was immediately at her side, checking her over.

“Are you okay-?” He started, but someone else’s voice cut through his question. This time, it didn’t hurt Melinda at all.

“Jane?!?”

The couple looked over to find Jane Seymour collapsed to the ground, eyes unfocused and glassy, breathing rapidly as if panicked. With a nod from Mel, Jim rushed over to see if he could help.

“What’s happened, why is that happening again?” Katherine asks, clearly panicked.

Melinda picked up the clue. “Again? When did it happen before?”

“It happened yesterday, too,” Bessie says, stepping forward. “She’s been having these type of spells for a while now.”

“Anna had some to start with as well, Cathy too,” Joan points out. “But Jane’s been hit the hardest with them.”

Melinda nods, looking over at Jane just in time to see her gasp for air. She coughed, being helped to sit up by Jim.

“Are you alright?” Jim asks, looking the woman over.

“Jane?” Joan is right beside her queen in an instant; now Melinda knew what she meant by they took care of their queens; Joan was Jane’s Lady in Waiting in their previous life, after all.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Jane mumbles, a hand to her head as she collects her thoughts. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s the damned ghost, that’s what’s come over you,” Katherine says, clearly angry. “What does it want and why does it keep on messing with our productions?”

Anne looked over at Melinda before stepping towards her. “Alright, I don’t quite believe you, but… what did you see? Before, in the dark?” Melinda seemed to be confused, so Anne continued. “If you’re having those vision things, I’d assume you’d have one when things go bad.”

“That’s not how it works all the time,” Melinda says, “but I did see the ghost. He was…” she swallowed thickly at the next few words, looking over at Jim. “He was surrounded by Shadows.”

Jim’s jaw set with anger for a moment, before he corrected his expression. Melinda continued.

“He said I shouldn’t be here. He was tall, that’s all I got from it.”

The lights flickered again and Melinda once again felt a wave of nausea. She blinked, squeezing her eyes shut. Catherine frowned when Anna did the same.

“We should leave,” Melinda said through shaky breaths. “Whoever it is, they’re going to try again.”

Anna is unsteady, but she powers through it to get to the alley. As soon as they’re out of the theatre, Melinda feels her head clear up considerably. She breathes a sigh of relief as she looks at Anna; she seems far better, too.

Maria steps forward. “Do you mind if we go somewhere a bit more private?” she asks, looking at the couple. “Our flat’s nearby. Might be the best place to discuss this more.”

“Sure,” Melinda says. “We’ll follow you.”

Maggie leads the group as they walk down the street, Jim and Melinda in the middle of the pack. Maria and Bessie hang at the back. They’re silent, before Maria speaks:

“You’re on the fence for this, aren’t you, Bessie?”

She sighs. “I don’t know what to think,” she replies. “But if you think she’s the answer to what’s been happening lately I think it’s worth a shot.” She shrugs. “Not like we had any success with anything else, so…”

Maria looks back at the couple, who are quietly walking, Melinda’s arm in his. “Yeah. I really think they are.”

As they walk, Jim looks Melinda over some more. “You sure you’re feeling alright?” Jim asks quietly.

Melinda glanced over then shook her head. “A little woozy,” she admits. “The visions are strong, and I think it’s because of who they are.” she gives him a small smile. “I’ll be ok. I’ve got you here.”

Jim tries to smile back, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. Melinda understands this, but her focus right now is moreso on Jane.

“She looks about as good as I feel,” Mel mumbles.

Jane looked as pale as a ghost, stumbling occasionally as they moved towards the queen’s flat. Joan was right next to her, watching her closely as they moved.

“Yeah, and Anna doesn’t look too well either,” Jim observed. Anna was at the front of the pack with Katherine, answering her questions and smiling with her, but Jim’s EMT training allowed him to see the occasional stumble and wince in pain. “It took a lot out of them, too, I think.”

“When we get to the flat,” Catherine says, having heard their conversation, “We can all take a breather there.”

Cathy watches the couple very closely for a moment before she just continues on with Catherine in tow. Catherine narrows her eyes at Cathy for a moment before moving on.

The sound of a child’s laughter rings through the area; it makes Melinda smile as she and Jim are let into the flat. From there, everyone comes together in the living room.

“The weird stuff hasn’t followed us home before,” Cathy says. “So we should be safe here.”

Melinda breathes a sigh of relief; her head already feels like it’s clearing, and some of her energy’s returned. “This place feels a lot better than the theatre.”

“Please, sit down,” Anna says, offering them two spots on the couch. Melinda and Jim sit down next to each other while the others settle down on chairs around them.

Catherine, with a small smile, starts the conversation:

“If you don’t mind, Melinda, I think it’d be best if we just get into it, okay?”

Melinda nodded, and Catherine continued.

“Maria seems to be convinced that you’ve got special powers,” Catherine replies. “And you definitely saw something at the theatre multiple times.”

Melinda nods. “It’s more powerful than what I usually deal with, to be honest,” Melinda says. “I just feel… a lot of energy, coming from all of you.” She looks around the room. “It’s not bad. It’s better than when you were at the theatre. From personal experience, that means the Shadows aren’t able to affect you here.”

“Shadows?” Cathy asks.

“They’re dark energy,” Melinda continues. “Powerful, dark, negative energy. It’s sometimes leftover energy from bad souls, other times those souls are… converted, into the Shadows.” She shivers at the thought, remembering when they took her over, remembering when they made her think and almost do terrible things…

“What’s the Shadows have to do with us?” Jane asks quietly, looking down at her hands. “Why are we being tormented?”

“And some of us more than others,” Anne replies. “It seems to be tormenting Catherine, Anna, and Jane more-”

“Is it, though?” Katherine asks. “You almost died on stage. Again.”

Melinda sat up at that. “You said that it happened before at the theatre, too. Can you tell me what’s been going on?”

They all look at each other, uncertain. Jim speaks up then.

“We want to help,” he tries. “But we need all the information we can.”

“You have to at least believe that there’s truth to what I’m saying, don’t you?” Melinda asks. “You wouldn’t have invited me into your homes if you didn’t.”

Katherine narrows her eyes. “You said you got a vision every time you touched one of us, right?” When Melinda nods, Katherine stands up in front of her and offers a hand. “Well, prove it.”

Melinda looks at Jim and, with a nod his way, looks back at the hand. With some hesitation, she takes it, and-

-she’s suddenly not in the room.

She’s on stage, the exact one Melinda had been watching only an hour before. She’s singing something, on her knees, breathing heavily as she talks about being touched and enough being enough and people supposed to be different. Just as she finishes it, she hastily blows a kiss at the audience as she gasps for air and looks up, a single pink spotlight on her.

The crowd is silent for a moment, and it seems to save her life - she can hear something above her crack.

Her eyes go wide as the spotlight momentarily is blocked by something. Realizing what’s about to happen, she instantly backs up, straight back as a bar suddenly slams right where she just was.

She gasps, catching her breath, wincing as she feels something hit her hand as the bar makes impact with the ground. She ignores the pain as someone grabs her and rushes her off stage, the audience being evacuated…

… and Melinda gasps as she is brought back to the present.

“Holy crap,” Katherine says, eyes wide. “I… Maria was right.”

“What did you see?” Bessie asks.

Melinda catches her breath for a second. “She was singing, then she looked up at the spotlight, and a bar fell and hurt her hand,” Melinda says, pointing to the mark on Katherine’s hand.

“That’s what happened Thursday,” Katherine says. “That’s what happened when I was injured. And I never told anyone who I knew about it.” Katherine looks back at Catherine. “She’s legit, swear it.”

Catherine nods at the girl and then looks at Melinda. “I think it’s enough evidence to continue,” Catherine says quietly. “Now… what would this shadow want with us?”

“The Shadows work best through people,” Melinda says. “That’s how they became a threat to us back in Grandview, they influenced people to make their move.” She shivers at the thought, but doesn’t get too into detail; they’ve only just started to trust her, she didn’t want them to be scared.

Not yet, anyways.

Catherine nods. “So you think it’s possible whoever is doing this is trying to influence us?”

Melinda leans back on the couch. “Katherine was almost killed that time, and Anne was today… did anything else happen?”

“Yeah,” Anna says. “Catherine was almost electrocuted the other day.”

Catherine winces at the memory. “I was on stage and about to sit on the throne during No Way, and suddenly the damn thing broke apart. One of the legs splintered off and cut a nearby wire. If it wasn’t for Maria, I would have been shocked.”

Melinda nods. “Anything else?”

“There was that time Katherine tripped and knocked herself unconscious last week,” Anne points out.

“And the slip and fall Catherine had,” Cathy points out.

“And Anne’s phone literally blew up in her hand the week before on stage,” Maggie added.

Jim had been keeping count. “So it’s really only been physical ‘accidents’ for Anne, Katherine, and Catherine?” He asks, nodding towards the correct C/Katherines to clarify who he was talking about.

Cathy nods. “The rest of us… when those things happen, we start to feel weird.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest defensively. “It’s like something’s there. Something cold. Something not pleasant.”

“You feel an anger, right?” Melinda asks, looking directly at Cathy. “You feel like you’re helpless, and you feel cold and angry and not yourself, right? And you can’t let that feeling go because it’s taking you over?”

Jane nods, but looks wary. “They seem scary the more you talk about them.”

“They are, to be honest,” Melinda says, looking down. “But it’s beatable. It is.” She looks up again, a gentle smile on her face. “With some support from others, we can beat it here.”

Cathy seems hesitant to say something, but after a moment (and a deep breath) she steps forward. “The ghosts that you can see… can you see anyone else?”

Melinda tilts her head, confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you see any other ghosts,” Cathy repeats. “Can you see any other ghosts around us?”

Melinda frowns. “Who would I be looking for?”

“A young girl, probably,” Cathy says. “Or, uhm… maybe two women, or maybe a teenaged boy.”

Melinda considers Cathy for a moment before she nods quickly, looking around the room. She’s been at this long enough that she can filter out the queen’s and ladies in waiting’s presence well enough to find other people when she needs to, but right now…

“... there’s no one else here,” Melinda says, looking back at the woman. “I’m sorry, is it someone you know?”

Cathy sighs. “It’s nothing.” She gets up and leaves.

Catherine steps in. “I’m sorry about her.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Melinda says. “I just… who was she looking for?”

Catherine isn’t sure she should answer.

Anne cuts in.

“Well,” she says, getting up. “We should probably start preparing dinner.” She smiles to try to diffuse the tension in the room; it’s kind of working.

Melinda nods and goes to stand up with Jim when Katherine gives them a look.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Kat asks, raising an eyebrow.

Melinda blinks. “Uh… didn’t you say you were preparing dinner?” she asks. “We were headed to the door.”

“But then you’d miss dinner,” Katherine replies.

“Sorry, uh, we weren’t aware we were invited,” Jim replies.

“We’ve still got a bit to talk about, if you’re interested in hanging around,” Maria says. “It’s likely this’ll happen at the show tomorrow, too. It’s been like this for a while now. And if you’re our chance of stopping it… well, I think we can all agree we’d want to give you all the time in the world to figure it out.”

“Besides,” Maggie says, smiling widely. “We need an extra hand in the kitchen. Anne’s not allowed in there since the Knife Incident.”

Melinda looked alarmed. “The accidents have been happening here, too?”

“No,” Maggie replies. “We just can’t trust Anne, Katherine, and Cathy to be on their own with a bunch of knives and a dart board anymore.”

Jim looks concerned and Melinda’s very confused.

“Which K/Catherine-” Mel starts, but the queens laugh.

Catherine motions towards the kitchen. “Come on, Melinda, you can chop up some vegetables and we can keep on chatting.”

Melinda nods, then looks over at Jim. “Are you ok with this?”

“Free dinner? Yeah, sure,” he replies, smiling back at her. “I’ll get to work on some research while you guys are talking.”

“I’d like to help with that,” Anna says. “If you don’t mind.”

Mel nods appreciatively. “The more the merrier.”

Jim gives Melinda’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, and Melinda nods in his direction. It’s an unspoken conversation between them - if Mel needed anything, she can go to Jim, and Jim’ll be there. On the flip side, if he found anything out, he could come into the kitchen to let her know. All that exchanged in two movements and no words.

Honestly, Catherine thought as she led Melinda into the kitchen, it was rather adorable how the two interacted. A happy, healthy couple who had each other’s backs. She wouldn’t know what that felt like - not really - but she’s glad at least someone seemed to have a love story out of a storybook. It was a nice change of pace from the usual.

Anna was thinking something very similar as she replaced Melinda on the couch. “You two are something special, aren’t you?”

Jim chuckled. “We’ve been at this for years,” he said, unlocking his phone. “I’m not usually this involved in it, but I’m glad to be when she asks me to.”

“You guys are really adorable,” Bessie replies with a grin.

Jim’s about to reply when Anna sharply inhales some air, frowning as she looks down at her phone. Jim springs into action.

“Can I see?” Jim asks, offering Anna his hand. With some consideration, Anna puts her wrist in Jim’s hand, watching as he looks it over. “Bessie, do you guys have a first aid kit?”

“In the closet,” Bessie nods.

“Does it have an ace bandage?”

“Yeah.”

“Bring it over, please, and some ice in a bag from the freezer if you have any,” he says, and Bessie rushes to grab the requested materials. When she’s not in earshot, Jim speaks to Anna quietly so no one else can hear: “You know, if it was hurting this much, you shouldn’t have let Katherine grab it so often on the way here…”

Anna huffs.

“How’d you know?” Anna asks, tilting her head.

“When we were walking here,” Jim said, “I noticed that you were wincing, but it wasn’t in time with the walk. Then I saw Katherine take your arm and that’s when you winced.”

Anna is impressed. “All that from looking at me?”

“I’m an EMT back at home,” he explains, taking the first aid kit and pulling out the ace bandage. He wraps it and puts the ice on top.

“Amongst other things, I take it.” Anna replies. “More like us than them, right?”

Jim looks up at her, and Anna smirks a little bit. Jim tilts his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Anna smiles a bit wider and goes back to researching, leaving Jim confused.

Meanwhile, Melinda had been helping prep for dinner, watching as the other queens and ladies were preparing things as well.

“Are you sure it’s ok if we join you guys for dinner?” Melinda asks, cutting the vegetables as requested.

Catherine smiles. “It’s no problem at all. It’s been a while since we were able to cook for people, anyways.”

Melinda smiles politely back before looking around - she can hear some of the others talking in the other room, she can hear a child laughing again somewhere in the building, and she can already smell the dinner cooking. It seemed… peaceful.

“How many people know about you all?” Melinda asks, going back to preparing vegetables. “The truth, I mean.”

Catherine hums. “Not many. A handful.” She nods towards Cathy, who is putting something in the oven. “Cathy is the one to keep track of that.”

“It’s mainly need to know,” Cathy says. “We don’t exactly want everyone to know, it would scare quite a bit of people.”

“So do you have fake names for the board at the front of the lobby?” Melinda asks, genuinely curious.

Cathy nods. “Just there. It’s not in the programmes or anything. Just didn’t feel right.”

Melinda nods, wincing in pain for a moment before getting her bearings together.

Catherine tilts her head. “Are you ok? Here, eat something,” she says, putting an apple in front of the woman.

Mel shakes her head. “Not really that hungry, sorry,” she mumbles, a hand to her head. She sighs. “I was running a fever back in Grandview, too, when this all happened there.”

“What else happened while you were fighting these… Shadow, things?” Katherine asks, tilting her head curiously.

Melinda swallowed. “I… was consumed by it.”

Cathy tilts her head. “Consumed?”

Mel nods. “It wore me down. I couldn’t differentiate ghosts and visions from people and real life.” Her arms involuntarily cross as she remembers. “It was scary. I didn’t think I’d find my way back. I thought I was lost.”

“What got you back?” Catherine asks.

At that, Melinda smiles. “My son. And the memories of my family, my loved ones - it helped me break through.” She frowns. “We don’t have Aiden around this time, though. He was the reason why I could break through in the first place. He gave the opening. And he’s not here.” She frowns. “So… the big question is, what are we going to do if they try to take one of you?”

No one had an answer for that.

Meanwhile, Jim and Anna were sitting in the living room, looking through papers and websites to find leads. They had sat in relative silence for a while - a comfortable one, but silence nonetheless.

It’s broken when Jim makes a small noise of annoyance and puts down a piece of paper.

Anna raises an eyebrow and looks at him. “You alright, Jim?”

He looks over, a bit surprised by the question, but sighs and answers. “Look, Anna, the last time Melinda dealt with the Shadows… she almost didn’t make it out. It’s practically a miracle that she survived.” He sighs. “I know this is important, and I wouldn’t dream of stopping her from doing her work, but-”

“You don’t want her hurt in the process.” Anna finishes, a knowing nod.

Jim leans back a bit, slightly more relaxed. “Yeah.”

Anna thinks about it for a moment before she stands up and walks over to him. “Listen, Jim… I know we’ve only just met. But from what I can tell, you two have gone through much, much worse.” She points to his hair. “Your reflection is blonde, but you definitely aren’t. So, basically… this isn’t your first body, is it?” She looks him over. “It looks good, by the way, though I think I see what Melinda saw in your reflection, which I’m assuming is your second form? So I can see who you were but in reflections I see the body you’re in now?” She shrugs. “That’s what I’ve come to the conclusion to, anyways.”

Jim sits back, absolutely floored. “I’m extremely impressed that you figure this out so quickly - I couldn’t even figure it out for a while.”

“It was more of theory than fact, but I’m glad I was right,” she says. “Maybe souls can see souls. And maybe you’re not so different from me and my family, and maybe you’ve been through something similar. I get supporting your wife and all, but you take it to an inhuman level.”

“I’m not…” He runs a hand through his hair; guess it’s time to come clean, he supposed. “This body was someone else’s before it was mine. He crossed over, and I took his place as soon as he did.” He looks her over. “Originally, Melinda was thinking you guys did something similar to the bodies you have now.”

“We didn’t,” she assures. “I know you can’t completely trust me, but we didn’t. We showed up in these bodies.”

“Have you tried sending off DNA or fingerprints or death records?” He suggests. “We’ve seen weird stuff, Anna, maybe you all happened to die at the same time and you jumped in after that. I didn’t remember doing that at first, either-”

“We didn’t.”

The two look over to find Katherine. She’s standing in the doorway, two plates in her hands, Melinda right behind her.

“Kat-” Anna starts, but Katherine moves into the room, offering Anna and Jim plates. They both take them. Jim moves over so Melinda can sit next to him as Katherine continues.

“We showed up with them,” she says firmly, looking over at Melinda.

Mel nods. “These bodies… they’re here, but they’re not,” she explains. She frowns as she looks at Katherine’s hand. “I get visions any time I touch them, and their energies are so strong… it’s like the Shadows, but not threatening. Not dangerous.”

“That’s… not something we’ve seen before,” Jim says. “Payne might know something about that. He said to call him if anything gets wild, didn’t he?”

“I left a message for him already,” Melinda explains. She sees Jim’s worried look next to her and gently squeezes his hand, letting him know she’s okay. “We’ll have an answer tomorrow.” She looks at the group. “He’s a professor of the occult. Used to work in Grandview, now he’s researching off in the Himalayas.”

“And you think he’ll be able to help us?” Anne asks.

“I think so,” Mel confirmed.

“That’s all we can do for now, right?” Jane asks, looking around. “Just wait until Professor Payne gives us some more information?”

“I think so,” Catherine replies with a nod. She looks at the couple with a soft smile. “You two should get some rest. Call time is fairly early.”

Melinda blinks. “Call time?”

“Well,” Anne says, smiling. “You want this solved as much as we do, right? Might as well give you the best access we can.”

“So you’ll be our VIP guests for as long as you need to be,” Jane continues. “Behind the scenes access before, during, and after the show.”

“We figured it would help with the investigation,” Anna replies. “Maybe help you catch whoever’s behind it, since we’re all in agreement it’s supernaturally aligned.”

“And besides,” Jane says with a teasing grin. “If someone gets injured again, Jim won’t have an excuse for being slow to help.”

Jim chuckles at that and looks over at Melinda. “Well, I guess we’ll reschedule the ghost tour of the Tower of London.”

“Why would you pay for that?” Anne jokes, waving her hand dismissively. “You’ve already met them.”

#ghost whisperer #gw #gw fanfic #gw fanfiction #gw ff #ghost whisperer fanfiction #ghost whisperer fanfic #six the musical #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical ff #six fanfic #six ff #six fanfiction

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essaysbyciara · 4 years

Text

Old Habits Die Hard | Part Five: Just Know

SYNOPSIS | PART ONE: DAYS BEFORE | PART TWO: JUST BE GOOD TO ME | PART THREE: RECOGNIZE THE BUTTERFLIES | PART FOUR: DOWN THE STAIRS AND TO YOUR LEFT

Peace!

Warnings: Lightweight mentions of sexual situations, language

I missed you. I missed us. Taglist is still open. Only a few parts left! Old Habits is also on Wattpad if that is more of your speed.

Peace & Love!

JUST KNOW

The old oak bar that you’re currently leaning over to catch your breath and reorient yourself from Yahya’s brief illicit touch wasn’t here last summer. It rises well above your waist, aligned with compartments to hide the more expensive bottles. You slept in Aunt Jerri’s finished basement last summer because it was the coolest room in her house. You’d cover her black leather couches with a fitted sheet and curl up under one of her crochet blankets, falling asleep to whatever was on TV. And sometimes on top of Dave.

Aunt Jerri’s basement became one of the few spaces that affording you and Dave some smidgen of privacy. You’d creep him through the back door once Aunt Jerri went to work, sending a text to let him know that the coast was clear. It was such a high school-esque move; Dave knocking on that door was like music to your ears just like the sounds coming from the two of you when everything got good.

Dave elicited a goodness that you thought no one else could produce until you met Yahya. Dave had you running away but Yahya had you climbing walls, love so intense that you feared the neighbors might call the cops.

That’s why the idea of giving that up until your wedding night with Yahya was originally a no-go. You thought you couldn’t bear walking into your bedroom every night to see Yahya’s shirtless six feet-plus frame under the covers, curled up with a Tom Clancy novel to decompress from a taxing day, and not find a more arduous way to ease his tension.

But you experienced a two-week stretch where you made love non-stop with a man who left you for dead once his access could no longer be easily granted. Phone sex was juvenile to you but it would work until Dave would visit you on weekends. That’s what he promised to do after he exorcised every curse word from your body just by his touch. Promises weren’t kept once the sex stopped. You feared Yahya doing the same.

But you loved Yahya for more than that. You’ve never met a more kind, courteous, just and secure man in your life. The care and gentility he showed his clients in the moments where their anger and confusion would get the best of them displayed Yahya’s unshakable grace. He showed that he would always give a damn about you. He’d take care of you. He wouldn’t leave you. He had you.

Sex or no sex wouldn’t change that. You could wait.

Apparently Dave couldn’t. Despite him telling you otherwise.

Being “just a fuck” to Dave made no sense. He told you his life story, the ins and outs and the ebbs and flows. He opened up about the death of his brother and the inevitable death of his hoop dreams because the grief became too much. He told you about the “South Jersey crib with kids running around in the backyard and shit” and he’d look into your eyes as he said it. He asked you what size ring your wore and if you were cool with wearing Jordans at the wedding. If you were cool with naming your first-born after his brother. So to suddenly leave you alone to drown in those dreams without him keeps you in this basement and not upstairs. To see your dream deferred in the face was not an option.

For Dave, it was.

As Dave walks down each step, he plays out the scenario inside of his mind about how he wants this reunion to play out. He wants you to forget about what happened and remember the good times, the moments on that leather couch where he poured out his life to you and you caught every ounce of overflow. But once he sees you at the bar, your back facing him, he freezes. What could he say that would make you even want him in your life again?

“Hey, yo…” is all he can muster up.

You know that voice, that deep baritone with a mix of Harlem and Philly, so sexy that you tense up, the knots inside of your stomach growing tighter and tighter and start traveling south. That voice made sounds into your ear and into the atmosphere that you will never forget. Dave stands by the edge of the steps waiting for you to reveal yourself. You’re delaying but it hurts. The pain must stop.

“He-hey…” You turn to be in Dave’s line of sight as you watch his chest rise from the emotions barreling inside of him. You match his breathing as you grab your left hand to quell its movement from the nervousness.

“I, um… they told me to grab a bottle from down here. For Trace.”

“Oh, I was grabbing something for Uncle Trace. I - I guess he got tired of waiting, I guess.” You walk around to the other side of the bar with your hips swaying to satiate your pride aching to make Dave pay for leaving you alone. He’s watching ...and growing. “Trace drinks Grey Goose. Here.” You place the bottle on top the bar, refusing to meet Dave in the middle.

“No doubt. Appreciate it.” Dave grabs the bottle, biting his bottom lip as he trails his eyes up and down your body. That same yellow sundress that knocked out Yahya has Dave on the ropes. “You want me to bring anything up for you or you cool?”

You acknowledge Dave’s peace offering. “Uh, yeah...this Woodford.”

“Damn, Ma. You hardbody like that now…?”

“Always was, Dave. I …” You stop yourself from engaging with Dave in all the ways that your heart is begging. “...I’m sure Trace is wondering where you at, so…”

You locate the escaped feeling in your legs to walk back around the bar. You keep distance from Dave afraid that, just like you did last summer, you two opposites would attract. Dave heeds your request to get back upstairs, a tiny smile tracing his lips from getting a look at you and hearing your voice.

Dave walks up the basement steps and into the dissipating crowd. Feels like the party is on its last legs just like you. He weaves through the small group inside of the kitchen and into the living room to find your Uncle Trace using his mid -1990s game on Leslie, your Aunt Jerri’s hair stylist. It’s working.

“Yo, Trace. My bad.” Dave’s errand disrupts Trace’s smooth moves which disrupts Trace’s good mood. He reluctantly grabs the bottle as Dave grabs his phone from his left pocket.

You look good as fuck tonight

You look down to a Instagram message from Dave. You finally made yourself back upstairs, gunning for that bottle of whiskey while also looking to find the love of your life. Yahya is nowhere to be found. You look up at Dave staring at you through his not-so-casual ignorance of the conversations surrounding him. You can’t fight your smile.

Thank you.

You text back, caving to the silent demands of Dave’s face and body standing mere feet away from you. The sexual energy building inside of you is traveling from the tips of your manicured fingers and through your phone to Dave.

Can we go back downstairs?

You cross your legs to snatch up a flow that can’t be stopped. You mirror Dave’s earlier lip bite.

Lol why?

I wanna see you.

You just saw me, chill out lol

Yahya sees you standing by the dining room table. He finally finds his away from your Aunt Jerri and Uncle Ro and into your presence. He kisses your right cheek, breaking your away from your messages.

“Hey, you doing okay? Nobody tried to get at you, right?”

“Yahya, why would you say that?”

“Look at you. I would.”

You tap Yahya’s chest playfully as Dave gripes at the sight of you and your now sneaking a kiss in the midst of the chaos dying out around you. His poor decision making is breaking up the reunion currently happening inside of your messages. Yahya is right on time. You know this conversation with Dave must come to an end despite your silent protests.

“But hey, look … how would you feel if we headed back to DC early. I think I hit a lim-”

“Babe. Yes. Let’s bounce.”

Aunt Jerri hears that word and knows something is up. She cornered Yahya on the porch earlier to talk about the wedding. She had some demands: a Philly DJ that would do a Jersey club set, a special tribute for your Dad and for your Uncle Trace to walk you down the aisle. She talked more mess about your mother’s side of the family, the liquor running so fast throughout her system that she couldn’t stop herself from speaking her mind. Yahya found it amusing at first but now he’s annoyed. Probably because the liquor has finally worn off and because he planned a tribute for your father with your mother’s blessing, the woman your Aunt Jerri couldn’t stand. It was her wish.

Yahya was tired of both of your families trying to gain control over your lives by proxy. That’s why he’s ready to ditch the marriage counselor and pay for the wedding himself. It was Yahya and [Y/N]’s day, not the world. Yahya belonged to you.

And if you wanted to get home and away from this hell of your past named Dave standing across from you, eyefucking you to death, then he’s with it. Even if he doesn’t know his name or the story. Your feel the energy between you and Dave. Your two week sexcapade was a case you didn’t want Yahya to prosecute.

“Is Ariel still up? I wanna tell her bye.”

“Bye? Y’all leaving?” Aunt Jerri swings her head in bewildered-Black-woman fashion

“Yeah. Yahya and I thought about it and we just want some alone time before the workweek starts…” You thought about lying about an emergency work situation back home. You thought about faking an illness. You didn’t want to hurt your family’s feelings but right now, you don’t care. It’s you and Yahya against the world. And Dave.

You speed up your denunciations to not ruffle any feathers. You run into your Uncle Trace sitting on the porch steps with Dave and Pardi, smoke curling in the air. You give your Uncle Trace the longest hug of all. You asked him earlier to be the man to walk you down the aisle and he agreed. “We’ll be in touch Unc about your suit for the wedding!” You don’t even look at Dave even as he’s staring at you and Yahya holding hands as you walk back into the house and towards the back door. He tries to grab your hand and just clutches your right pinky. You look back at Dave with a face asking him to not hold on as long as he could. You can't deny your reason to running back home to DC: Dave had you shook.

----

The breeze from hitting the speed limit down I-95 feels good after the heat of being in the same space as your ex. You look over at Yahya, the moonlight and highway light mix to glow against his skin as he makes the smooth transition between lanes. He looks so good in control.

The vibrations of your phone break the awe.

Yo. I’m sorry. Wild corny for me to do this but I really missed you. I miss you. I got scared. I wanted to leave with you to DC that night you left. I didn’t want you to leave. I don’t mean no disrespect to your current situation but I needed to tell you. I thought you was wifey. You were mad real. We were fuckin like crazy too. I think about that shit a lot. I miss that shit. I was so scared to see you tonight but I had to. You don’t have to say nuthin back to me. Just know.

You read Dave’s message as the ‘Welcome to Maryland’ sign on the interstate graces your presence.

240-555-9840

Taglist: @yoursoulstea @harleycativy @twistedcharismaaa @dorkskinneded @need-my-fics @ghostfacekill-monger @writerbee-ffs @chaneajoyyy @amyhennessyhouse

#yahya abdul-mateen II x fanfiction #yahya abdul-mateen ii #yahya abdul-mateen ii x reader #Dave East #dave east fic #Old habits die hard

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billymoon13 · 5 years

Text

This explains the Gater

Swamp Salvation

Johnny Isaac sat at a small table balancing his knife on its point with one finger at the end of the handle. The barn where he sat was large and tall with a sweet, damp smell that permeated the wood. In the rafters above his head were many poles strung with tobacco leaves hanging from them in the process of drying and curing before being sold at market. It was a dark location with only light coming from the gaps in the barn slats and from the partially open door. Johnny was deep in thought reflecting on the plans put into place over the last thirteen days. Thirteen…his mind stuck on that number…he was not a superstitious man, but it captured his attention. He put his faith in the directing hand of Almighty God and not in the influence of man-made superstition to guide fate. However, he did chuckle to himself thinking that the thirteenth day of this fortnight waiting period perhaps might prove to be an ominous one. “Wouldn’t that just confound all reason,” he said out loud while shaking his head. He dismissed the notion and returned to considering his current situation and what may lay ahead. The capture and interrogation of the Redcoat nearly two weeks ago resulted in valuable information, but very risky. Intercepting the reported shipment would give the militia the necessary powder, ammunition, and provisions to keep their efforts alive for a few months. The risk was worth the expected return and the planning had been meticulous to discern how the Redcoats possibly would move the items from the bay to Stevens Chapel without drawing attention.

His thoughts were cut dead as Johnny heard footsteps through the grass crunching twigs and leaves. The sound grew closer and a moving shadow began to grow on the partially open door. He slid his hand to his pistol stock tucked inside his waistband sash, drew the pistol, and cocked it without making a revealing sound. The pistol barrel was leveled at the door in wait for the unknown visitor. The door was pushed open by the shadow and a face peered in.

“Is the crop ready for King George?” asked the shadow in a broad voice.

“Only if he is able to come claim it” replied Johnny to the shadow.

The shadow moved fully into the door and walked toward the table. The streaming light changed on the figure to reveal a man of young adult age in an average frame. “Good to see you, Mr. Isaac…God protect you and God protect those who love Liberty.”

Johnny stood and carefully laid his pistol on the table pointing away from the door. He extended a hand to the young man waiting for him to reach the table to greet him. “God protect you, as well, Mr. Smyth.” Johnny paused to then shake the man’s hand with a double-handed grip. “It is very good to see you. Thank you for coming to stand watch.” The two men sat at the table across from each other getting comfortable in a way that indicated they might be there for some time. Mr. Smyth was a blacksmith in town and even in the partial light, Johnny could tell his hands still showed the course, calloused, texture of handling a hammer and tongs over a scorching fire for way too long. It was an odd sight to see such a young man with the hands of someone at least two decades older.

“I reckon there’s no word yet, Mr. Isaac?” asked Smyth as he lit a pipe by striking a match across the rough knuckles of his left hand.

“No, none. However, the time is short and should be soon,” confirmed Johnny. “All that’s needed now is fastidious waiting, which is always the most difficult.”

“Aye, agreed. I would prefer just to know and to deal with the knowing,” affirmed Smyth. He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the table corner. After taking a few billowing puffs on his pipe, his expression changed to a questioning look.

“I know ‘tis not my place to ask but are you sure all options of movement have been considered?” questioned Smyth.

“That’s just fine, all of us are equal in this effort…every voice has the same weight as we all share the same risk,” consoled Johnny to the younger man. “There are a number of ways to get to Stevens Chapel with a load but going by land from the harbor would take multiple wagons and many men to clear the roads and provide protection. It would be far too obvious with no measure of stealth. Even doing so at night would be difficult with little light. There is no moon these days and many lanterns would be needed for night travel. Far too obvious.” Johnny looked toward the door with a crinkled brow thinking he had heard a sound, but nothing was there.

“I see. Well then, by water it would seem to be then. At least we now have no need for lanterns in a church tower to tell if the British are coming by land or sea then, eh?” joked Smyth as he chuckled at his own joke.

Johnny smiled at the comparison of the situation. “Aye. I am firmly certain we have narrowed the options. The easiest water route would be up the Cooper river from the bay. The river is deep enough at the branch to guide a ship farther up and drop anchor to make it appear shelter from a storm is being sought.” He paused to clean off his knife and gaze up at the hanging tobacco. “The waters are too shallow upstream, so longboats are required to gain access and reach a landing point near the chapel. From there, it seems only logical the British would require horse and cart to move from the boats to the chapel.” Johnny once again quickly turned his head toward the door believing another sound was heard.

“And that loading would have them lobsters distracted…ripe for surprise,” concluded Smyth.

“Yes, you are learning very quickly, Mr. Smyth,” Johnny confirmed while returning to look at the blacksmith. He was becoming impressed with the young man by his willingness to serve and quick thought process. “That’s where we will catch them unawares. All we must do is wait and be ready to move at the appointed time.”

The two continued to sit and wait. Some time went on with the two men sitting in silence both deep in thought. Smyth stood up and walked a few paces away, stretched his back, rubbed his hands and tamped out his pipe across his arm.

“How many men do you figure they’ll…” started Smyth. Johnny quickly interrupted him with a low tone “ssshhhh” while gesturing with an open hand to him. Johnny pointed to the corner of the barn where a small shadow could be seen moving from around the side and to the front of the barn. It was a figure creeping slowly to the barn door.

Johnny picked up the pistol leveling it back at the barn door. Smyth pulled a large knife from his belt sash and silently moved forward and to the side of the barn door planning to get a jump on the figure as they entered. The figure moved closer to the door coming upon the entry. The door slowly swung open and a small shadowed head peered inside.

“Is the crop ready for King George?” said the voice of a boy.

“Only if he is able to come claim it” replied Johnny to the voice.

The figure stepped fully into the barn. It was a young boy with a dirty face, ragged clothing, and bare feet. Despite the rough appearance, he had a strong face with a determined street-trained look that projected a lack of fear or apprehension. There was a barrel hoop slung over his head resting on one shoulder and angled across his body to the opposite waist. He held a stick in his left hand.

“Master, Bartholomew!” Johnny said to the boy. “Come in. It is always a pleasure to see you.” Johnny pushed out a chair from the table with his foot and motioned for the boy to sit. Smyth replaced the knife in his belt and returned to his chair at the table.

“No, sir. I know ‘tis proper to stand before one’s elders,” said the boy as he stood at what seemed to be some stance of attention as if a soldier reporting to his general.

“I very much appreciate the respect, son, but as I was telling our friend Mr. Smyth here…we are all equal in this task.” Johnny again gestured to the chair and the boy relented plopping down and putting both hands on the table with entwined fingers. “What news do you bring?” Johnny asked.

“Mr. Isaac...Mr. Smyth…” said the boy as he looked at both men in sequence. “I was down at the docks, as instructed, and the troops…they are moving.”

Smyth leaned forward. “What do you mean by moving?”

Bartholomew looked directly into his eyes and said “They always have the same number at the docks. Two at the market house near the road. Three at the harbormaster office. Some patrolling the dock gangways and some observing shipments as they are offloaded. It is always the same.”

“So, what is different, lad?” quizzed Johnny.

“There are more now, sir. They arrived earlier this morning. I overheard the Captain saying most of them are instructed to remain in the harbormaster office and gather tomorrow morning with horse and wagons that are coming,” clarified the boy with additional energy. “They are preparing for something. The docks have not been like this with activity.”

Johnny leaned back in his chair. The thought about the thirteenth day struck him again, but he dismissed it with a resolved decision. He looked toward Smyth. “This must be it. They need the extra troops to guard the shipment and meet for the transfer.” He looked back at the boy.

“Very good work, Master Bartholomew,” said Johnny as the clapped the boy on the shoulder and rustled his hair. “I now have more instructions for you. Please go to the stable and tell Mr. Farris to prepare. After that, and only then, go to the inn and tell Mr. Clancy that you have been of good service to me. He will give you a proper meal and some food for later.” Johnny smiled at the boy and took note of how brave he is for taking on the role of spy.

“Yes, sir,” said the boy as he stood up from the chair straight at attention. He started to leave, but Johnny grabbed his arm.

“Wait…there is one more thing you need.” Johnny reached in his vest pocked and produced a large coin. He placed it in the boy’s hand and closed his fingers around it. The boy didn’t even have to look at the coin, but instantly knew it’s worth just from feel. “This is for your faithful service and for your protection. We will talk more soon.”

“Oh! Thank you, sir!” said the boy with tears nearly welling up in his eyes. He ran from the barn and his shadow across the outer facing of the barn disappeared quickly.

“Shall I begin, Mr. Isaac?” quizzed the blacksmith, but already knowing the answer and starting to move toward the door.

“Yes, go tell the others to mass where we planned near Goose Creek. It is the only water access off the Cooper near the chapel. There is a trail off the road to the creek. We’ve scouted it and that must be the place. Tell them to meet in the woods where we found and you and I will follow the boats,” summarized Johnny. Smyth quickly left with no other word.

Johnny paused a moment, de-cocked the pistol and placed it back in his belt. He looked around for any other signs they were there. With nothing else to adjust, he backed toward the barn door while moving his foot in the dirt to erase the footprints seen. He took one more look around the barn while moving the door closed. The afternoon sun was warm. Johnny closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the sun allowing the light and warmth to fill him. He took a long, deep breath and began walking forward disappearing into a small trail through the woods.

The evening and night passed with all working their assignments. The plan was that everything would align, and the Colonials trap would be sprung at the transfer point between the longboats and any ground troops or wagons waiting for them. Johnny sat atop his horse with overcoat pulled up tight against the early morning chill. It was some time before daybreak and he was still groggy from the late night of gathering resources. He looked out through the grove of trees and could see the inlet merging the Cooper River and the bay. In the distance was a large, three mast ship with about 15 cannons seen on one side. It was an imposing vessel with enough firepower to push back any attack. She was anchored with sails tied up and some movement could be seen on deck with only a few lanterns lit. The vantage point was good enough to see what was going on without giving away his position even by someone on desk using a spyglass. Johnny had his pistol and knife tucked into his belt. The long musket was cradled in his left arm while he adjusted the coat collar up further to block the chill. Another horse was heard coming up slowly behind him.

“It be early for a ride in the woods, eh, Mr. Isaac?” said the familiar voice of the blacksmith.

“Indeed, but to borrow from Poor Richard, the early bird gets the lobster, Mr. Smyth,” answered Johnny.

“What be there? Any change?” asked Smyth.

“There is some movement on deck. It seems they may be starting preparations for offloading,” reported Johnny. “What of your preparations?”

“All’s well. Everyone is moving and will meet at the location,” confirmed Smyth.

Johnny nodded his head in understanding, “Good. We have done all we can do now. Watching the British do their work is what remains.”

The two men sat atop their horses watching the ship. After a while, Smyth pulled his pipe from the vest inside his coat and slipped it into his mouth. He then pulled a match from an interior pocket and moved to strike it on his knuckles. Johnny saw the movement from the corner of his eye and placed his hand on top of the blacksmith’s knuckles preventing the strike to Smyth’s surprise.

“No flame. They will see the light even from this distance,” chided Johnny. “We must remain in stealth.”

They remained in silence and in the pre-dawn darkness watching the ship. Before long, the horizon started glowing with a yellow and pink hue signaling sunrise was soon. Johnny noticed something different about the activity on the ship and tapped the shoulder of Smyth to get his attention as he was starting to nod off in the silence. Smyth jolted alert and the two watched as three longboats were swung over the side of the large ship held by ropes from the rigging. Boxes and chests were being loaded into the boats. It did not take long for the loading to be complete and eight men boarded the longboats; two in the center boat, three in the first, and three in the third. The middle figures in the first and third boats looked different than all the others, but exactly why could not be discerned from the distance. As the eight men were settling into the longboats, the three vessels were lowered down the side of the large sailing ship until they were floating independently. The ropes were pulled free from the boats by the crew above them. All three boats pushed away from the ship and oars were extended from each reaching into the water. The move was beginning.

Johnny and Smyth remained at their position until the boats were heading up the river and about to pass them. At this vantage point, a better view could be had of how the boats were loaded and of the men in the boats. All three had the same method of propulsion with two rowers; one at the bow and one at the stern. Both rowers operated two oars and stroking with their backs toward the forward position. All the rowers appeared to be sailors as their uniforms were different and typical of seafaring men. The first and third boat each had one Redcoat sentry seated with musket at the low-ready position being held horizontally across the chest pointing forward at a diagonal angle. The cargo in all three were indeed a mix of chests and boxes organized in a way that evenly distributed the weight and dimension across the open space in each boat. They were stacked to be about chest high to each of the seated men. The two stealthy riders kept watching the boats while still in their concealed view in the woods until the boats passed by them by about 50 yards.

“Eight men…only two heavily armed…what are the chances that will be all they will use?” asked Smyth in a very low whisper.

“That is not likely,” quietly answered Johnny. “This is to reduce attention and uses just enough without sacrificing cargo space. There will be more to meet them at the landing point based on what young Bartholomew reported.” Johnny had a dire, but confident feeling. He knew there would be a larger obstacle to face with the Redcoats. He knew they had surprise on their side. He did not know exactly whether that surprise was enough to give their band of raiders an advantage over possibly being outnumbered. All they could do is press on and trust in Divine Providence.

The men gently spurned on their horses and quietly trotted through the woods until they came across a small path. They then nudged their horses to move faster at a run to make more ground in a faster time frame. As they rode, the trees flashed past them in a blur and the sky became much brighter with the sun coming up. There was a light cloud cover which made the light evenly diffused and not harsh. They rode a little farther and then slowed to a point where the river would bend. The trees were thicker, but open enough to allow them a good, concealed spot to view the river. From there, they waited…and watched.

After several minutes, the three boats could be seen coming around the bend and fully into view on the river. Rowing against the current allowed Johnny and Smyth to catch up and pass the boats thereby tracking their floating movement up the river. Again, they waited for the boats to pass watching them in silence. There were still three boats; there were still eight men; there were still boxes of cargo. The men in the boats were all silent with no extra movement beyond the rowing action of the sailors. The Redcoats could be seen scanning the riverbank as they passed and moving their eyes ahead. They were on alert and expecting some interception at any moment. The boats continued past the hidden riders until they were again about fifty yards ahead. At that point, Johnny and Smyth quietly guided their horses back to the road and moved forward at a gallop pace to get ahead of the boats to another viewing spot. This pattern was repeated for about two hours as the riders would move forward to an accessible spot on the river…watch the boats float by…then move forward again to another spot. Each time, Johnny and Smyth silently and stealthily watched with no words uttered. They feared even not breathing too loud for risk of being discovered. Their horses even sensed the impending danger and uttered not even a whinny or chortle to give away their location.

At long last, the two riders endured the last stretch when they reached a point where the river turned to the left making a natural, flat banked landing suitable for any shallow boat to gain shore access. This bend was just off a main road leading past the nearby Stevens Chapel, which was only a short distance away and could be seen from the river’s edge. Their hiding spot was still in the trees and brush just before reaching the natural landing. They could see everything between the shore, the open space leading up from the bank, to the road, and then on to Stevens Chapel. It looked like a perfect spot to drop cargo to this part of the countryside. The two tied up their horses deeper in the woods and made their way by foot closer to the edge of the underbrush for a better view while still being concealed.

A rustling sound was heard by Smyth to his left and behind him. He placed a hand on his pistol and quickly spun around with pistol drawn. It was a farmer crouching through the brush as quiet as possible moving toward them. Smyth recognized the man as part of their raiding party and returned his pistol. The man reached Johnny and Smyth and crouched lower next to Johnny. He did not speak but shook Johnny’s hand and nodded to Smyth. Johnny made movements with his hands in a rough form of sign language to communicate. He moved a hand flat along an imaginary horizontal line and then held up three fingers; three boats was the interpretation. He moved his index and middle finger in a walking motion and then held up eight fingers; eight men was the interpretation. He grabbed his coat lapel and pointed to some red trim on his vest and then held up two fingers; two Redcoats was the interpretation. The farmer nodded in understanding and then performed his own hand movements. He made a fist with his hand and held his forearm upright drawing an imaginary circle in the air and then flashed 10 fingers and then flashed six fingers; the interpretation was that 16 men were in their group hiding nearby in wait. Johnny nodded and made another motion. He made both his hands flap like a bird and pointed to a large tree nearer the clearing to the road which had strong branches that were covered with much foliage. The farmer nodded, turned his head away from Johnny facing the woods and made a whippoorwill bird call. In a moment, another man with a musket slung on his back could be seen sliding out of the brush and quickly climbing the tree stopping on a branch crook hidden in the upper foliage. The spot was so well camouflaged that the climber was unseen and totally blended in. After that, there was only the sound of wind and water lapping the shoreline.

Only a few minutes passed, but it seemed like half the day had gone by. So much was depending upon this moment. They needed the supplies badly. A successful raid would hinder the ability of the Redcoats to assert power in the area and give the militia necessary resources to thwart the British even more. The main concern Johnny had was the safety of their party, but each man had been fully vetted for their commitment. It was a commitment that freedom and liberty from the King’s will was more important than temporary comfort or even their own lives. The three waited…and watched. They each cast eyes on the road through the clearing and then back to the river looking for some sign that the shipment was indeed going to land there. Johnny was starting to wonder if maybe the boats had taken a smaller creek branch and that they had lost the track of the boats. His doubt was broken by the sound of a whippoorwill call coming from the tree where the man was hidden. The three quickly turned their heads in the direction of the road and remained quiet.

A sound began to build from the road. It was the sound of horse hooves moving at a medium pace and wagon wheels. The noise grew louder and louder until the sight of two wagons being pulled by two very large draft horses came into view stopping on the road right at the clearing. The three watched as six Redcoats climbed out of the back of the wagons and the two Redcoat drivers remained seated with the reigns tied up to the side railing of the driver’s seat. A total of eight Redcoats fully armed…just out in the countryside with wagons waiting for something. This was starting to look good. It wasn’t much longer when the sound of oars in water was heard through the trees coming from the river. One of the Redcoats by the wagons went down to the riverbank with musket leveled to see. All three boats were maneuvering to steer toward the landing and gaining speed to let momentum slide the boats up the bank side. The boats came to a stop and the two Redcoat sentries jumped out and joined the Redcoat on the bank. Johnny quickly made another mental count and came to a total of sixteen men; ten Redcoats and six sailors. It seemed the raid was going to be in their favor. They had the British outnumbered by two men and still the element of surprise. Johnny smiled and looked at both the farmer and Smyth. Their planning and estimation of where the shipment would land completely paid off.

Johnny made eye contact with the farmer and gave a firm nod of his head. The farmer then turned to face the forest and made another whippoorwill call. When done, the farmer, Johnny, and Smyth burst from the underbrush to directly charge the three Redcoats at the shoreline. BLAM-BLAM-BLAM! All three of the men fired their muskets almost simultaneously as they emerged from the brush toward the British targets hitting each squarely in the chest. All three soldiers stumbled backward instantly dead. The remaining Redcoats were startled by the suddenly appearing attackers and shocked into action by the instant death of their comrades. All but the two Redcoat drivers worked to shoulder their muskets at the trio who were drawing pistols preparing for return fire.

BLAM! A musket shot came from the upper branch of the tree hitting one of the drivers while reaching for a pistol who then fell off the wagon dead with blood already beginning to pool in the dirt. The sound again startled the Redcoats remaining with half of them spinning around to locate the source of the shot. The remaining raiding party exploded from the brush with rifles leveled at the remaining Redcoats.

“DROP YOUR MUSKETS!” yelled a stocky man in a wide brimmed hat with bits of foliage stuck to his coat. The Redcoats paused, looked at each other, and slowly laid down their muskets on the ground. The last driver on the wagon quickly pulled his pistol to fire on the stocky man and was immediately hit with…BLAM!... a shot from a short man standing closer to the woods but with a much better angle view of the driver to see the move before damage could be done. The hit driver also fell off and landed dead on the ground.

Smyth turned to the sailors in the boats with his pistol trained on them. “You lot stay where you are with hands visible or the devil may take ya.” The six unarmed sailors were terrified and kept their hands on the oars while elevated in the air.

Johnny surveyed the situation. There were five Redcoats dead and eleven British total in custody. The shipment was now under their control. “Search the dead for weapons and gather all you find together,” he said toward the stocky man in the hat who instantly went to work on all the uniformed corpses. Johnny turned to another man, “Gather the captives over by the edge of the woods, disarm them, and seat them on the ground.” Three of the raiding party guided the remaining Redcoats by musket barrel over to the side of the clearing forcing them on the ground while removing pistols and some swords. “Pull the bodies of the dead by the clearing as well,” directed Johnny once they were done. The same three slung their muskets over their heads and progressively dragged the dead Redcoats just to the edge of the brush line. Johnny then turned to Smyth. “Let’s start the unloading.”

Smyth waved his pistol toward the longboat cargo and addressed the clearly frightened sailors who had no idea they would be caught up in such a situation undefended. “You heard the man, you limey dogs! Unload that cargo to the bank here!” The sailors immediately stepped out of the longboats, put down the oars, and began moving boxes and crates one by one setting them on solid ground just away from the water.

As the unloading began, Johnny turned to observe their captives. They had a total of eleven between the five remaining Redcoats and the six sailors. Their plan had anticipated some captives with a successful capture of the shipment, but not this many. He tried to reason the best way to transport and hold them. One extreme option is outright execution, but that was not an action he really wanted to take. They wanted the supplies. If some British casualties happened because of battle, then that’s just war. Execution without a court hearing of some sort, even a militia court proceeding, seemed too brutal…even immoral. He decided they would transport the captives and question them later hoping to yield more valuable intel. However, there was something not right about the group of Redcoats seated before him. Something was missing…out of place…not normal to a group of British soldiers on such a detail. But what was it?? The enigma became larger in his mind growing into a genuine concern. Whatever this missing element was, it was starting to generate risk…even fear in his mind. “Think, lad,” Johnny said to himself. He looked carefully at each soldier examining the detail of each uniform. What he saw…or, rather didn’t see, caused his eyes to go wide and his jaw drop open a little with the realization. There were no officers in the group of captives and no officers among the dead! This bunch of soldiers were on a crucial supplies transport mission with zero leadership whatsoever. That was never done in British military procedure and the thought made Johnny’s blood run cold. Why did they have no officers on the detail?

BLAM!...AAAUUUGH! The almost simultaneous sound of a musket shot and a scream in agony came from behind Johnny and to his left. All eyes spun in the direction of the sound just in time to see a Colonial fall from a tree limb with musket still in hand landing with a thud and bounce on the ground. Their treetop sentry had been shot! All the raiding party was still in shock at the sight when a large group of Redcoats swiftly ran from the edge of the clearing near the road all with muskets drawn and pointed in their full direction. They were followed up by a regal looking man on horseback in an extremely fine uniform with full regalia…medals…hat plumage…sword drawn. Johnny recognized the uniform insignia as a Captain’s rank. The captive Redcoats instantly got up and joined their unit.

“Good day, my Colonial friends,” said the horse-mounted man in a very cold, sinister voice. “I would like to thank you for aiding us in offloading our supplies.” Johnny turned to look at the longboats. Only about half the boxes and crates were on the shoreline. The sailors had sneers on their faces, glaring at the mounted figure, since the labor of offloading was done by them and not by the Colonials. He looked back at the blockade of Redcoats between his crew and the road. They were pinned in-between a row of musket and bayonet and the river. A total of twelve Redcoats and the mounted Captain completely surprised them. Johnny concluded the reason there were no officers for the shipment transfer is that it was a trap all along. They knew the raid was going to happen somehow. Johnny’s band had lost only one man. The Redcoats lost five, but they were now outnumbered; seventeen Colonials against twenty-five British including the sailors…and they were caught off-guard with no retreat.

“Disarm them!” barked the mounted figure toward the line of soldiers. Three of the Redcoats broke rank and began gathering the muskets and pistols from the still shocked raiders. The muskets were leaned against each other in groups of four in a pyramid shape by the Redcoats; the pistols were thrown on the ground in front of each musket stack. “Line them up!” he said gruffly and then with a frightening change of tone looked toward the Colonial captives said, “We need a proper examination of our prize,” in a devilishly smooth manner. Another three Redcoats advanced toward the captives and moved them along the tree line to stand side-by-side in a review line. The Redcoat leader dismounted handing the reigns to a nearby soldier to hold. He walked slowly toward the line of Colonials and started looking them over one-by-one with a look of repulsion on his face.

“Well, now, it seems we have captured some of the rebellious vermin who have vexed us these last months,” said the man as he walked and looked each man up and down. “What a pathetic group of rabble. Hardly a match for His Majesty’s regular army.” He had removed gloves from his hands and was slapping the gloves against his now bare palm repeatedly. The sound became instantly annoying to Johnny. It was something that one with an elitist attitude would do. He’s seen it done before and the action always galled him. “Now, then, what to do with these,” the Captain said to himself, but loud enough for the entire group to hear. He was rubbing his chin as if in deep thought. “The efficient thing to do,” he continued, “is to just execute them here and be done with this business.” He gave an approving nod to himself, but then his face changed to a frown. “However, the proper thing to do is to take you all back to Charlestown for some routine but painful questioning, a proper trial, and a very public hanging.”

The officer paced some more clearly pretending to be deep in thought. Each of the Colonials stood straight with steely determination in their eyes looking full-faced at the peacock-like British leader. The man stopped before the stocky Colonial captive and stood very close to him. “What say you about this decision my good man?” The large man didn’t answer, but just stared directly into the eyes of his captor. “I need an answer. Your opinion is valued.” There was still no answer. Then, in a swift move, the officer slapped the Colonial in the face with his gloves turning the man’s head with the force. There was a red streak already starting to show on the man’s cheek from the impact of the leather. He slowly returned his face the officer and ejected a large wad of saliva right in-between the officer’s eyes which swiftly ran down his nose line.

“My apologies, me lord, I’m allergic to shellfish,” said the burly Colonial. Johnny found himself amused at the humorous insult despite the dire situation. He could even feel Smyth next to him silently trying to stifle a laugh.

The officer calmly removed a handkerchief, wiped his face, and said, “I hate to see a man suffer. I happen to have just the remedy.” He then quickly drew his pistol cocking it in one move and shot the large man directly into the chest. The victim fell instantly backward falling dead on the ground. The entire Colonial party was shocked and angered.

One Colonial raider at the beginning of the review line rushed forward toward a Redcoat in front of him. He collided with the soldier, pulled the pistol from the soldier’s belt and shot him with it. He then started to advance on another intending to use the spent pistol as a club but was instantly shot by two Redcoat guards. Johnny’s band was now down to fifteen men to the British twenty-four. Still horrible odds with no option for escape.

“Well, that was useful,” oozed the Captain while refolding his handkerchief. “We now know what to do with these.” He turned away from facing the captives and looked toward his soldiers. “It is clear our quarry will be a troublesome lot. Taking them back to Charleston will be more tiresome than I care to endure. We shall execute them one-by-one and let the river take their wretched corpses.” Johnny could see Smyth start to lunge forward at the Captain since his back was turned, but he grabbed Smyth’s arm to hold him back. Maybe it would have been better to die while resisting, but the effort seemed futile to Johnny. If execution be their end, then so be it. That was always a known risk of their rebellious actions.

“Who shall be first, then?” said the Captain as he turned again to the captives. He started briskly walking up and down the line of men looking each in the face. Every man stared the Captain down with steely resolve as he passed. No one answered. “No one? Oh, I so tire of having to make the decision all the time,” he said in a tone of fake complaint.

“Captain Stilton, sir!” spoke up one Redcoat from the line of guards. “May I be of assistance, sir?”

“Indeed, Jenkins. What have you to offer?” said the Captain optimistically.

“Well, sir. The one man there. The fat one with glasses,” gestured the Redcoat toward Johnny with his musket. “He should be first, sir.”

Johnny felt all the Colonials look his direction. Johnny was just as surprised by being called fat as he was being singled out as the first to be executed. He always considered himself stocky, but it was an odd time to be dwelling on body shape when there was about to be a sudden end to the body.

“Why this man, Jenkins?” gestured the Captain toward Johnny while still looking at the soldier.

Jenkins walked toward Johnny coming within the length of his musket in front of him. Johnny looked at the man and realized something was familiar about him. The mystery instantly consumed him and something seemed dangerous about the man beyond the fact that his rifle was pointed at Johnny’s chest.

“I’ve witnessed him murder a soldier of the Crown, sir. I was also held captive by him and tortured, sir,” answered Jenkins while staring down Johnny. It was the sort of look one would give as revenge was about to be enjoyed.

Johnny instantly realized Jenkins was the captive soldier they interrogated in the barrel! He must have reported the incident and what information was revealed! Johnny went into a mental panic. He didn’t kill the soldier when he had the chance but let him go believing nothing would be revealed. That was wrong…so wrong that now his band would die because of his mistake. Guilt instantly consumed Johnny and he diverted his eyes toward the ground to avoid looking at his comrades.

“That’s right, Jenkins. I recall you telling that tale to Major Hartfield,” cooed the Captain. It was clear the Captain understood the entire situation. “Now, the rest of you can take a lesson in courage from Jenkins here. Not only did he endure harsh treatment from this cretin, but he bravely accepted his punishment of the gauntlet because of being captured.” The Captain seemed to be taking the moment to teach an object lesson to the rest of the soldiers.

“Well, then, Jenkins. I suggest you take this man and exact your just cause. I believe that large tree near the bank will serve as a fine execution post.” Jenkins grabbed Johnny’s upper arm with as strong a grip as he could muster pulling Johnny out of line and shoving him ahead a few paces toward the tree. Johnny was still overwhelmed with guilt and remorse at his miscalculation and walked alone the last few steps and leaned with his back against the tree trunk. It was not supposed to end like this. His men were to quickly take the supplies, leave the remaining soldiers, and be done. All would have been either home or back to their hideout for a celebration of mission well completed. He had been sure their planning had foreseen all possibilities. There was a high surety of success. Now, he alone had doomed them all with a simple wrong decision done with the most innocent of intention. He mentally pushed aside the guilt and accepted that death was to be welcomed with as much pride as he could conjure. Jenkins adjusted his footing in the loose, sandy soil and checked the powder in his musket preparing to execute Johnny. He cocked back the flint hammer and raised the rifle.

At that moment, a large tree limb could be heard cracking across the small river stream. Two of the sailors who were standing in the water watching the entire scene instead of unloading the boxes turned toward the sound behind them.

“AAAAAGH!! CROCODILES!” one of the sailors exclaimed while pointing across the river.

BLAM! Jenkins’ musket went off, but the yelling startled the soldier who jerked in reaction and missed hitting Johnny striking the tree above his head. Johnny winced at the impact of the ball into the tree sending splinters down his cheek cutting his skin. A small stream of blood began running to his jawline.

All eyes looked toward the opposite riverbank. Sure enough, there were two long reptilian figures gliding through the water with eyes above the surface…tails swishing behind. The creatures were moving directly toward the boats and the two sailors standing in the water. Both sailors began to panic and started flailing back toward the nearest boat…both diving in to same themselves from possibly losing legs, or worse.

“OPEN FIRE!” yelled the Captain. Half of the Redcoats turned their muskets and began firing upon the floating lizards. Muskets ignited creating a massive convulsion of sound, sparks, and smoke. The shots were impacting either near or on the figures, but they kept gliding forward as if Death itself was propelling them.

In the cloud of smoke and concussive sound, Johnny saw that Jenkins was distracted and he lunged at Jenkins landing a full-fisted punch right on the nose bridge of his captor. A disgusting crunch was heard and blood splattered from Jenkins’ nose. The soldier fell backward onto his side clutching at his crushed nose. Johnny leapt upon him sitting on Jenkins’ chest. He wrestled the spent musket from Jenkins’ hand and began pressing the barrel against the soldier’s throat in an effort to choke him. Jenkins’ tried to fight back, but Johnny’s knees pinned the Redcoat’s arms against the ground.

Once the other Colonials saw the river-borne confusion and Johnny fight back against his captor, all hell broke loose. Each man converged against a Redcoat in direct hand-to-hand fighting. The captive men suddenly produced hidden knives from boots, sleeves, belt sashes, and coat linings slashing at any vulnerable part available of the Redcoat soldiers. Fists rained down on faces, ribs, kidneys…fired muskets were used as clubs and blocking tools…boots were kicking in kneecaps and breaking legs. There was shouting…some random musket fire hitting nothing…dust and soil flying. It seemed to be a futile effort given the outnumbered state of the Colonials, but their frenetic slash-and-disable fighting style was helping them hold their own for the moment.

Johnny continued to apply pressure on the musket crushing the throat of the gasping, writhing Jenkins. He could see the sailors still panicking about the advancing creatures and grabbing oars to begin a bludgeon assault once they were close enough. It was a surreal sight. The lizards were getting closer and closer with nothing seeming to deter them. They appeared big enough to overturn a longboat if they chose, which kept feeding the fear of the sailors.

Then, he noticed movement on the opposite bank were the creatures seemed to originate. A man made a running leap from the bank with what appeared to be a half-barrel in his hands. He flew off the bank while placing his knees on the half-barrel. The result allowed the man to swiftly glide across the top of the water sliding at a rapid pace gaining quick ground across the small river. The figure struck an odd appearance of a man on his knees in a makeshift skiff swiftly crossing the river without oars or a sail.

The barrel-floating man made it close to the nearest longboat before his skiff started to sink. He leapt from the makeshift water craft and landed in the longboat running along the length of it to the shore. The sailors were so astonished that they completely forgot about the floating reptilian attack and sat dumbfounded in the boats watching him pass to the shore. He struck a fearsome appearance as his eyes were concealed by a black stripe across the top of his face. He had a kerchief pulled up to cover his nose and mouth but on the outside of the kerchief there appeared to be a drawing in tar of a huge fang-filled mouth. It provided an intimidating image of a man turned half-animal quickly advancing toward the fight with a hatchet being pulled from a belt sash as he ran across the top of the boat.

This unbelievable scene so captivated Johnny that he inadvertently released pressure from Jenkins’ neck. The break in the choking pressure allowed Jenkins to flip his legs strongly enough that it created a ripple moving up his body flipping Johnny off his chest flying over his head and onto the ground. Jenkins still in revenge-filled rage violently pounced on Johnny’s chest kneeling on his arms just as Johnny had Jenkins pinned. Jenkins then swiftly pulled a large knife, raised it in both fists above his head preparing to plunge it into Johnny’s chest with blood-lust in his eyes. Johnny braced for the fatal sharp pain…

THWACK!!

Johnny was jolted by the wet impact of a sound and looked up at Jenkins to see a hatchet firmly lodged in his chest and Jenkins’ eyes rolling back in his head…hands were falling limp…knife slipping harmlessly down his arm and into the dirt. Johnny thankfully surprised, craned his head up to look above him as he still lay on the ground in enough time to see the barrell-skimming figure running by with a still outstretched right arm from where the hatchet was thrown sidearm style. The figure continued forward without looking back…grabbed a dropped musket… and wielded it like a long club to shatter the knee joint of a Redcoat…then pulling the pistol of the Redcoat and shooting him dead in the chest with it.

Johnny looked back at the slumped, dead body of Jenkins and examined the hatchet while pulling it from his foe’s chest. “This looks suspiciously familiar…” Johnny thought. He looked back at the battle to see the masked figure moving on to shatter the collarbone of another British soldier and then clubbing his head as he slumped to the ground. “COTTON!” Johnny yelled to himself. “That damn fool cooper!” Johnny pushed the dead Jenkins off and got up to get back into the battle. He tucked the hatchet in his sash. A hatchet was not as handy to him in battle and thought it not as effective as more familiar weapons. He pulled his backup knife from his boot and ran toward their captured rifles slashing and stabbing any Redcoat in his way. Musket and pistol fire was still randomly going off by some who accessed discarded weapons…Colonials were still in the fight with what seemed like minor non-fatal injuries…Redcoats were falling with most fatalities happening on their side.

Johnny found his hunting rifle and climbed up on one of the British wagons to have a higher vantage point for what was happening. It was currently an evenly matched fight. The masked Cotton finished off a British soldier and bumped backward into another figure. He spun around with his knife positioned coming out of the bottom of his right fist to be face-to-face with Smyth. Once Smyth was determined to not be a Redcoat, Cotton tipped his fingers to the tip of his cap in greeting and turned to find another foe. “OI!” Johnny yelled at Cotton getting his attention. Johnny tossed the hatchet to the still-masked man who seemed to kiss it through the mask, cradle it to his cheek like a lost puppy and ran off back into the fray.

Johnny maintained his wagon perch selectively picking off Redcoats with is rifle as they became clear-shot available. As he scanned the skirmish field, what he did not see was the British Captain. He was not found…his horse was not found…no sight of him. While still making selective shots at the soldiers, he considered the options of what may have happened. With no conclusions coming to him, he jumped down from the wagon and ran up to the road outside the clearing to get a broader look. In the distance about two hundred yards away, he could see a mounted figure riding away with two soldiers on foot running behind. The Captain deserted his troops during the fight! “Amazing…never would I have considered that in a British officer,” mused Johnny.

Seeing that all they had left to deal with were the remaining Redcoats in the skirmish, he returned to the wagon position to find his compatriots were just finishing off the last two soldiers. Cotton was seen mask-less talking calmly with the sailors who seemed relieved and their body language indicated they were having a good laugh with his barrel-making friend. As things ended, they only had three dead and minor injuries…mostly cuts, bruising, some broken ribs, and a couple of shots sustained in an arm and leg. The British had twenty-two dead and three retreated. An amazing outcome given that they were all about to be executed Johnny surmised.

He continued to survey the result and walked back through the clearing giving direction to the raiding party.

“Collect all the arms and supplies you can find from the dead,” he said to one man.

“Let’s place our deceased brothers on one wagon, cover them out of respect, we will take them back for an honorable burial,” he said to a handful of others.

“We can treat our wounded farther up the bank to avoid more dirt infection,” he pointed out to a man who was opening up a medical kit beginning to treat injuries while passing out whiskey to dull the pain.

“Pile the British dead on the other wagon at dusk and we’ll drive it to the middle of Charleston in the dead of night as a gift, or rather a warning, to Major Hartfield,” he directed to a group.

“With the Captain in flight, we will need to compel the sailors to relinquish the longboats for river passage with the captured supplies to avoid recapture on the road,” he told Smyth.

“No compulsion needed, me boyo!” yelled Cotton from the river bank. “Come and see!” Cotton gestured for his friend to come to the boats where he and the sailors were. As Johnny was a few steps away, Cotton continued, “I’ve jus’ struck a keen bargain w’ dese laddies fer tha’ boats and the supplies.”

“How so, my highly psychotic friend?…Who I’m infinitely surprised to see here, by the way,” asked Johnny while tipping his hat backward and scratching his head. He was still in disbelief that Cotton was even here much less the weirdness of his arrival. The black band around Cotton’s eyes was smeared soot which was starting to run from sweat lines streaming down from the cooper’s head.

“Dese boys say they ‘ave no beef with you lot. Day say the Redcoats treat the navy lika stray dog and see nay problem with them all bein’ dead in self-defense,” explained Cotton. “They wanna jus’ get back ta their mates at the ship, ya see. So, I said ye’d let dem’ free in one boat if’n the other two be left with the supplies.”

Johnny considered this. They would end up with all the supplies and two of the longboats for transport in exchange for the sailors to leave unharmed. They essentially had that anyway due to overpowering the Redcoats and the sailors were unarmed. However, Cotton did save their lives and it was a fair bargain. One he likely would have struck with the sailors anyway.

“Sounds wise and gracious of these men. I agree so long as the sailors swear to tell their Captain they were released under their promise of parole. That they are not to be involved in another landing party for the British on the American Colonies,” added Johnny.

“AYE!” yelled all the sailors in unison which made Johnny flinch a bit.

“An ta boot, MacDuggal there was press ganged in Orkney. Me gran-pap was an Orkney lad, so he’s right near family, he is!” Cotton gestured to a grizzled sailor near the last boat who gave Johnny a wink and a tip of his cap in greeting. The man then held up a large flask in salute. “Oh, ya, I gave ‘em me rum flask fer da trip back…you owe me a new, FULL, one now, boyo,” continued Cotton as he punched Johnny in the shoulder. Johnny nodded and smiled in agreement.

“I see you lads beat back those alligators. Here in the Colonies we have alligators instead of crocodiles. They are different in name only with a slight variance, but still as deadly,” Johnny congratulated the sailors.

They all laughed and some pointed toward Cotton. Cotton then turned back a couple of steps and reached down with both hands behind a boat just beyond Johnny’s view. Cotton then rapidly hauled up the two alligators by the snout and flung them toward Johnny’s feet with both landing with a wet thud in the sandy soil bank. Johnny was so startled he stumbled backward tripping on his own boots, falling on his backside. The sailors and Cotton roared with laughter with some doubling over at the sight of the brave rebel they previously witnessed fighting off an overpowering number of Redcoats now cowering at these once floating figures.

Johnny got up, adjusted his glasses, and examined the alligators closely. They were alligators in shape only. The floating death creatures were nothing but bits of different sized half barrels lashed together. Sections forming the tail were gradually smaller in size and connected by strips of leather to allow them to move in a swishing motion in the water. The tops were painted in a crude fashion to simulate scales, ridges, even eyes and a snout. In brackish river water, these clever creations which now look so obvious a fake on shore, would have been seen by anyone as realistic. To allow buoyancy, there was cork placed in the underside barrel cavity. It was a masterful ruse and Johnny found himself not just impressed but marveled at the creativity.

By now, the rest of the raiding party was curious about the scene and came over to view the source of their salvation. All were equally amazed at the barrel-gators and each man began to be so overcome with the sight, they broke out in laughter which became so contagious that all were having a hard time breathing from the belly shaking laughs. Most of the party came to shake Cotton’s hand and some wanted to try on the tar-streaked fang kerchief.

The joy was broken up by Johnny feeling the urgency to get the shipment moving lest the British Captain return with reinforcements. He directed the men to return to the post-battle duties. The sailors helped combine the shipment evenly into two of the boats distributing the weight to avoid imbalance as only sailors can. Once loaded, the sailors bid farewell to the group and some shook Cotton’s hand while others clapping him on the shoulder. They pushed off and started rowing back down river toward the harbor. The raiding party all gathered in a circle in a moment of thankful prayer. Cotton felt out of place and stood to the side with cap in hand in respect. The men then all parted to their duties. Some left with the wagon, a handful of others took the boats upriver, Johnny helped Cotton deconstruct the fake alligators sinking some obvious parts into the river while keeping some parts that Cotton could salvage for his craft. Cotton offered a ride back to town on his mule-driven wagon with some accepting, but others went back to horses they had hidden in the woods to wait for dusk to transport the British dead.

The ride back to town was largely silent with most of the men mentally reliving the events and eternally thankful to be alive to resist the British another day. Cotton finally spoke up.

“I told ye … lettn’ that lobster go would be trouble,” he reminded Johnny.

“In reflection, yes, you were right, my friend,” said Johnny recalling his remorse from earlier. “We shall have to be much more careful.”

Cotton laughed…”An’ maybe keep a few gators handy, eh?” The idea sparked a chuckle with Johnny and even some of the men in the back found the humor and couldn’t resist another laugh.

“Thank you, my friend. We are alive today due to your courage and craftiness, but how did you know where we would be” asked Johnny humbly.

“Tis all good, me boyo…your’n not the only one who can read a map an do some proper lobster schemin’,” comforted Cotton. “Just dunna ferget about replacin’ me rum.” Cotton squished one eye closed and looked in Johnny’s direction in an I’m-serious-about-the-rum sort of way which again amused Johnny.

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e350tb · 6 years

Text

Steven Universe: Ruby Stars - Chapter Eight

(Special thanks to @real-fakedoors for proofreading this!)

Red Shift

Sadie stood in an enormous teal plane, surrounded on all sides by inky darkness. It swirled and rippling like a raging sea, and looking into it made her hair stand on end. She felt cold, but there was also a strange feeling of detachment - as if she was there, but she wasn't actually there.

She walked forward, travelling into the darkness for some time, but the room was so expansive and featureless that she felt like she wasn't moving at all.

"Hello?" she called, "Is anyone there?"

A tired, desperate voice called back from afar.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Sadie!" Sadie called back, "Where are you?"

The words tumbled from her lips before she could ask them to return with their own name, but then, she somehow felt like that question wasn't necessary. She knew who it was, like a fleeting dream beginning to disappear, if she just tried hard enough she might just grasp it...

The floor shook violently, and she fell hard on her back. Disoriented, she climbed to her feet and turned around - and jumped, startled, as she saw a figure that hadn't been there before.

She was blue and wore a dress, and she was suspended in the air by dark, warping cables. They seemed to shift and change orientation every millisecond - they made Sadie sick to look at them. It was as if they were a puppet's strings, shifting at phenomenal speeds to control the figure's every movement.

"Sadie..." the figure croaked.

"Who are you?" asked Sadie, "What's happening?"

The figure croaked out her name.

"Lapis… I'm Lapis… please, help me..."

Suddenly, and violently, Lapis was yanked backwards. For a moment, she reached pitifully for Sadie - then, with a despairing scream, she was pulled back into the swirling darkness. The floor gave way, and Sadie was falling, falling, falling...

Sadie awoke with a start, drenched in sweat.

She rubbed a hand over her forehead, panting. She'd had a lot of weird dreams over the last few weeks - the one in which she'd been a circus performer and Clancy had been the ringmaster had been particularly odd - but this felt different. It felt more visceral, more real - like she could feel the blue marionette's strings dance before her eyes, and Sadie was certain she could never have imagined that sort of desperation on her own.

Shaking her head, Sadie rubbed the lost sleep from her eyes and dismissed the silly illusions. Rubies - she didn’t have dream powers, and Steven hadn't turned up, so it certainly wasn't him. It was just a weird nightmare, nothing more.

She sighed and glanced at the dim illumination of time on the microwave, laying back on the couch. It read 1.05, and she had a sinking feeling that she probably wouldn't get back to sleep tonight.

"Alright, I'm teaching you today," declared Amethyst, "Shapeshifting 101, let's do this."

Behind her, Peridot wheeled up a blackboard.

Sadie stood in the middle of the Sky Arena. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and fluffy white clouds glided gently by. Behind her, Pearl and Steven watched curiously - the former's arms were crossed, and her mouth was set into a deep frown.

"Okay, so, shapeshifting," continued Amethyst, "Every gem can change their shape. Like this."

She glowed brightly and her shape changed. A moment later, a purple copy of Pearl was standing in front of Sadie.

Pearl narrowed her eyes.

"Good afternoon, my student!" exclaimed Amethyst, in an exaggerated impression of her fellow gem, "My name is Pearl. I use a sword, and I'm the most elegant dancer in..."

"If you start twerking, you're walking home!" Thundered Pearl.

Amethyst chuckled.

"Shapeshifting's the best, man," she continued, "It's gotta be the most useful power we have, 'part from maybe fusion. You get the hang of it, and you can become anything..." she turned into a border collie, "... and anyone..." she turned into Connie, "... you want."

"Within reason," added Peridot, "Changing your shape uses energy. That's why you can't just turn yourself into a giant rocket and blast yourself straight into the Diamonds' faces."

"I'm telling you, Peri, it'd totally work," said Amethyst.

"... Sure," grunted Peridot, "Your mass is also an important factor in shapeshifting. If you turn into something bigger than you, it'll take up a lot more energy - and if you transform too much or for too long, you run the risk of… incidents."

"Yeah, one time Steven turned into a ball of cats," chuckled Amethyst.

"And a baby!" Pearl added helpfully, "And one time he nearly died of old age."

Steven winced.

"The point is," said Amethyst, "Shapeshifting is fun and good for you - ugh, I sounded like Pearl there - as long as you're careful with it. Other than that, have fun with it!"

She turned to Peridot, who Sadie noticed had been carrying a CD player under one of her arms. She dropped it and pressed the play button as Amethyst shifted back into Pearl's form.

Loud, bassy music began to play, and Pearl immediately turned pale.

"Alright, watch me break it down," said Amethyst, changing her posture and poise to a more - ahem - suggestive position than would be typical for their Pearl.

"AMETHYST!"

"I'm really sorry you had to see that, Steven," said Pearl.

She still looked haunted, her eyes wide and somewhat unfocused as she scrubbed the dish in the sink - the same one she had been cleaning for ten minutes. Behind her, Sadie and Steven sat at the counter, finishing dinner.

Sadie finished her bowl of instant noodles and turned to Steven, holding up her hand.

"Okay, maybe I can do it this time," she said.

Steven nodded, turning to his friend.

The lesson had taken all day, but by the end of it, Sadie hadn't managed even the smallest bit of shapeshifting. Pearl had told her she wasn't concentrating hard enough - Amethyst had responded that she had been concentrating too much. Their teaching styles had clashed all day, and in the end Garnet had had to come out and break up a nasty argument between them.

"Okay, let's try… lizard fingers," said Steven.

"Lizards?"

"I dunno, I'm just feeling lizards. They're cool, you know?"

Sadie shrugged and nodded. She gazed at her fingers and concentrated, trying to visualize her fingers turning into lizards - part of her marvelled at how strange such a thing was.

She stared and stared, but nothing happened.

Steven, on the other hand, had sprouted a small collection of bluetongue lizards from his fingers. He laughed, rubbing one of their heads with a finger on his other hand.

"No shapeshifting at the table, Steven," said Pearl.

Steven gave Pearl a very scaly thumbs up before dunking his hand in his glass of water. The lizards turned back into fingers.

"I just can't get anything to happen," sighed Sadie.

"Well, Kay could have been an Era-2, like Peridot was," mused Pearl, "I never thought to ask her, myself. Maybe you simply can't?"

"Ooh!" exclaimed Steven, "Maybe you have metal powers instead!"

"No, no, you have fire powers," said Pearl, snapping her fingers, "They probably wouldn't have bothered giving Kay those if she was Era-2..."

Sadie released a low exhale and stood up. She knew Pearl and Steven weren't trying to put her down, but their discussion of what her powers might be had started to feel rather dehumanising.

"I think I need to get some air," she said.

"Oh, of course," nodded Pearl, "Oh, if you come back by eight, Steven and I will be making pancakes!"

"I know it's normally a breakfast food," added Steven, "But Peedee sent me a new pancake mix recipe and I wanna try it!"

"Yeah, I'll remember that," said Sadie absently, walking out the door.

It was early evening - the sun hung low over Beach City, and the sky was a vivid purple-blue. A gentle breeze blew over the beach as Sadie walked down the steps on to it, and despite herself, she couldn't help but smile. She sat down against the side of the temple and closed her eyes.

It had been a long day, and she'd gotten nearly no sleep after the strange nightmare she'd had in the morning. Part of her felt like she could have dozed off there and then - but she couldn't. She wondered if a walk might help - she knew Buck was helping his dad with something at the Big Donut, and decided to head that way.

Her face fell as she thought again about her failed attempts to shapeshift.

"Everyone else seems so good at it," she sighed to herself, "I mean, even Steven can do it, and he's half-human like I am. What am I doing wrong?"

She opened her eyes and gazed up at the clouds.

"Maybe I've just got too much on my mind," she mused, "It's just like what Pearl said - I've gotta clear my brain and focus properly."

She yawned.

"Yeah... just like Pearl..."

Buck Dewey stacked the last box onto the pile and walked out of the back room, finding his father trying (and failing) to open the new automated cash register. He beamed at his son as he approached.

"Bucky, my boy!" he exclaimed, "Can you use your powers of teenage technological wizardry to open this thing? I just can't make hide nor hair out of this..."

Buck wordlessly pressed a red button on the register. With a cheerful ring, the cash tray opened.

"... Ah," said Dewey, "Well, now I know. Thank you, son!"

Buck nodded. He gazed out towards the front window, and saw a figure approaching from the beach. His father saw it too - he gasped.

"The Hot One!" he exclaimed.

He licked his hand and rubbed over the patch of hair on top of his head, perming it back. He then turned to Buck and grinned.

"How do I look, son?" he asked.

"It's never gonna happen, dad," replied Buck.

"I know," sighed the senior Dewey, his shoulders sagging miserably.

The door chimed as it opened, and they both regarded the customer.

Despite what Dewey had thought, this was not Pearl. Her clothing was the wrong colour, and her face looked slightly different. Most strikingly of all, her hair was much yellower than normal.

"Hello Buck, hello ex-Mayor Dewey!"

Sadie's tone seemed much more formal than normal as she approached the counter.

"... Uh... Hi," said Dewey.

"You look a little different today," said Buck, "Little taller."

"Oh, it's probably just a trick of the light!" chuckled Sadie, "This planet's sun can do that! Now, let me see..."

She studied the board intently, rapping her fingers gently against the counter.

"Buck," Dewey hissed under his breath, "This is getting weird, say something..."

"So," said Buck, "How's living with Steven going?"

"Oh, it's been delightful!" exclaimed Sadie, "He's such a wonderful boy, you know? And the Gems have been so helpful - especially Pearl, if I do say so myself..."

"Are… you gonna order anything?" asked Dewey.

"Hmm… no, sorry, I couldn't possibly stomach eating," replied Sadie.

"You probably could," replied Buck, "Let your hair down."

"... Hmm... no, I couldn't, thank you," said Sadie, "Well, both of you have a pleasant evening."

She waved and turned for the door, muttering quietly to herself.

"Letting my hair down... Maybe I should..."

The door chimed as she left. For a long time, Dewey and Buck stood in silence.

"... Aaaare you gonna call Universe?" asked Dewey at last.

"Yep," nodded Buck, taking out his phone.

Greg walked down the boardwalk, talking on the phone with Andy. It was a lovely evening, and his spirits were high; he thought he might check in with Steven when he was done, and perhaps see if Sadie was alright as well.

"...well, good to hear you're doin' okay, even if things are a bit weird," said Andy, "You still on for coffee on Saturday?"

"Sounds great, Andy," nodded Greg, "I'll see you around."

"You too, Greg, stay safe. Bye!"

Greg hung up the phone, tucking it in his pants pocket. He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and smiled. Yep, this was a just a perfect evening.

"Hey, what up Greg?"

Was that Amethyst?

Greg opened his eyes and turned around.

She looked a bit like Amethyst, certainly, but her hair, skin colour and much of her face exposed her as Sadie. She seemed to have taken on the quartz' form, from the long hair to the style of her outfit.

"Uh... Sadie?" asked Greg uncomfortably, "You practicing shapeshifting or something?"

"Nah, dude, I'm just letting my hair down," replied Sadie, "So, what's going on with you?"

"I... um... I was thinking of visiting Steven," said Greg, scratching the back of his neck, "He sent me a message earlier. Something about pancakes?"

"Yeah, good ol' Ste-man!" laughed Sadie, slapping Greg's back (he winced), "Speaking of pancakes, you know if Peedee's still open? I meant to pick up some eats at the Big Donut, but... eh, I didn't for some reason."

"...I think he is?" replied Greg, "Um... just a quick question, but are you okay? You seem a bit... well... off."

"Oh, come on," grunted Sadie, "First Buck, and now you? Why do you all think I'm acting weird or something? I'm fine, Greg."

"I just think you're a bit... uh..."

"Ugh!" exclaimed Sadie, "What is wrong with people tonight?!"

Greg swallowed.

"Forgot it," Sadie continued, "I'm done with this. I'll come back when you're a little less lame, man."

She stormed off down the boardwalk, muttering angrily to herself.

"... Nobody tells Garnet she's acting weird. That must be nice..."

She turned a corner and was gone.

For a few moments, Greg stared at the place she had been, utterly bewildered. Then he heard a familiar shout, and turned to see Garnet approaching, Steven riding on her shoulders.

"Dad!" Steven called, "Have you seen Sadie?"

"I... think so," replied Greg, "What's going on, Stu-Ball?"

"Buck said Sadie had turned into one of my moms," replied Steven, "And I think he meant Pearl, and it's weird because she couldn't shapeshift earlier and..."

"Pearl?" quizzed Greg, "She looked more like Amethyst when I saw her."

Garnet nodded thoughtfully.

"I have an idea of what might be happening," she said, "Greg, tell me where Sadie went..."

Peedee was packing up the tater tot stand. It had been a busy day - he'd gotten all of ten customers, and was therefore doing a roaring trade. But it had now gone six-thirty, and it was time to close up.

He was just cleaning the ketchup and mustard nozzles when he heard someone approach. He turned to the counter.

"Sorry, I've just..."

A tall figure towered over him. Her hair was a square afro, her eyes concealed behind a reflective visor. For a moment, Peedee thought it was Garnet, but on closer inspection, she had a striking resemblance to Sadie.

"... Closed," finished Peedee, gulping.

Sadie leaned over the counter.

"Give me the bits," she said stoically.

A chill ran up Peedee's spine as he saw himself reflected in her visor.

"... Ah-I-I-I-okay, I think I have some left, let me check!"

He ducked down, frantically checking the fryer for any remaining fry bits.

"Sadie!"

Slowly, Peedee peaked over the counter. Steven, Greg and Garnet were approaching - the latter did not look pleased.

Sadie nodded, emotionless.

"Garnet," she said.

"Sadie, what's happening?" asked Steven, "I mean, you can shapeshift now and that's great, but why are you acting like the Gems?"

"I'm not acting like anything," replied Sadie, "And I am not shapeshifting."

"You haven't even noticed?" quizzed Greg, tilting his head.

Garnet stepped forward.

"Sadie, listen to me," she said, "You need to turn back to your original form."

"I am in my original form," replied Sadie, "I-"

Garnet reach forward and yanked her visor off of her face, staring straight into Sadie's eyes.

Unlike Garnet, Sadie only had two eyes - the third was missing, replaced with a tuft of stray hair. That was not what struck Peedee, however. Looking closely, Sadie's eyes seemed somewhat dull and unfocused, and there were dark bags beneath them. She looked incredibly tired.

"Tell me what time you went to sleep last night," ordered Garnet.

Sadie narrowed her eyes.

"None of you understand," she growled, stepping back, "You all act like I'm acting differently. None of you accept that this is who I am!"

She began to glow, and her form shifted.

"Just accept me for me..."

The glow faded. Sadie was now much shorter, and her hair was styled into a tall, triangular shape. She wore a yellow visor and jumpsuit, with a small diamond on the middle of her chest.

"... The great and lovable Sadie!"

She ran off in the direction of the beach, cackling loudly as she went.

"... What?" said Greg, flatly.

Garnet straightened her visor, nodding.

"I know what's happening," she declared, "I've seen Amethyst do this before."

"Is it a new power?" asked Steven, "Maybe some kind of 'personality shifting?'"

Garnet shook her head.

"It's much simpler than that," she said, "Sadie's conscious mind is shut off, and she is being controlled by her subconscious thoughts and anxieties. Most human experience this periodically, as do gems that choose to sleep. Most of the time, the body is shut off while this happens, but in this case, her subconscious has managed to access control of her body and powers."

Greg and Steven glanced at each other, confused.

"So... what does that mean?" asked Greg.

A hint of an amused smirk crossed Garnet's face.

"She's sleepwalking," she replied.

"Oooooh!" said Steven, "So the way she's acting is like... her subconscious impression of us?"

"Good thing she hasn't done Ronaldo yet," Peedee grunted dryly.

Garnet nodded.

"We need to snap her out of it," she said, "I'm going after her. Follow on in the van."

She bounded off towards the beach, leaving the three humans alone. Peedee leaned on the counter and sent Steven a sympathetic look.

"So, family problems?" he asked.

"Yeah, you start to get used to them," replied Steven.

Night had just about fallen by the time Garnet found Sadie again.

She was pacing back and forth on the sand, a few hundred yards from the temple. She muttered angrily to herself, clenching her fists in a fashion appropriately reminiscent of Peridot - Garnet couldn't quite work out the words until she got closer.

"...stupid Garnet, stupid Greg, stupid Buck, they just don't get it," she growled, "They don't get the value I add to this town and to this planet. They need to appreciate me more..."

"Sadie," said Garnet.

Sadie ignored her, carrying on with her rant.

"... Who cares if I can't shapeshift? It's a waste of valuable energy anyway. No wonder they didn't give that power to Era-2 gems - I'm much more significant and important the way I am..."

"Sadie!"

Sadie stopped and turned to Garnet.

"What?!" she bellowed.

"You need to settle down," replied Garnet, "You're not in control of your actions."

"Not in control of my actions?!" thundered Sadie, "I'll have you know..."

She trailed off.

"... I'll have you... oh, who am I kidding?" she sighed, "I'm not in control."

She fell to her knees, her form glowing and shifting once more.

"I'm never in control."

Garnet's eyes widened behind her visor.

The new form Sadie had taken was tall and lithe, with a sleeveless, flowing dress. She looked deeply forlorn as she stared down at the sand - it was a posture and a form Garnet immediately recognised.

But this was impossible.

Garnet shook her head. She'd think about that later. For now, she had a job to do.

She walked over, sitting down next to Sadie and putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Sadie..."

"I don't even know who I am," said Sadie mournfully, "Mom lied to me, Clancy lied to me - even you lied to me. I thought I was Sadie Miller, but... but that's my dad's name, isn't it?"

"It's still your mother's name," reminded Garnet.

"Do I want mom's name? She knew who my real dad was and she was never gonna tell me!" reminded Sadie, "She denied me part of my identity! All the time I lived with her, I was trapped and I didn't even know it. And everyone tells me I'm still Sadie, but who even is that? Am I Sadie Miller? Sadie Killer? Sadie the Ruby? Am I supposed to be a Crystal Gem or a rock star or a donut girl or what?"

Her voice cracked.

"Just... who am I?"

Garnet rubbed her shoulder calmingly.

"You are you," she replied, "You aren't defined by where you came from or what people think you should be. You are your own person."

She smiled.

"And you are very tired."

She closed her eyes and began to hum softly. In her head, she heard Ruby and Sapphire sing the lyrics.

Take a moment to think of just...

Flexibility, love and trust...

Slowly and gently, Sadie's eyes closed. With one final glow of light, her form shifted back into her normal appearance, and she dozed off against Garnet's shoulder.

They sat there for some time, but eventually the silence was broken by a strange sound.

MAY-OR DE-WEY! MAY-OR DE-WEY!

The tater tot van rumbled down the beach, slowly pulling up in front of Garnet. Greg stopped the van and turned off the engine, and the obnoxious sound was silenced. Despite this, Sadie didn't stir.

"Yeah, sorry, I haven't worked out how to turn that off," said Peedee as he and Steven climbed out the back.

"Garnet!" exclaimed Steven, running over to them, "Did you find Sadie? Did you... aaaawww!"

He beamed, pulling out his camera and snapping a photo of the sleeping Sadie.

Sadie groggily opened her eyes.

She was lying on her side on the couch, buried under a couple of blankets. Cat Steven lay on top of her, snoozing peacefully. Steven, Amethyst, Pearl, Peridot and Greg were gathered around the kitchen counter, a large pile of pancakes next to them. She tried to remember how she'd gotten here - she was sitting on the beach, and then... vague memories of Buck and Peedee?

"Sadie!"

Steven stacked a couple of pancakes onto a plate and ran over to her, putting them down on the coffee table in front of her.

"How'd I get here?" asked Sadie drowsily.

"It's a long story," shrugged Steven, "But you shapeshifted! Also you sleepwalked a bit, but you know..."

"I was sleepwalking?" asked Sadie.

"Yep," nodded Amethyst, "And the moment you stopped concentrating so hard, bam! What did I tell you, P?"

Pearl crossed her arms.

"I still think my advice had merit," she grunted.

"No, Pearl, Amethyst was correct today," replied Peridot, "Maybe you can be correct tomorrow."

Pearl frowned.

Sadie rubbed her head, wincing. It throbbed slightly, and she was having trouble keeping her eyes open.

"How are you feeling?" asked Steven, concerned.

Sadie glanced at the pancakes and smiled wearily.

"...hungry," she said.

She and Steven exchanged grins as she picked up the plate.

Long, long ago, before they had re-met Rose and Pearl, Ruby and Sapphire had spent a winter in a small hideout they'd dug in the ground. Back then, they didn't know that snow was harmless, and had thought they'd needed to take shelter for their own safety. They'd long since learned, but every now and then they came back to this little den - it became a hideaway, and if things became to hectic at the Temple, they could retreat here to get their bearings.

Except the den was no longer in untouched wilderness. Two thousand years ago, an empire that was not unlike Homeworld arrived and built a town. Over the centuries, that town had grown bigger and bigger until it covered the whole landscape. In the past two hundred years, the humans had dug underground too, building a complex transport system to bring themselves closer together.

This was London, and Garnet's den now sat behind an iron door in a tunnel of the 'Circle Line'.

Garnet stood in the small, rocky room, studying a chart she had drawn on the wall long ago. It labelled the four diamonds - White, Blue, Yellow and Pink - with a few scribbles and notes about them and their courts. Pink was crossed out and labelled as shattered - perhaps it was wrong, but Garnet couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction about that.

More important were the big, simple words written under each diamond's name. The idea was simple - each diamond had control over one major concept. This was important, as Kay had come from the enigmatic White Diamond. Few had ever seen her - even Sapphire, who had been high ranking, had never so much as glimpsed this most powerful of being.

She read the chart again, frowning.

Blue Diamond - emotion.

Yellow Diamond - form.

Pink Diamond - life?

White Diamond - mind?

She'd heard rumours back on Homeworld about White's court - about a gem named Seraphinite, about strange methods of mental indoctrination, about how White kept her gems in line.

She hoped, for Sadie's sake, that those rumours weren't true...

#steven universe #ruby stars #sadie miller #lapis lazuli #amethyst #peridot #pearl #buck dewey #mayor dewey #greg universe #andy demayo #garnet #peedee fryman

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welovekpopscenarios · 6 years

Text

Unwind (OT5 x Reader)

Admin: Mimi

Prompt/Ask: Just a purely platonic thing with all of Day6. Where you're having a hard time in college and they come up with something to help you ease off and take a breather.

Fandom: Day6

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: None!

Warnings: None, except a bitta sadness and stress :(((

Word Count: 1770

A/N: To the person who requested this – I cannot apologise any more for how late this is. I’m so sorry I left it this long, feel free to yell at me if you want. But think of this as a New Year’s Eve present from me, ilysm and if you were having a hard time with college, I hope things got better and that this makes you smile. Again, I’m so sorry my love. Happy reading, and have a happy and safe 2018.

“Do you think this will really work? Do you not think they’ll just get more annoyed?”

Brian was all for helping you ‘de-stress’, as the boys had put it, wanting nothing more than to see you finally put down those damned books you’ve buried your head in and for you to have a proper conversation with them that didn’t end with snapping or sighing loud enough for the next table over to even hear. But he didn’t think kidnapping you to go to the beach was really going to solve anything.

Not that the rest would listen to him.

“Of course man, it’s fine. They’ll love it. They need it,” Jae replied, occupied with moving bags filled with beach essentials and the odd bits and pieces deemed worthy enough to come on the trip and- was that a bucket and spade?

“Yeah, it’ll help them a lot. You’ve seen how they are – since college started, there hasn’t been a weekend where they haven’t studied. They honestly do it too much, and I didn’t think there was ever a limit to studying,” Wonpil agreed, hands hurriedly making sandwiches and other snacks for the beach day. Piles upon piles of food were made in surprisingly record time, and soon a single bag was full to the brim with snacks, drinks, and all of your favourite foods. Dowoon squeaked a ‘yeah!’ of agreement from his place on the floor blowing up a beach ball.

“See? The five of us are going to have a great time!” Jae grinned.

Brian rose a brow in confusion. “Wait, five? Don’t you mean six?”

“Oh, yeah, Wonpil isn’t invited. He’s being left behind.”

“Excuse me?! After I made all this food?” Wonpil gasped, indignation lacing his graceful features.

“Yeah, have fun at hom-“

“No one is getting left behind,” Sungjin announced, walking into the room decked out in a classic Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts that had everyone cringing and hiding their faces in the palms of their hands. “We’re doing this for Y/N, we’re gonna be good friends and try to make them feel better. Even if it’s only for one day. So come on, finish packing the truck and we’ll go grab Y/N.” He slipped on his shades and grinned.

“You mean kidnap,” Brian corrected, but simply shook his head and resigned himself to carrying bags to the truck. Maybe you’ll find the humour in this, and laugh about being brought against your will to the beach and away from your studies.

Well, he hopes.

When the boys arrived at your doorstep decked out in what looked to be beach wear and wearing smiles too innocent to be genuine, you honestly should have known better and seen through the fog of fatigue that they were up to something. But their offer of driving you to the library instead of you having to walk sounded too good to pass up, so after a coffee in your kitchen with Wonpil and Sungjin looking slightly nervous and waiting for Jae who took way too long to be normal in the bathroom, you all headed out towards the library in a very cramped mini van.

Or so you thought.

“Uhm, guys?” you asked aloud over the blaring of Teenage Dirtbag from the radio and Dowoon’s wailing rendition of the song. “Where are we going? This isn’t the library,” you informed dumbly. Obviously it wasn’t the library, you knew that, unless the library suddenly changed its décor to feature an a deep blue ocean and miles of sand, complete with ice cream stands every so often and brightly coloured towels lining the beach.

“Oh yeah, about that,” Jae said from his position in the seat behind you with Dowoon who was grinning uneasily when you caught his eye. “We’re going to the beach instead!”

“Excuse me? I have work to do, tests to worry about, I can’t waste time, are you serious guys?” you bellowed, flickering your angered gaze from each person to the next: poor Wonpil who shifted uncomfortably beside you, Dowoon who looked so guilty, Jae who simply smirked and looked indifferent at your outrage, Brian who avoided your eyes as soon as they met, and Sungjin who simply turned down the volume of the radio and drove in silence.

“Yes, we’re completely serious, Y/N. Do you even know when the last time you went out was? Or how often you talk to us anymore?” Jae asked, brow raised in a way that dared you to argue with him on this matter. But you couldn’t, he was right: you haven’t been anywhere in a long time, and conversation with the boys was quick and dull. But you had college to worry about, they should understand that.

“I have so much to worry about-“

“But you worry too much,” Wonpil piped up. “You only ever look at your books, only study, and you only ever spend time in the library, work, or at home. You keep everything bottled up instead of letting us help you. You need a break, from everything. Please?”

“One day isn’t going to make you fail an entire course, Y/N,” Brian reasoned, daring to meet your eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “We want to help you, so just let us. You need this.”

You seemingly lost your voice at the sheer sincerity in each of their gazes and voices.

“…but-“

“Just relax today, Y/N. Forget about college, about work, about everything. Just have fun today,” Sungjin smiled at you through the mirror before returning his attention to the road, eyes roaming the streets for a place to park.

“But I don’t even have anything with me,” you mumbled, a last attempt at getting them to turn the car around despite your heart wanting to stay here, with the sun shining and your toes in the soft grains of sand.

“Don’t worry, we packed everything for you,” Dowoon explained, giving a soft little pat to the crown of your head.

“Yup, took me a while to find everything, but I got there in the end,” Jae added, and then it clicked for you.

“Wait, is that why you took so long in the bathroom this morning?”

Jae smiled widely. “Guilty as charged, dude,” he sang.

You sighed quietly, shoulders rising and falling with the action. “Sneaky.”

“What can I say? Years of watching James Bond and playing Tom Clancy games prepared me for this moment. Now, enough of the pouty face, we’re at the beach. You are going to hang out with us and have fun even if it kills me.”

“That sounds threatening,” you muttered, opening the car door once Sungjin had fully parked in what he deemed the perfect spot: close to the seaside shops and at the nicest part of the beach.

“Yeah, well, you’re my best friend and I love you to death, so I gotta show some tough love,” he replied, popping open the booth and throwing bags of beach essentials at Dowoon who yelped in surprise.

“C’mon everyone, let’s find a spot to put our stuff,” Brian yelled, taking off towards the sand with speed, Wonpil, Jae and Dowoon hot on his heels as Sungjin moved to stand by your side. He looked at you with a grin as he adorned a cap on his head.

“It's summer, Y,N! I got my hat on backwards and it's time to party! Let’s go!”

Smooth, ocean waves greeted the shore in soft movements, kissing the sand delicately as the day came to a close, the sun saying goodbye to the world for now and hiding behind the horizon. The beach was covered in a dull, orange glow as you and your friends lay prone on the sand, exhausted after a day of unexpected non-stop action. Your head rested on Wonpil’s thigh, whose rested on Dowoon’s, who rested on heaps of half dry towels, while beside you three Jae, Brian and Sungjin sat or lay watching the few stragglers wandering on the beach.

You sighed in content, that sigh releasing the last of your stress as you relaxed in content, simply taking in the atmosphere and being here with your best friends; your family. You gave a slight smile as you played with the ends of your shorts absentmindedly, Wonpil’s fingers gently untangling knots from your sea-soaked hair.

“So,” Jae broke the blissful lull, his voice revealing smug undertones that had you rolling your eyes slightly. “Enjoy your day, Y/N?”

You pretended to think hard about the question; humming in thought and face screwed up in contemplation, much to Jae’s annoyance, who stared at you with a flat look. You laughed amiably, winking at Jae who shook his head and pushed Brian’s shoulder when he laughed with you.

“I did. I really did. And I can’t thank you all enough for this, I…” you sighed, eyes returning to the horizon. “I’m sorry I was snappy and hurtful to all of you, you don’t deserve it at all. You were just trying to help me, and I was so awful to you, I was…” you could feel the familiar sting in your eyes as your vision clouded over with tears, throat closing up in shame.

“Hey, don’t cry,” Dowoon cooed, hand reaching towards yours to grasp it tightly in his large grip.

“Y/N, we understand why you were stressed and angry, we really do. So don’t apologise,” Sungjin explained, his warm, brown eyes smiling at you and spreading love through your body to the very tips of your toes. In fact, all of them were smiling at you so lovingly you burned with embarrassment at the way you have acted, in shock at how angered you had gotten at their kind gesture. Before you could dwell on it too long, Sungjin spoke again. “Just…do us a favour, Y/N?”

You nodded slowly, eying Sungjin’s now sad, bitter smile and feeling your stomach twist in pain.

“Let us help you next time. Let us know how you’re feeling, and if there’s anything we can do to help you. You have five shoulders to cry on if you want, take your pick,” he laughed quietly.

“He’s right,” Wonpil agreed, tugging playfully on your hair. “We care about you, you’re like our family. So please, just tell us when you need help. You’re never alone, you have us. Ok?”

Everyone looked at you expectantly, a sort of sad hope in their eyes that you wouldn’t dare squash.

“Ok,” you breathed, smiling at the wide grins spreading one each beautiful face.

Wonpil is right. You’re never alone. Not with this crazy and dysfunctional family.

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spicynbachili1 · 5 years

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The terror and triumph in Rainbow Six Siege

It’s a good game

[Soulbow’s ongoing inside joke is that he likes Rainbow Six Siege and some of the community sandbag his favorite game. So this is me officially breaking the sandbag, if at least for just a day. Because here, he describes a typical game so well. ~ Marcel]

Just like that, I watched my teammates’ lives end before my eyes. I observed from outside, on a rappel line, as they stacked up on the objective doorway. “Don’t stack up, you’re easy pickings” I grumbled out through my mic. They didn’t listen, they never do.

Gunfire erupts from inside the room. A parade of bullets echo throughout my headset as I watch the heads of one, two, three of my teammates snap back as they slumped to the ground. Suddenly this had become 2v5, all in a split second. My other teammate, bless his heart; thought he could catch them reloading as he cover swapped to the other side of the doorway. Peeking in I watched as his head vaporized like the numbers in my bank account after payday.

“Fuck.”

In any other competitive game this would of been a death sentence, one where you to simply rush in and admit defeat at the hands of superior gamers. This isn’t one of those games. This is Siege.

I steadied myself, swapped to the other side of the window and peered in. From my angle I could see the east wall, unenforced and with a murder hole in it. My teammates were gunned down from the south door, so I knew that it was possible I could see the other team. Sure enough, a quick flicker of movement passed by the hole. I steadied my 100-round LMG and tracked to where I thought they might be. Letting off one red hot round through the thin ply-wall separating us, somehow it connected with his dome. Four to go.

I knew his teammates had heard the round, and they knew where I was. Leveling my gun through the window, I aimed at the door that currently had four slumped, probably still warm, bodies laying in front of it. Right on time; the enemy began to pour out. I started to unload. A barrage of lead cutting through them as they fell, one after another, in the face of my onslaught. One, two, three; they stopped coming. Hot white smoke was still coming off the tip of my gun as I rappelled in. I saw a flick of movement out of the right side of my eye as I swung in. “There you are, asshole.”

Scrambling to the wall I throw myself up against it, turning around and laying flat on my back as I trained the barrel of my rifle at the corner that the enemy was sure to come around. I didn’t wait, I still had 60 rounds. The sharp, loud pops echoing in my headset as I finally relented. I waited, a count going in my head. One… Two… Three… Four. There he is. Little bastard thought I was reloading and that he could catch me. Surprise motherfucker. Like John-fucking-Rambo himself I gritted my teeth, looked into the whites of his eyes and proceeded to blow them straight out the back of his head. “Round won” crossed my screen.

This is Siege.

What the fuck is up everyone? As some of you may know, I’m Soulbow. I’m here to talk about a game that holds a very dear place in my heart. Tom Clancy’s Rainbow Six Siege. People say they haven’t played it ’cause the “last good Rainbow Six game they played was Vegas 2.” Hey, fuck trombone. That was the last one.

But I digress, I’m not here to talk negatively. There’s enough of that in this game that I’m not even going to begin to touch on. I’m here to talk about one thing and one thing only. This is the main reason Siege is set apart from its peers and the one mechanic that REALLY makes it feel different than any other game.

That would be the one-shot headshot.

With the exception of one Operator, (one of which I’m not even going to touch on in this blog because I consider it an absolute asinine amount of bullshit that he’s even in the game at all), there is one universal rule that all Operators fall under. If you get shot in the head, even one hot piece of booyah, by any gun, you die. Instantly. No down-but-not-out, no double chances, you’re done, son. This allows Siege to be a game of insane amounts of skill and stress, but also one where a lucky round is just around the next corner.

In this regard, this is why Siege is so special to me. Siege is a horror game for the beginning of every round. You’re desperately listening in on your headset for any set of footsteps, a wall being broken, even a drone whirring. It’s tense, to say the least. Every single round gets my blood flowing as you stay hunkered down, all your well-thought-out plans in the preparation phase instilling (maybe) just a small bit of confidence that you could possibly survive. This all goes right out the window the second you hear gunfire, or a wall gets blasted open right beside you. Every logical thought exits your mind and is replaced by a primal survival instinct of “this fucker needs to get got before he gets me.” It’s unbelievably exhilarating, and a feeling I’ve never once even come close to experiencing in any other game.

Funny thing is, it also feels this way when you’re attacking. Every corner, every footstep, is a new challenge. You usually never know (unless you’re actually really good.) what the enemy has in store for you, as you round a corner, iron sights trained to detect even the slightest amount of movement. Gunfights are over in a split second, so you have to be on the top of your game Every. Single. Fucking. Second.

I’m not going to write an absurdly long blog about this game, I could go on for pages and pages. Just know this, Siege may be slow at first. It may require you getting shot in the face by some shit waffle who knows the maps better than you ever will, peeking through a murder-hole past three walls. However, every single round is unique. You never know exactly what angle the enemy team is planning, and the tension, unknowingness, and sheer adrenaline when you finally get to the shooty-shooty bang-bang helps keep Siege fresh and exciting for every damn second you decide to devote your life to it.

Thanks for reading, now, who’s ready to Siege my rectum?

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judefan826-blog · 4 years

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docayin-blog · 5 years

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How To Use Decoys To Fool Big Bucks

Many things aren’t quite as they seem. Flip through a fashion magazine and you’ll see how drastically someone’s appearance can be altered if enough time is spent and enough cash changes hands. From silkier hair to whiter teeth, fuller lips, thinner thighs and so on, the available tweaks are all but endless. Whoever first said life is but an illusion might have just laid down a copy of Vogue.

There’s also a lot of fakery in the hunting world. Generations of waterfowlers have tossed wooden ducks onto the water. And over the past few years, many hunters have begun using turkey decoys. Bird hunters regularly employ such fakes, in combination with calling, because their sharp-eyed quarry can be notoriously hard to coax into lethal range of a thimbleful of pellets.

Mimicking waterfowl and turkey sounds is something with which nearly all whitetail bowhunters can identify. Over the years, innovative deer calls for making grunts, bleats, snort-wheezes and even “roars” have become standard gear. Around the rut, few archers would think of heading afield without some sort of call in their packs. Being able to make sounds that lure bucks into bow range is often a huge advantage.

But what about the visual fakery? Where’s the deer decoy? Most bowhunters have heard of them, and even seen them used on TV hunts, but they aren’t using one themselves. If the thought of decoying has crossed their mind, it evidently was but a fleeting notion.

I don’t claim to be an expert on whitetail decoying. But maybe that’s why I’m pretty sure I can help you. Because while I don’t decoy that often, I’ve still had great success over the years. That tells me you could, too.

The Point of It All

Decoys work for different species for different reasons. Fake ducks and geese are effective because those birds are gregarious and associate other flocks with safe places to feed and rest. A migrating flock might never have seen the pond your spread is on. They’re relying on other birds to tell them it’s a good place to land.

Of course, with a turkey gobbler it’s all about reproduction. Come spring a tom wants to mate, and few things ignite his passion the way the sights and sounds of a breeding opportunity do.

What we’re looking to do with a whitetail decoy is much closer to a setup for turkeys than for ducks or geese. Even during the rut, when many bucks roam widely, they likely know where the food sources and bedding areas are. They don’t need other deer to confirm it. But they do keep their eyes open for other whitetails, whose presence might signal a chance to reproduce.

If you’ve ever had a 3-D buck target mangled by a yard-invading buck, you know how strong the visual attraction can be. When a feisty buck sees what looks like a rival, there’s potential for an aggressive response. What influences whether or not he comes all the way in is more complex. But you need not be a master decoyer to make it work.

As with most other whitetail tactics, entire books could be written on this one. In fact, my friend the late Gary Clancy did just that a number of years ago. But you can have fun decoying, and fill tags with good bucks in the process, if you follow a few simple rules.

OK, “rules” is too rigid a term. Let’s go with “guidelines.” Which means go by them, but be willing to amend or even ignore them as conditions dictate.

Guideline 1: Buck vs. Doe

You might assume that for a rutting buck, a doe standing by her lonesome, waiting for him to join her, would be the hottest ticket to success. Every nerd’s dream at the school dance, right?

That setup can work. In those rare places where the sex ratio is super tight, resulting in a short window of breeding, every doe is getting checked constantly. There, when the time is right a standing/feeding doe decoy is a real attraction. I’ve seen one of these work on mature bucks even without a buck decoy as part of the setup.

But a doe isn’t what I normally use. Most of the time, I feel, you’re better off with a buck decoy. Maybe with a doe in the setup, but often not. I’ll use a lone doe only if I don’t have a buck available.

The main reason I don’t like lone-doe setups is that real does don’t like them. Put a fake doe in a food plot or field and when the old herd doe arrives, she’s likely to freak out. She’ll often stomp around indignantly, then try to lead the rest of her clan back off the plot. If they don’t follow, she’ll become even more agitated. Prepare to listen to “blowing” for a while, as that doe prances around with her tail hairs flared. She just doesn’t like having a strange lady on her turf.

Replace the doe decoy with a buck and things tend to go better. Yes, it’s still a “new” deer, but the matriarch seems to accept that he’s an outsider just passing through. That sort of thing happens during the rut. In many cases, the boss doe quickly calms down and goes on about her business.

You might feel there’s no harm in letting that old doe lead her pack out of the area. You aren’t trying to shoot a doe anyway. But having live deer around can be helpful. They’re living decoys. Yes, too many does present can distract a buck that otherwise might have come to your decoy, but that’s when a little calling and/or rattling can come in handy.

So in most cases, I feel a lone-buck decoy is best. And in most places, a 30-day window starting around Oct. 25 often is the time to try it. After that the libido of most bucks begins to drop, with less aggression displayed.

I know of a few big deer shot over buck decoys right before velvet shedding and of a few others shot deep in the post-rut. I assume a blend of dominance and curiosity explains those approaches, as it’s unlikely they were related to breeding interest. But we can never be sure just what any buck is thinking.

Maybe because it’s often a chore to lug two decoys, few hunters use the deer equivalent of a “spread.” However, I’ve arrowed two bucks while using buck decoys standing over doe decoys. One of the fake does was a full-bodied model, minus legs and antlers, mimicking a bedded doe in heat; the other was a standing cardboard doe silhouette.

Guideline 2: Positioning Matters

Just sticking a decoy in front of a stand is a good way to educate deer. You’ll get educated too, but it could prove costly. So let’s try to get it right the first time.

Does it matter which way a buck decoy faces? I think so. Young bucks often sheepishly approach from the rear, but a big deer rarely will. He wants to intimidate this intruder, not simply gouge him in the ham. So most big bucks will come in from the side or swing around in front. Position the decoy so that either of these approach angles eventually will result in a close broadside shot.

I always have a buck decoy face me. Maybe not straight at me, but within 20 degrees one way or the other. While broadside can work, I’d rather not set it that way. One thing you’ll never see me do is face a buck decoy away from me. Again, I want to encourage a buck to see the decoy, swing around it to make eye contact with it and, in so doing, offer a good shot angle while looking away from me. Folks, that’s about as easy as bowhunting big whitetails ever gets.

How far? I like to put a buck decoy at least 22 yards out. If picking an ideal range, I’d say 25-27. But what matters most is that it be several yards inside maximum comfortable bow range. We can’t control from where a buck will come or which line he’ll take. If he goes a few yards behind the fake and stops, it might be the best shot you’ll ever get. Make sure that distance isn’t too far.

On the flip side, if the decoy’s too close to you, there’s not much room for a buck to get in front of it. If he starts in from somewhere beyond the decoy, with a tight setup he might never turn broadside until he’s right under your tree.

Be extra careful to avoid this “too close” error if you’re on the ground, as I often am on hunts for North American Whitetail TV presented by Quick Attach. Sure, I want a chip shot if I can get one — but at eye level with a mature buck nearly in my lap, all sounds and movements are magnified. I really don’t want him close enough to spit on.

In general, the more open the habitat, the better for decoying. A roaming buck might be hundreds of yards off when you spot him, and at that point he might not yet have spotted your decoy. You can rattle and/or call to get his attention and hopefully get him to see the setup. Once I know he’s seen it and is showing interest, I call very little, if any.

Don’t assume that because a decoy is easy for you to see, it’s just as visible to deer. Not only cover but also small humps or dips in the terrain can hide it from passing bucks. Even an alert deer’s head is much lower than a person’s. When in doubt, I often kneel where I’m wanting to set the decoy, then just look around. If I can’t clearly see a certain corner or other spot from which I think a buck is likely to appear, I’ll assume he couldn’t see my decoy, either.

Is there such a thing as too open? I’m not sure there is. Naturally, it can help to place the fake so a buck will feel secure in approaching. But I’ve seen how much trouble deer often have picking up decoys in timber or brush. And when their first glimpse is at close range, it can spook them. I’ve watched even big bucks bolt upon spotting decoys they felt were too close for comfort.

Setup and takedown can be tricky. If you put up a decoy long before daybreak, you risk having it approached, and even attacked, as you wait for light. This also can happen if you leave it up too long at last light. So I cut both ends of the hunting day as close as I can.

When decoying a field or plot, I’ll wait until right at legal light to pop my decoy into place, assuming no deer are in sight. In the evening, I’ll use the same approach. (Escaping any feeding area at day’s end is easier if a friend bumps deer away with a vehicle as legal light ends.)

Guideline 3: Scent Solutions

I’ve never found that big bucks insist on getting downwind of decoys, as many do when coming to rattling. Still, I often put scent on the ground, to reinforce the ruse. I’ve had great results with Evercalm, from Conquest Scents — but I wouldn’t hesitate to use an estrus scent or buck urine along with it.

Wildlife photographer Mike Biggs once told me that when he began using decoys in his photo setups, he couldn’t tell handling them with bare hands was a negative. He made no effort to keep his decoys clean and still got a lot of great photos of big, hunted bucks coming right up to them. My experience has been similar. Of course, there’s no advantage to pushing your luck on human odor. You can clean a decoy with ozone, a spray-on odor neutralizer or even a garden hose.

Guideline 4: Don't Overdo It

Next to spot-and-stalk, decoying is the most exciting archery tactic of all. Once you’ve seen it work, I think you’ll be hooked. But that’s why I must caution you: It can take serious self-control to keep from burning out a spot.

As with rattling and calling, constant decoying in one location tends to grow less effective. Yes, often we’re trying to intercept bucks roaming a wide area, and that can extend the life of a setup; the buck you fool today might have been two miles away yesterday. But over time, resident whitetails grow leery of seeing the same “frozen” deer standing in the same spot. The young buck you educate to a decoy in 2018 could be the giant that keeps his distance in 2020.

Last Nov. 10, I decoyed a big 9-pointer into crossbow range on my Missouri farm. He came in from an unexpected angle, and grass blocked any shot before he reached the Dave Smith Posturing Buck. He then bumped off a few steps but didn’t bolt. At that point I was able to get on him with my TenPoint, and within seconds it was lights out.

I doubt that buck had ever seen a decoy. Why? Because nobody had used one on the farm since 2009. The deer I shot hadn’t even been alive then.Find a place where deer haven’t been decoyed much. Should you have an encounter there but not fill your tag, maybe tweak the setup or move on to another group of deer. At a minimum, rotate stands often. Try to keep things as fresh as possible for as long as possible.

If you have a big piece of land to hunt, or a number of smaller ones, in theory you can decoy a lot. But if you’re hunting one small property, take care to limit the technique to the times, places and weather conditions in which you feel it’s really likely to pay off. That won’t be every day, and it won’t be every stand. But it doesn’t have to work every time.

In Conclusion

Some bowhunters still see decoys as gimmicks or too much trouble to bother with. But a decoy is a valuable tool. For the time, effort and dollars invested, no other tactic yields as many good shots. Around the rut, I’d far rather go bowhunting with one arrow and a decoy than a full quiver but no decoy.

Figuring out what the conditions call for is the art of all deer hunting, not just decoying. The details vary by time, habitat, weather, hunting pressure and more. But decoying isn’t just some fad. It works. So if you’ve been on the fence about trying it, hop over to the “unreal” side of whitetail bowhunting. See for yourself what all the buzz is about.

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angrybell · 5 years

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The Man from Snowy River

By Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around

That the colt from old Regret had got away,

And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,

So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.

All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far

Had mustered at the homestead overnight,

For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,

And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,

The old man with his hair as white as snow;

But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up —

He would go wherever horse and man could go.

And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,

No better horseman ever held the reins;

For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,

He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,

He was something like a racehorse undersized,

With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least —

And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.

He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won't say die —

There was courage in his quick impatient tread;

And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,

And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,

And the old man said, 'That horse will never do

For a long and tiring gallop — lad, you'd better stop away,

Those hills are far too rough for such as you.'

So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend —

'I think we ought to let him come,' he said;

'I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,

For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

'He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,

Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,

Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,

The man that holds his own is good enough.

And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,

Where the river runs those giant hills between;

I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,

But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.'

So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —

They raced away towards the mountain's brow,

And the old man gave his orders, 'Boys, go at them from the jump,

No use to try for fancy riding now.

And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.

Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,

For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,

If once they gain the shelter of those hills.'

So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing

Where the best and boldest riders take their place,

And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring

With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.

Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,

But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,

And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,

And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black

Resounded to the thunder of their tread,

And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back

From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.

And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,

Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;

And the old man muttered fiercely, 'We may bid the mob good day,

NO man can hold them down the other side.'

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,

It well might make the boldest hold their breath,

The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full

Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.

But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,

And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,

And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,

While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,

He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,

And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat —

It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.

Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,

Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;

And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,

At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,

And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,

Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,

As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.

Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met

In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals

On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,

With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.

He followed like a bloodhound on their track,

Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,

And alone and unassisted brought them back.

But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,

He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;

But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,

For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise

Their torn and rugged battlements on high,

Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze

At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,

And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway

To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,

The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,

And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

0 notes

mrmichaelchadler · 6 years

Text

“Far Cry 5” and American Violence in Video Games

Ubisoft’s highly-anticipated “Far Cry 5” comes along at an interesting time in the national conversation about American violence, especially how it relates to the world of video games. Pop culture has been a scapegoat for real-world problems for as long as it has existed. It’s easier to point the finger at art than to honestly ask difficult questions about gun control, mental health, or even our national addiction to technology. And this blame game is cyclical. I’m old enough to remember when rap music was blamed for youth violence and "Dungeons & Dragons" would lead to Satanism. In the wake of the massacre in Parkland, and the national movement that arose from it, people have been looking more closely at the violence in video games and asking if they play a role in the desensitization of people who have made the world more dangerous. And into this conversation, one of the biggest video game companies in the world drops “Far Cry 5,” a game that weaves religion, Americana, and extreme violence into a tapestry of total chaos. In some ways, it captures its cultural moment more than any game has in years. In others, it falters. But, overall, it’s a remarkably ambitious accomplishment, a game that sucks you into its world in a way that’s addictive and overwhelming. It may not progress the conversation around violence in video games in a way that will satisfy those looking for either a scapegoat or an absolution of the form, but it could be even more valuable in the way it allows people to escape it.

First, a little background on the “Far Cry” games. The “Far Cry” games of the ‘00s were more espionage-driven, playing off the success of the Tom Clancy games about heroes rescuing victims in far-off lands. The series turned a corner with 2012’s excellent “Far Cry 3,” a game that put you in the shoes of an American tourist kidnapped on an unnamed series of islands in the Pacific and felt built more on the template of the “Grand Theft Auto” games but with its own personality. You had to learn to survive in the wild, killing animals for supplies and defeating warlords to ensure you made it home safely. It was ridiculous and enjoyable. The fourth game moved the action to a corrupt government in a fictional country in the Himalayas and a great spin-off called “Far Cry: Primal” reimagined all of this chaos hundreds of years ago with warring tribes and prehistoric animals to skin.

“Far Cry 5” does not take place in a fictional land or a world of mastodons. It takes place in Montana. And while it’s fair to say “violence is violence” to a certain degree, there’s something more intrinsically powerful about watching it unfold on the streets of America. The violence is different when a dictator king has your friends hostage as opposed to shooting your way down the steps of an American church, as the stars and stripes wave on a flagpole. And yet it feels like “Far Cry 5” never quite takes advantage of its setting to say much about the outbreaks of dissent and violence currently afflicting the country. For some, that will be a deal-breaking sin in that it’s exploitative without substance. But the stories of the “Far Cry” games have never been their strengths. It’s about world creation and exploration more than storytelling. And, in that regard, “Far Cry 5” is nearly a masterpiece.

“Far Cry 5” casts you as a deputy in Montana who gets caught up in an attempted arrest of a cult leader named Joseph Seed, who has essentially taken over this part of the country. In the game’s opening scenes, the arrest goes horribly wrong, and you’re stranded in Hope County, surrounded by cultists and a growing resistance. It is your job to liberate the county from the grip of Seed’s Eden’s Gate cult. You have to retake local buildings like gas stations and resorts that have been overtaken by the cult, and work to defeat Seed’s three siblings before tackling the leader himself. And all of this will turn you into a mass murderer along the way.

Like the “GTA” games, the “Far Cry” games are intentionally ludicrous—they’re filled with action scenes that would make Michael Bay’s suspension of disbelief break in half. Just as I was thinking about how the game incorporates real-world concerns into its narrative, I had a truly “Far Cry Moment” as I blasted an enemy off an ATV with my shotgun as a flaming helicopter plunged to the ground behind him, and my heroism was greeted by an angry wolf trying to gnaw my arm off. All at the same time. “Far Cry” games don’t remotely take place in the real world (two of the nine "hired guns" you can bring along with you on missions are a bear and a cougar), which is why the set-dressing inclusion of it in “Far Cry 5” is likely to rub some people the wrong way. For example, I just bought an AR-C weapon that has an American flag image on it called the “Stars ‘N Stripes.” The description is “If this isn’t the official firearm of the United States of America, it should be.” Does the fact that I’ll use this weapon to kill drugged-out cult members in Montana matter? With today’s national conversation about gun control and violence, is this exploitative or topical? It’s a very fine line between the two and “Far Cry 5” jumps across both sides of it.

Ultimately, it's fair to say that I wish “Far Cry 5” had more depth when it comes to the issues that it regularly incorporates into its narrative. Even the drug use impacting the heartland pops up in the story, although it’s in the form of a hallucinogenic called Bliss and not the opioid crisis. The latter would probably be too real. The former allows for a fight sequence with a drugged-out moose. But in terms of pure gameplay, “Far Cry 5” is one of the best open-world games of all time. It is addictive in its balance of story missions, side missions, and general world exploration. It features an enormous open world that gamers will be exploring and finding secrets within for months, maybe even years. Some of the side missions are a little goofy (see the aforementioned super-moose) but the story missions are rather strong for this kind of game, offering diversity in style, structure, and difficulty. Most of all, Hope County is one of the most vibrant settings that gaming has seen in a very long time. From its hidden cabins to its deadly wildlife to its miles and miles of landscape, “Far Cry 5” is immersive in a way that keeps you playing long after you should have gone to bed. I have plugged hours and hours into it, completing almost all of the main story, and I still feel like I'm just getting started.

So, what does “Far Cry 5” add to the national conversation about violence in video games? Some will claim that it’s exploitative of real-life concerns in a way that doesn’t add anything to it. However, there’s another way to look at what this game accomplishes in that it reminds us that video games are escapism. Many of the best ones take elements from our reality—from the way the “GTA” games incorporate the criminal underworld to how “Mafia III” dealt with racism in the South in the late ‘60s to how much games like “Battlefield” and “Call of Duty” have amplified patriotism to suit their needs—and turn those elements into fantasy. They often channel our fears and concerns in a way that doesn’t desensitize as much as refocus. The idea that children are learning about violence from video games is ludicrous. My son has lockdown drills at his elementary schools and he’s never played a first-person shooter. He didn't learn about guns from games; he learned about guns from the real world.

My stance on this issue, from "Dungeons & Dragons" to "Far Cry," has always been that none of this can exist in a vacuum. If someone only plays violent video games, they will almost certainly develop personality issues related to them in the same sense that they would become re-tuned by anything with which they became obsessed. Most of all, people need to talk to teenagers about violence in all forms of entertainment instead of just pointing a finger at it. That's what I do with my kids. And “Far Cry 5” might be an interesting place to start that conversation.

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symbianosgames · 7 years

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Nearly all games need some amount of artificial intelligence — most commonly to give the player non-human opponents. But conversations about good AI in games are still dominated by Façade, Black & White, The Sims, Versu, and F.E.A.R. — all of which came out years ago.

Those games are hardly the only examples we can draw from in envisioning artificial intelligence systems. We reached out to several developers for their input on more recent games making innovative and instructive uses of AI.

The following list of games are all notable for the interesting, clever, and/or novel ways in which they use AI, and all are well worth a closer look if you're eager to let a little algorithmic thinking improve your game design. The underlying ideas they explore point toward the exciting and diverse future artificial intelligence could have.

(For more along these lines, be sure to check out Gamasutra's lists on instructive uses of procedural generation and crafting systems.)

The Division's enemy AI has had a mixed reception — at one moment they'll stand out in the open, completely unprotected, then the next they'll sneak around the back and give you a surprise bonk on the head. Its attempts to step up from the highs set by F.E.A.R. a decade ago are well worth closer examination, but the real star of The Division's AI routines is its path finding for changing cover.

Like in Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon, players can scan for cover, but here they can also hold down the cover button and their character will automatically run to the new spot. Essentially, this means that movement between covers is automated so that the player can concentrate on tactics. And since the path is shown on-screen ahead of time (it's drawn in a thin white line), the player can see exactly how they'll get there — which further helps in sorting out tactics because they can guess how long it'll take to make the automated dash.

TAKEAWAY: AI can drive mechanics that help the player get around faster and more effectively, which leaves them with extra mental bandwidth to process the important stuff, like who to shoot and how.

Since its inception in 2005, the Forza series has favored a learning neural network to traditional AI design for controlling non-human drivers. This Drivatar system watches you play and imitates your driving style — kind of like an amalgam of dozens of time trial ghosts.

In the most recent iterations the Drivatar system is hooked in to Microsoft's cloud services, where it can pull in AI racers based on other human players as well as crunch greater amounts of data from each player. Now your AI opponents mimic other players from around the globe — their silly mistakes, quirks, strengths, and weaknesses — which makes for a more unpredictable experience.

The good side of this is that AI drivers learn to do all sorts of complex maneuvers and each exhibit a distinct racing style, which makes them seem more human. Unfortunately it also means that even with the difficulty maxed out, racing sim purists have a tougher time finding non-human opponents to practice against — because few drivatars actually drive anything like a professional race car driver.

TAKEAWAY: Learning AI that mimics real people can make enemies and opponents seem more human, but you still need to keep in mind that most people who aren't professionals in the game's closest real-life equivalent will behave nothing at all like the real professionals.

First-person shooters normally showcase enemy AI that's just smart enough to challenge the player as they go around shooting everything that moves. The player is a predator, and the hordes of lookalike bad guys scurrying around the screen are the prey. But Alien: Isolation's Xenomorph reverses that convention. The free-roaming alien is the one in a position of strength, and the player — stripped of her power — gets to feel what it's like to be hunted. You carry a gun, but to use it is to draw the all-powerful, unkillable Xenomorph to you. (A flamethrower eventually complicates the situation and gives the player some power back, but even then the alien remains the hunter.)

The alien may just be following the behavior trees and routines coded into its digital being (which becomes all-too obvious if you try to outsmart the Xenomorph or otherwise test its limits), but it's hard to predict where and when it might appear nearby. That unpredictability combines with the alien's sensing capabilities — it has keen hearing — and some sort of director system that drives the alien to always be somewhere in the player's general vicinity. The result is a tense, terrifying experience that pushes players to hide in lockers for minutes at a time and to constantly look around for the hunter lurking in the corridors and vents.

TAKEAWAY: An enemy AI designed to relentlessly hunt the player as they roam about the game world can offer an unpredictable and tension-building element to the level design.

The Ice-Bound Concordance may seem at first glance to be an elaborate choose-your-own-adventure game, but its story of KRIS, an AI simulacrum of an author, is not built of branching paths. Rather, the player and AI combine pre-written (barring some variables) fragments of story text to piece together a novel. This is done through interactions both in the game — dialogue trees, player interventions in KRIS's creative process, symbol and event choices for the plot — and outside of it, through the pages the player shows KRIS from an actual, physical companion book that the AI's not supposed to see. The developers call their AI-heavy take on CYOA a combinatorial narrative system.

Where many older attempts to put algorithms in charge of a game's story — such as Façade and Versu — have focused on social interactions, Ice-Bound looks inward to tell a more literary tale — or rather many tales. It can handle tens of thousands or more permutations of a literary framework that consists of many narrative fragments and a complex set of rules for how these might be activated and deactivated. The AI and player (and the designers who crafted the narrative fragments) thereby become collaborators in the storytelling process, with the AI's goal being to ensure the player gets a dramatically-satisfying story.

TAKEAWAY: You can use AI to tell a dramatically-satisfying story — even if it's literary in nature — that's dynamically shaped by and molded to player choices in a more organic way than traditional branching paths.

Tower defense (and offense) game City Conquest is unusual in that its biggest use of artificial intelligence came in the design process itself. Here AI became a tool not for expanding or refining the player's moment-to-moment experience but for evolving the actual design — to improve game balance and to (hopefully) engineer a more enjoyable overall experience by measuring how well the design at each iteration met its goals.

The AI wasn't handling the design modifications, mind you. Designer Paul Tozour wrote a genetic algorithm that acted as a kind of automated, virtual playtesting team that could evolve into expert players and in the process identify dominant strategies and minor elements that needed tuning. By looking at how both these machine players and human players approached the game, Tozour found flaws big and small and gained lots of data to help him tune the game's parameters.

TAKEAWAY: AI can help you make your game better before it's even out by playtesting to find dominant strategies.

Jonathan Blow wanted walking in The Witness to be as smooth and unobtrusive an experience as possible. If players got caught on edges or tapped in walls, or if they could traverse terrain in one direction but not the other, it would pull them out of the world. It'd break the immersion, and immersion was paramount to the game's vision. To ensure this didn't happen, he asked programmer Casey Muratori to improve the player movement code. Muratori responded by writing an algorithm that tests for collisions.

His algorithm hopped in to replace the player and explored the entire island. As it walked it created nodes and displayed lines atop the ground that connected these. White lines meant walkable, red not walkable. (It could explore areas close to boundaries at higher density, too.) If the state changed — say, a door opened — it could go back and pick up from that point and continue to the area beyond. And from seeing the results the dev team could find problems with the movement code or with level geometry that needed refinement.

TAKEAWAY: AI can do the grunt work for you in finding all the nasty problems that could frustrate players simply trying to explore your game's world.

Several years on, the AI Director used in the two Left 4 Dead games remains a fascinating system for controlling the flow of a cooperative multiplayer game. The Director handles typical AI tasks such as enemy movement and human player proxies in a satisfying, believable manner. But what really makes it interesting is the higher-level impact it has on every session.

The Director's main job is to manage the pacing. It builds up the intensity to a peak, then eases off, then builds up again, and repeats this throughout the session as players edge closer to the exit. It does this by modeling stress levels in players (affected by things like close versus long-range combat, ammo and health levels, zombies in proximity), then adjusting how the zombies attack — where they come from, how many of them attack, which types attack, and who they focus their attack on.

AI Directors have since been used to great effect in many other games, such as the post-Left 4 Dead Far Cry games, Evolve, and Rocksmith 2014 — which used its director to handle musical accompaniment to your live guitar play in the game's session mode. But Left 4 Dead remains the best example to study.

TAKEAWAY: Every player is different, and by having an that AI alters the flow and intensity of gameplay to fit their moment-to-moment needs you can ensure that everybody gets a satisfying, challenging experience.

As these examples show, artificial intelligence can be used in games in myriad ways. It could be a testing tool to make your code or design more robust and to make the final game more fun, or it could make non-player characters seem smart even as they continue to be dumb — just by exhibiting some rudimentary learning strategies or adaptability.

AI can be the unseen hand directing the whole show or the bullet sponges and companion characters right there with the player. AI can guide players or mislead them, help them or hinder them. It can make the bad guys act like they're genuinely cooperating to kill or maim the player, or it can turn a single enemy into a terrifying hunter. AI can mimic, imitate, learn, forget, teach, and collaborate.

It's just algorithms, so it'll do whatever you want it to. You only need to think of creative ways to leverage its powers to entice, bewilder, muddle, aid, hinder, process, and share. Don't think so much about AI in terms of enemies that are just barely smart enough to slow the player down. Rather, imagine how it could elevate the experience in some small or big way.

Thanks to Jonathan Tremblay, David Churchill, and Anne Sullivan for their help with putting this article together, and to Tommy Thompson for his AI and Games YouTube channel — which provided further guidance.

#IFTTT #Blogger

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asmaalmarri · 7 years

Text

“Welcome to the family, son.”

Gave myself something to do while counting down to the release of Resident Evil 7:Biohazard (and vice versa) and wrote down the events of the demo, in alternate rhyme. Enjoy :)

Eventually I came to, and found myself lying

prone on the dust covered wooden floor;

the flashlight’s glare was almost blinding,

highlighting floating specks and spores.

With a weary groan I raised myself up

to find a note on a low table nearby.

Upon reading it my heart did drop,

my blood ran cold, my mouth turned dry.

Penned in block letters, the note had read,

“I shall dash them against the stones.”

If I tarried here long, I'm as good as dead,

for in this derelict house I was not alone.

Then I heard coming through the crumbling ceiling

the thump-thump-thumping of a deliberate tread.

I hid by the leather chair, where I remained kneeling,

cowering from he whose presence filled me with dread.

Minutes passed, and when no one came,

I quit my hiding to survey this dismal room,

noted the family photo, enclosed in a frame,

of the parents and their brood––or so I presumed.

The children looked fine, the mother was grinning,

but the middle-aged father looked a little off:

his black beard was thick, his hair was thinning,

and his overall mien seemed hostile and gruff.

The portrait hung over the long-cold fireplace,

on floral wallpaper, now yellowed and peeling;

I adjured myself to stop staring at the man’s face,

though something about it fed this uneasy feeling.

Perhaps I would be remiss not to mention

the old VCR, or the TV aglow with static,

or the console piano––but it is not my intention

to list the forlorn items one finds an attic.

I left the room through the splintered white door,

pushing it open after a moment’s hesitation;

waiting for me in the dim and narrow corridor

were further signs of household degradation

Windows were boarded up against daylight;

doors were likewise, but for a different cause:

the former had engendered a moldy blight,

the latter, as I passed by, rattled and gave me pause.

I covered my mouth and nose against the stench

that emanated from the dilapidated kitchenette,

the festering food there made my stomach clench,

while roaches scurried over a pot of acrid blanquette.

The orange sunlight, squinting through the blinds,

indicated the hour was that of late afternoon,

which left me with little time and I had to find

a way out, for the day was coming to a close soon.

Beyond the kitchenette was another hallway

that led to the only exit that I could see:

a windowed door, bright red and gay,

seemed to wait there expectantly for me.

To my dismay, the door was locked tight,

forcing me to backtrack through the entryway,

trying meanwhile to ignore the jarring sight

of large carcasses that filled the foyer.

But then I noticed a pair of bolt cutters

poking out of the animal's flayed side,

with them in hand, I stepped over the clutter

to open a chained cabinet and look inside.

Indeed I had passed by said cabinet on the way,

its handles were held fast by a loop of chain;

it didn't take much before the links fell away

but an old VHS tape was all that I've gained.

The handwritten label said "derelict house"

and I was not entirely sure what to make of it.

My only option now was to watch it and browse

for clues that might be hidden within it.

I returned to the room with the VCR and TV,

and on the way the boarded door rattled again

followed by a growl that rolled uncannily ––verily

these walls contained some nameless bane...

The footage showed two men of three,

recording their paranormal show at night:

Pete, Andre, and their cameraman Clancy

walked one June evening into the abandoned site.

Pete’s thin, bearded face first came into view,

bleached by the proximity of the camera's light;

he had jerked the camera to him and went: "Boo!"

trying to give the cameraman a sudden fright.

With his hair trimmed and in a sports coat and tie,

Pete looked dapper, though his conduct was shabby:

after his little prank, he strolled to the other guy,

grousing about hiring a cameraman like Clancy.

"Give me a break, Pete," sighed Andre, harried,

as he fixed the microphone on Pete's lapel;

apart from that and the camera Clancy carried,

they brought no other gear, as far as I can tell.

Pete demanded a walk-through before the intro,

to which the tall producer grudgingly acquiesced.

Clancy, meanwhile, wordlessly shot their video,

any comments he had remained unexpressed.

They argued on the overgrown porch for a spell,

then Pete tried the front door but found it stuck.

Andre couldn't open it either, which then impelled

the thin young man to kick the door's lock.

As they made their way towards the kitchenette,

Clancy turned to see the door close quietly

and glimpse the vanishing grey silhouette

suspended from the ceiling, watching intently.

Perhaps he was too frightened to speak,

or was unsure of what he had just seen…

it had happened too fast to warrant a shriek,

a trick of the eye was all it could have been.

By then Andre was explaining how the owners

had themselves disappeared three years ago:

though Jack and Marguerite Baker were loners,

their son Lucas brought them shame and woe.

After saying his piece, Andre had walked

into the the house to explore it further yet;

Pete, unawares, went on jeering and talked

to Andre as if he still stood in the kitchenette.

Noticing the absence, Pete began to call

but got no answer from his missing friend;

he flashed his light down the same dark hall

through which a moment ago Andre had went.

Clancy joined Pete’s side, and as he did

his light hit upon the banister and stairs;

the same figure from before, grey and livid,

before them flickered and vanished into air.

The house was no longer a joke to Pete,

or the target of his sallies and bon mots:

his swearing outrage dwindled into bleats;

shaken, he asked Clancy to remain close.

They heard a loud clatter coming from a room,

the same room from which I watched them now.

‘Would they find me watching them in the gloom,’

ran the inane thought behind my brow...

Pete swallowed and opened the white door,

slowly entering the self-same dismal room,

but found no sign of what caused the uproar,

for it was unoccupied and silent as a tomb.

Only Pete proved more inquisitive than I

or perhaps he simply knew where to look,

and whether by some luck or a keener eye

he found a hidden mechanism I had overlooked.

Within the cold chimney’s gullet was a chain

that opened a small and narrow passageway;

surmising it lead to where Andre was detained,

they resolved to find him and make their getaway.

They found Andre standing in the basement

shrouded in darkness and facing a stone wall,

he neither answered nor quit his effacement,

even at Clancy’s approach, he hardly moved at all.

Clancy turned him around with a sickly crack,

for Andre’s mouth was attached to a pipe or hook..

The body, falling onto Clancy’s lap as he cowered back,

favored the camera with a red-eyed vacant vacant look.

Before the lens the mutilated face waxed stark,

under which Clancy remained fraught with panic;

heavily booted legs emerged from the dark,

before the footage disintegrated into static.

Did a fever just set in, or was it humidity

that made my shirt stick so to my back?

Then – why were my legs inert with rigidity,

as if days had passed and I had lost track?

By my hand was that note, stained red,

how it got there to me was unknown;

with one word writ in blood, it now said:

“I shall dash YOU against the stones.”

It was good that the chimney was close

to where I had sat to watch the footage,

for my legs would not carry me as I rose,

thus I dragged myself to open the passage.

Within the passage was the same large hole

that descended into the black basement,

instead of a ladder, by the mouth of the hole

lay a key with no account for its placement.

The movement seemed to have limbered my legs,

for I was able to stand and walk, albeit shakily,

though I would have crept through dirt and dregs

if it meant leaving this house safely and hastily.

The white door ahead was open to the hall,

whence now came the steps I'd heard before;

I saw who made them and felt my flesh crawl:

Jack Baker slowly walked past the open door.

Whether he knew I was there or not

was rather hard to say;

his hoary head, scored with scabs and rot,

had not even turned my way.

I found no trace of him in the hallway,

nor in the kitchenette despite the clatter,

I banked on his disappearing up the stairway—

at this point, my reasoning was all but tattered.

The key unlocked the windowed red door

and opened to daylight as far as I can see.

A powerful hand clapped my shoulder before

Jack's chuckle came billowing behind me

He wheeled me around before I could run,

flashed his false teeth, and drew his arm back,

saying, "welcome to the family, son,"

before his fist landed hard and made everything black.

#Resident Evil 7 #Resident Evil 7 Demo #Biohazard 7 #biohazard 7 demo #Jack Baker #Andre Stickland #Dulvey Haunted House #Peter Walken #KITCHEN #Clancy Javis

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docayin-blog · 5 years

Text

How To Use Decoys To Fool Big Bucks

The Point of It All

Of course, with a turkey gobbler it’s all about reproduction. Come spring a tom wants to mate, and few things ignite his passion the way the sights and sounds of a breeding opportunity do.

OK, “rules” is too rigid a term. Let’s go with “guidelines.” Which means go by them, but be willing to amend or even ignore them as conditions dictate.

Guideline 1: Buck vs. Doe

You might assume that for a rutting buck, a doe standing by her lonesome, waiting for him to join her, would be the hottest ticket to success. Every nerd’s dream at the school dance, right?

Guideline 2: Positioning Matters

Just sticking a decoy in front of a stand is a good way to educate deer. You’ll get educated too, but it could prove costly. So let’s try to get it right the first time.

Guideline 3: Scent Solutions

Guideline 4: Don't Overdo It

In Conclusion

0 notes

symbianosgames · 7 years

Link

(For more along these lines, be sure to check out Gamasutra's lists on instructive uses of procedural generation and crafting systems.)

TAKEAWAY: AI can drive mechanics that help the player get around faster and more effectively, which leaves them with extra mental bandwidth to process the important stuff, like who to shoot and how.

TAKEAWAY: An enemy AI designed to relentlessly hunt the player as they roam about the game world can offer an unpredictable and tension-building element to the level design.

TAKEAWAY: AI can help you make your game better before it's even out by playtesting to find dominant strategies.

TAKEAWAY: AI can do the grunt work for you in finding all the nasty problems that could frustrate players simply trying to explore your game's world.

#IFTTT #Blogger

0 notes