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lunarcovehq · 5 months

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Suresh Sahni is a siren that currently resides in Downtown and has been a Lunar Cove resident for 40 years and his song will leave you speechless.

ITS THE END OF THE WORLD

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis Male, He/Him

DATE OF BIRTH: October 28, 1957

OCCUPATION: Film & Sound Editor

FACECLAIM: Rahul Kohli

AS WE KNOW IT, AND I FEEL FINE

SPECIES: Fae

SUBCATEGORY: Siren

FAE COURT POSITION: Member

AGE THEY APPEAR: 35

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, SURESH SAHNI

Trigger Warnings: Death; Blood; Knives; Drowning; Nudity Mention; Fire; Violence; Alcohol; Smoking

Etched in tones of technicolor blue, the grand foyer—with its crumbling wooden staircase, the banister carved by an artisan whose divinely inspired hand, mighty as it was, could not halt the ravages of time—seemed to shimmer electric. Trickling through the room’s broken stained-glass windows, one on either side of the double entry doors, mounted like guardsmen at the gate, came the fractured glow of a moon that has never existed. This moon, of course, was so bright, so sublime, that all in its light lay utterly bare.

A door opened at the end of the hall, and a young woman, bare too, wrapped in white bedlinens, appeared, her gaze wide and flashing. Holding her breath, rocking on her heels, she seemed to listen, to wait, drinking in every inch of the chamber: its checkered floor, its darkened corners, its towering grandfather clock, which should have been ticking and was not. But it would. It would have to. He had scribbled a reminder about it.

Unaware of these notions, though, the woman clutched her makeshift nightgown—looking behind herself and then back to the path ahead, undesirable options in need of a choice. She wavered. And in one cataclysmic instant, she dashed for the doors. The shape, however, the figure, the shadow, materialized from nowhere, a looming masked man, and all at once, he was upon his prey, a gleaming knife held high. Blood was not so red. Blood really was not so red. It looked so fucking stupid when it was so fucking red.

With each terrible swing of the blade, none of which made contact, the woman screamed, a piercing, hollow noise, splintering, terrible, shrill and wrong and utterly fucking unfixable because it has been recorded so badly.

Suresh Sahni, film editor, first considered notions of vengeance in June of 1982 while alone in a cloud of cigarette smoke in a wood-paneled sound studio rented cheaply, just like the decrepit oceanside manor had been rented cheaply for the film itself. And while the quality of the finished picture would have been enough reason, everything, as it always had and always would for him, led back to Gregor. It was thinking of Gregor, then, that Suresh lifted his recorder that night and placed the terrible foundations for the cataclysmic evening to soon follow.

He had met Gregor as a child growing up in London, when he was still young enough to stand in the rain and kick up the puddles that could fill his front garden. And he had been doing just that when a new family, in a silly blue car, pulled up to begin moving into the flat above his own. The boy had so few companions, and really, it was his own fault, Suresh knew. He was too honest, almost oddly and brazenly blunt to the point of rudeness. But seeing a boy his own age step out of the vehicle that day, he resolved to befriend him.

And he had. Despite everything, he had. Suresh had marched up to him that very instant, his slicker soaked in rain, had pointed at the new arrival’s shoes, and had told him, plainly, that they were badly tied. A moment of stunned silence followed. But against all odds, Gregor laughed. Gregor laughed because Gregor found him funny. And that made Suresh happy—because he did not think anyone had ever before found him funny. To that end, the months soon ticked by in easy succession, balmy twilights and early mornings, movies they were not supposed to be watching, and holidays alternating between their respective floors. Living had become somehow easier when one did not have to do so alone.

But while the advent of the “terrible” teenage years, as their parents would call them in secretive, droll voices, changed Gregor too, causing him to sprout upward, grow a patchy half-mustache, and find himself newly popular, Suresh’s own changes were all the more literal. They came upon him for the very first time at a rural lake in the summertime, when he had been dared by one of Gregor’s new and exciting school friends (that Suresh knew disliked him for being the outsider among them) to climb to the top of a rocky embankment and dive into the water. Foolish and brazen and brave, the boy did so with some posturing.

Hitting the surface, though, Suresh discovered, first to his horror and then to his astonishment, that his skin was beginning to harden, new, glistening scales stretching across his entire form. He did not resurface, deciding that he would show them. He would give them a fright.

A search party set out that same afternoon, led by shouting, scolding adults, fearful they would find a waterlogged body. But all they found was a teenage boy, already dry, sitting along the shore. He did not tell his parents what really had happened.

They would never have understood, human as they were, and Suresh knew already from movies and books that young men who find themselves with new and strange powers are not meant to tell their parents. They were meant to be superheroes in private. Not even Gregor could know.

More abilities revealed themselves bit by bit, though, by accident, by happenstance. Storms would swell with his moods. Half-hearted humming would have passersby following him down the road. And honest, always honest, Suresh would spin and shout and tell them to get fecking lives of their own and leave him to his, shattering the spell.

By the time the pair was sixteen, Gregor grew out his hair and decided to be an actor. He had raw ability, and Suresh marveled at it. Still, he would not regard this feeling as love until he was older, older and angrier. But he had loved him, he knew, dreadfully and terribly, at his own expense. The way Gregor could lift his voice and demand attention— without even an ounce of magic—made the young siren’s heart pound. And that heart would not break for many years to come, but it would break.

Suresh first explored the machinations of film for Gregor. He “borrowed” and never returned a new Super 8 camera that could capture audio so that he could help shoot a demo. The recording was foolish: Gregor saying lines from horror films they had grown up watching. But maybe, just maybe, he could send it away and use to become rightfully wealthy and famous. And hanging onto that notion, as if he could claim some part of it, Suresh labored over the tape.

And this game (and filmmaking was then only a game) was fun. They laughed and whispered about it on the stairs between their flats, and all at once, they were twelve again. Life was easy. The camera, however, splintered to pieces one night, when Suresh, by chance, tried to record himself singing on the night of a full moon. That was a lesson well-learned.

Still, he scraped up his savings to buy another, honestly this time. And as Gregor’s talents improved, so did his own. Manuals and books ordered by mail, new equipment for which he begged on birthdays and holidays, taught him how to shoot, how to mix sound, and how to make movies sing. Or perhaps scream.

Both Suresh and Gregor vexed their parents terribly by rushing off to film school, a fruitless endeavor that left them both largely out of work for several years. They spoke of Hollywood, but that was far away and cost money they did not have. Besides, Europe had its own pictures. They just have to find their way into the industry. Opportunity came without warning.

The movie was called The Scream Beyond the Scarlet Halls. That title had nothing to do with the plot, of course. But Gregor had told Suresh, when he scoffed, that it was all very legitimate. The director was an Italian prodigy, the sort who made gruesome thrillers about young people being butchered in psychedelic colors, and he had assembled an extraordinary team. That team included Gregor, of course, and the young actress he had, at that time been dating—whose character would be murdered in bedsheets about twenty-two minutes in.

Best of all, though, truly best of all, was that, on Gregor’s recommendation, they would also bring Suresh on to edit for a good price (it was not). But he went. He went because Gregor was going. And with the very last of his nest egg, Suresh paid for both their tickets, and arriving by plane, the pair trudged through dead, drying grass toward the looming, abandoned estate on which production would be shooting.

The process, from the very beginning, was disastrous. The location, while suitably frightening, was frigid, dangerously unkept, and full of pests. Actors did not know their lines, not that it mattered when the script was what it was. The film and sound “crew” were somebody’s nephews and hardly understood what they were doing.

Suresh himself had been volunteered, against his knowledge, to not only help them (and was not heeded) but to dub the final film in several languages with no additional compensation. “We’ll fix it in post” was uttered too many times a day when really, there was no “post.” Suresh was “post.” But despite it all, despite the long days, despite the in-fighting, despite the shoddy product, the worst had not yet come.

The worst came when he was sitting alone in that paneled rented studio, cursing his bad fortune. He was going through clips of film, a job for two or three people, when he realized that, one late night, somebody had left the camera and audio rolling unattended, a terrible waste for a production with an already nonexistent budget. But then there was Gregor in half-costume, with an actress—and decidedly not the one he had been dating. He should not have watched; he should not have listened.

But he did.

“He follows you around like a puppy, caro. How can you stand it?”

“Come on, love. I knew he’d pay for the plane ticket if I asked him. He does anything I ask him. You know how much I’m taking home now? I had leverage. I slashed their editing costs.”

“He’s hard to talk to.”

“He’s stupidly frank. What can you do?”

The words grew worse and worse, leveled not just at Suresh, but all the others, colored with private laughter and sharpening barbs. In this moment, the siren, however, felt small, terribly and stupidly small. And he wanted, more than anything, to not feel that way. He was not small. He was more than human. He was superhuman. The plan itself thus evolved in pieces, flashes that did not quite mesh, but Suresh picked up his recorder and set to work until the morning hours.

The wrap party, if one could call that frantic gathering in that crumbling rented mansion a wrap party, came the next day, the night of the full moon. Suresh himself arrived early and set up a projector, and finding the director sometime later, he pulled him aside and whispered well-spun half-truths about being so inspired, so moved, so overcome with emotion that he could not help but work through the night. And now he could show off the fruits of his efforts; he could show him a sneak peek of the movie’s first twenty-two minutes.

What Suresh did not tell him, however, was that he had also laid his own vocals into the cacophony of discordant sounds that made up the film’s main title theme. Starting the reel, he cranked the volume, and every guest, already addled by booze and intoxicated by debauchery, soon found their way into that rancid rot-smelling drawing room, pulled by the hidden song.

And then, with all eyes on the screen, the tape cut abruptly just as the shadow’s knife rose into the air for its final slice. All now lay bare: Gregor, the actress, their humiliating, exposing words, secret mockeries and cruel curses, leveled at everyone else in the room. Chaos took hold. People were arguing, their egos wounded.

Gregor followed Suresh out the back of the house, shouting, not apologizing. And Suresh himself felt his heart pound, his emotions mounting, his ire and his power growing. He stood above the thrashing surf, shouting back, his heart crumbling into pieces.

And extending his arms, Suresh decided he would show him. He would give him a fright. He tipped himself backward beyond the edge. And he fell.

It began to rain as he plummeted. He had not meant it. But in only moments, it was coming down in terrible, lopsided surges, pulling out his tail before he even hit the water. Lightning struck, setting a tree ablaze, a tree that would then tip through the stained-glass windows at the manor’s front and claim what remained of the foyer. A script supervisor, if one could call her that, would swear, when the police and fire brigade arrived, that he had seen Gregor push Suresh over. The film reel themselves would be confiscated as proof of motive. It would not matter; the siren had already destroyed the originals in one last act of spite the night before.

Suresh himself then surfaced on a faraway shore, deciding that he would now be dead, vanished, lost to the icy darkness of the tides because nothing at all could ever matter again. But it was less than a year later that a representative from a place in the United States, a place called Lunar Cove, came upon the film reel upon hearing of its anomalous properties.

To his own surprise, Suresh, then in hiding, found himself not scolded, but welcomed, welcomed to a place where there were others like him, where he did not need to feel small or lonely or powerless ever again. His wide-eyed optimism, though, had been all but lost to the sea that fateful night, replaced now by a sarcastic cynicism that he soon allowed to fester.

Still, the siren did find a new companion in the Fae Queen, a person who saw him exactly as he was. And he, casting off the tethers of his birth parents, who belonged to the human species he would now shun, turned fully to her. While he was not her formal advisor, his cutting words, that same honesty of his youth, now brutalized into terrible, plain truth, could find the rigid, correct path despite useless feelings like sentiment. There was even, in his own way, charm in his frazzled edges; he was the model picture of a surrogate son who was so brilliant that you had to apologize often for him.

And buried deep within Suresh, perhaps, there was some glimmer of genuine affection too. But at the same time, he knew that if he played his new role well, he could enjoy the perks to which he was becoming accustomed. He enjoyed his suite at the Emerald Hotel. He enjoyed the casino. He enjoyed being the one that could have whatever he wanted and not care whom he hurt to have it. He had given enough; it was his turn to take.

These notions have, by now, seeped into his very core, and when Hazal died, he found he hardly grieved. Not in public. Perhaps he was not able to. But he has learned that time can dull most things when one has so much of it. Suresh now works as the unseen owner of a third-party film and sound editing company, operating largely through remote middle managers on television movies, direct-to-video fare, and commercials.

The Scream Beyond the Scarlet Halls is known in horror circles as a somewhat infamous piece of “cursed” lost media, with internet forums still whispering in falsified fragments about the storm, the fire, the troubled production, and Suresh’s own apparent death, for which Gregor was not convicted. But he never did another film.

Suresh himself thinks it’s almost funny. But he does not think on it often, and most of all, he does not trust the new Fae Queen, who, by his estimation, showed up out of nowhere and now threatens the very foundations upon which he has staked his standards of living.

He is not sure how easily he can fool Aiyla as well as he thinks he has the others. She has made gestures of peace, but he knows better now; soothing words too often hide hidden daggers for him to trust a single one of them.

#Rahul Kohli #Suresh Sahni #downtown #all #fae court member #taken fae

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syrakhanistan · 6 months

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Heaven, part 2: Stanovoy Range, early 20th Century

[Editor's Note: The following article comes from a re-written draft of a diary entry, found half burned in the wreckage of an Old Believers Church along the Stanovoy Range, Sakha Republic, Russia. It is written in Sakhan Yakut, and translated into Russian for the reader's ease of access.]

It was a cold day, even for the homeland. The wintery sun had begun to set when you made your way to the ruins, to continue work. The outlines of the peaks out in the close distance buried the land in a frozen shadow.

The ruins... the Old Believers had been cast out by the Russian state once more. Not just the Tsars in the West; but now by the White Army in their attempts to hold the nation, and then by the Red Army in their last crusade. You reckon the war was solidly in the favour of the communists at this point, despite what the occasional propaganda broadcast out of Vladivostok would have you believe; the loyalists barely held out here in Sakha, and Amur would soon fall too.

This particular chapel still had the scorch marks and the crumbling foundations to show from the marching armies from mere months ago. Time flies.

That evening, however, something was different. Music was playing, on a badly tuned radio, the tinny broadcast barely touching your ears as you made your way up the steep path, your broom and bucket in hand.

What was this, then? A deserter, perhaps? You continued forward. You didn't have better to do, anyways.

You reached the entrance to the chapel. The large wooden doors remained barely attached to the frame; the bricks of the foundation continuing to hold despite crumbling in places. A poster proudly displaying the leader of the Red Army and the leader of the Revolution had been chucked away and stepped on, the proud face of a man with glasses left to rot in the unforgiving snow.

As you slowly peek through the gap in the door, you notice a small bonfire made of loose twigs had been set up near the broken altar. The radio that you had heard rested on said altar, the antenna having seen better days. It played classical music - indeed, you recognise the piece: a travelling orchestra from Prussia had once played the works of Beethoven for your local theater, and all your family came to listen... if you recall correctly, it was the Allegretto - a soft, but somber piece, slow but lively.

Probably good for funerals.

Next to the battered radio was a more strange object - what appeared to be a human arm, encased in a strange metallic substance. You stare, and it almost seems to shift under your gaze, the patterns weaving, waving, beckoning...

A light tap on the shoulder brings you from your trance. You spin round, your broom loosely held.

A young woman missing an eye and an arm grins at you, her one good arm holding a grip on your shoulder. "Easy there, old timer. I mean no harm."

You narrow your eyes. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

She laughed softly. "I'm just... a stranger, a traveller, moving through these cold lands. I wanted to see the stars and the mountains, and this looked like a good spot to rest for the night."

She budged past you, letting go of your shoulder. In her good hand, she picked up the arm of silver, and somehow re-attached it into her shoulder socket. Clenching a metallic fist, she grabbed a small flask, and chugged down, before winking at you with her one good eye and offering you some.

You shake your head. "I'd rather not accept a stranger's alcohol."

A more gruff laugh this time. "Hey, we're not strangers, are we? We've talked now! And anyway, it's not just any alcohol - it's my homebrewn specialty." She took a another swig.

The radio continued to play, crackling occasionally, almost in unison with the cracking splinters coming off the bonfire.

You give a small sigh, and lean on the church's frame. Looks like the church's cleaning would have to wait until tomorrow.

As if reading your mind, the girl shook her head, and waved non-chalantly. "Don't worry matey, I won't be here long. Like I said - just wanted to see the sights."

You look back at the radio, then back at the girl, and her arm of shining yet dark metal. As she sits on one of the pews, humming to herself, you note a medium-sized circular object resting underneath the radio. You're not sure how you didn't notice it earlier - shining gold, in pristine condition, it seemed as though she'd taken what appeared to be the offering pot to use as a tool to prop up the radio.

"That's... that's sacrilege... offensive, even..." You mutter witheringly to yourself.

"Eh? 'Sup?" The girl grinned up at you again.

"Ah, nothing. Go ahead, ignore an old man's grumblings..." You respond.

As you stand up a bit straighter to give the girl an admonishment, you hear sounds from nearby. Shouting, perhaps. You make out "She must be here!" out of the vague noises, but naught else. You look back to the woman in question.

The girl must also have heard - as if moving like a bullet, she stood up, putting out the fire, grabbing the radio, and waltzing over to your side. "Ah. I suppose my stargazing will have to wait."

You wince a little. "I knew... I knew this would be trouble. You've brought death to us, whether by the Reds or the Loyalists..."

She looks you in the eyes, with a far more serious glare. "If only it were so simple. By the way, are you light-sensitive?"

You squint at her. "What does that me--"

...

You don't know what happened at that moment. You remember her metallic arm moving towards the odd offering bowl, and a bright flash of light, before waking up leant on a nearby rock.

Right next to a pile of what had probably been Red Army soldiers, in various gruesome shapes and forms, like they'd been taken apart and stitched back together by someone who didn't know how to sew.

You scramble up, despite your creaking bones, before a light tap on the shoulder once again catches your attention.

"Oi. Not so fast, eh?" The Stranger from the abbey grinned at you, plonking herself down on a dry patch of ice.

The moon was far above their heads now - three or four hours must have passed.

You move your lips to speak, but you're silenced by a hand wave. "No time to talk, I'm afraid. You're right - I shouldn't have done this. Curiousity killed the cat, I suppose."

She coughs a little, spluttering briefly before covering her mouth and swigging from her flask. "This is where I say my goodbyes."

You move once more, and just manage to speak. "Who... why... will you return...? Why are..." The words barely tumble out. You realise that your throat is almost inhumanly dry, your lips cracking with each syllable. The cold, and whatever had happened, were doing no good at all for your tired body.

She bent her head back a little, her hair swaying in the wind, an odd look on her face. Then, she turned away. "I suppose... tomorrow, at around the same time? I'm... I'm sure that will work for you." She nodded to herself, and then began to march away.

Well, you supposed to yourself. That's tomorrow evening sorted out, perhaps. For now... You had a burned dinner to get back to.

[Carbon dating tests conclude that this diary entry was the last; the scorch marks indicate that gunpowder was used roughly a day following the ink drying on the diary entry. This coincides with the [REDACTED] [REDACTED] Sakha Incidents, plus the Far Eastern Purges that occurred in the latter day stages of the Russian Civil War, a brief retribution campaign following the end of the Yakut Revolt. It also coincides with the [REDACTED] Impact Event, a reported natural gas explosion caused by a small meteor along the mountain range.]

#syrakhanistan #accounts #russia #civil war #travelling #Gold

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julzs · 1 year

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JOURNAL ENTRY #6: MY ATTACHMENT STYLE

After learning about the attachment styles, I have concluded that I have the anxious-ambivalent attachment style. I drew a brick wall with cracks because I feel like it represents my attachment style accurately. I know within myself that I tend to be needy and clingy even if sometimes I do not act upon these, the walls represent me putting up my walls when I feel like I’m being too much or when I’m not needed, but I do not like isolating myself from people because I want to be around them and want them to see that they can reach me easily, hence the cracks because my walls can easily crumble. Last year 2022, I went through an experience that was part of what brought me to my lowest point. I got into something close to a relationship with someone, and while they said they felt the same in the beginning with me, it did not feel that way. Whatever they felt in the beginning quickly faded away. After no less than a week they began to distance themselves from me and I, knowing their tendencies to isolate themselves, decided to give them time and space but I knew deep inside things weren’t the way it was before anymore. A month passed and everytime we met with friends it felt like they were avoiding me. There was an awkward vibe everytime we tried to start a conversation and I just could not get it. So one day I asked for closure because none of what I wanted in a genuine relationship was being fulfilled and I knew that they wouldn’t approach me first. I wanted and needed emotional intimacy, but we had become no less than friends so quickly. Because of this experience, in every relationship (familial, personal, etc.) I am afraid of being left alone.

Personally, my love language speaks volumes about how I also express love for others. Quality time, physical touch and words of affirmation are how I express my love for other people. I strongly believe in the saying, “Communication is key,” because a relationship can be shallow without these and emotional connections with people are a must. I like expressing my love by really showing people that I love them, to avoid room for doubt.

To improve personal and social relationships, again, I know that emotional connections are important to develop with other people. By doing this, people can build trust and a foundation for a relationship whether it be romantic, familial, or platonic. I also think that relationships should be visibly two-sided for it to be a really genuine connection.

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lizamango · 3 years

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Finding You (Bucky Barnes x Reader) 6/?

A/N: Hi loves! Long chapter ahead! Watched Shang-Chi this weekend and wowowowowow go see it if you haven’t!!

We are now in the AGE OF ULTRON phase; I wanted to finally start building the foundations of your friendship with Wanda this chapter!

And Agents of Shield cameos!

Summary: You’ve been one of SHIELD’s top spies for years but what happens when the organisation you’ve put your trust in crumbles and Captain America gives you a mission to help him find his best friend? The last thing you expected to happen was to fall in love with your assignment and become best friends with a witch.

Taglist ~ just comment if you wanna be added

@buckylokisimp, @white-wolf-buckaroo, @austynparksandpizza, @markandlexies, @yaszx

Word Count: 2705

Masterlist

Chapter 1 ~ Chapter 2 ~ Chapter 3 ~ Chapter 4 ~ Chapter 5

Warnings: cursing, slowest fucking burn oml

Chapter Summary: You meet the Maximoff twins and the Avengers on your search for Sergeant Barnes.

Chapter 6: I’M NICE TO MEET

“Another bust,” I say into my comms as Fitz, Johnson, Ward and I exit the base, leaving knocked out or restrained HYDRA agents for the local authorities to find.

“Copy that,” Fury replies.

“You know, this is like… we’re vigilantes, right? This isn’t legal anymore? We have no jurisdiction anywhere,” Fitz says.

“SHIELD did what SHIELD wanted,” I shrug. “Now it’s our turn.”

“That’s true, SHIELD never followed the rules, not even their own,” Daisy added.

“Excuse me, did you forget that you were on the line with the Director of SHIELD?” Fury defends.

I chuckle. “You mean former right? Because Fitz has a point, if we get caught we go to jail too.”

“Well, good thing we still have access to a quinjet,” Fury says as he lands right in front of us.

“Very smooth,” we climb in as the ramp comes down and take a seat. I sigh, “gone are the good ol’ days.”

“I never even got to experience them,” Daisy shrugs.

“They weren’t that great for us. She had it good, being Level 7,” Grant comments.

“You’re Level 6! I’m still Level 4!” Fitz exclaims, offended.

“The system collapsed when SHIELD fell, I can make you unofficially Level 10 if you’d like?” I offer as I go to the mini fridge to take out a… “who ate the mozzarella and prosciutto wrap?” I say, closing the door and looking at everyone disappointedly.

“Wasn’t me,” Daisy and Grant say.

My eyes shift to Fitz. “I’m sorry, did it have your name on it? Because it didn’t so…” I pick up an apple and throw it at him. “Ow ow ow what the hell!”

“Behave,” we hear May through the comms.

“Sorry, May,” we all say as we take out seats, buckling up to meet Fury.

He’s typing away at the computer when we enter his makeshift underground office. It’s still hard to get used to being based here and not some fancy DC high rise.

“We’ve stormed two bases and found nothing. The Avengers have cleared four and they haven’t found the sceptre either,” Daisy recounts.

“There has to be something we’re missing,” Fitz says.

“We have two computer geniuses, tactile and operations experts and we can’t find a magical space stick,” I say, frustrated but this mission isn’t the only thing on my mind. It’s been almost a year since Steve asked Sam and I for help and we still haven’t found anything solid. The HYDRA bases haven’t revealed anything helpful either.

“On a lighter note, HYDRA is six bases down! I see that as an absolute win,” Fitz smiles.

“I’d say you all take a break. I’ve not found anything as of yet so… go back to your lives for a little bit. I’ll send directives if I find anything,” Fury orders.

“You know… you’re not the boss of us anymore, right?” I raise a brow.

“You’re dismissed.”

I go home with the intention of getting some rest but there’s something grating at my mind. It seems too easy that we’ve taken down six bases in the span of a year after HYDRA had been hiding in the shadows for decades… I go to my laptop and map out where each base was found. Huh… They arrange in a line of six and when the order of discovery is taken into account it seems that each base gets farther and farther away from one country. Sokovia.

I pack a bag with disguises that I still kept around, a photostatic veil and more subtle weapons in the place of guns. Time to go into the belly of the beast.

I look at my phone and assume the identity of a scientist that I see is on her way into the base. Before she gets too close I knock her out with a an electric disc. I drag her unconscious body to a place with cover and scan her face with my phone, syncing it up with my photostatic veil. Once it uploads, I put it on my face which has now taken hers. I style my hair similar to hers and replace my clothes with hers. I tie her up but inject her with a sedative that should last long enough for me to gather intel. I go through her bag and read through her diary and tablet to see where she should and shouldn’t be, to prevent suspicion.

I sigh. “Ideme na to,” here we go, I practice my Sokovian.

I enter the base. Doctor Kovak seems to be reporting to sub-level 3 according to her diary. I follow the signs quietly but the staff here seem to be too busy with their own tasks to mind me.

“Doctor Kovak,” I turn to the source of the voice. Wolfgang von Strucker, of course. “How are the test subjects?” he asks.

“I’m checking on them now, Herr Strucker,” I respond. He nods and gestures for me to walk with him. He leads me to two rooms with one sided glass. HYDRA’s still experimenting on people… There’s a man in the cell to the left who looks healthy enough and a woman in the cell next to him, sat on her knees looking at blocks of wood. I raise a brow but take out Dr. Kovak’s tablet, tapping around to find something.

“Magnificent, aren’t they?”

I find a tab on SUBJECTS and tap it, leading me to 16 more tabs labelled FAILURES but two SUCCESSES. This brings me to the Maximoff twins, Pietro and Wanda. The doctor’s newest entry was from last night. “The male has increased metabolism and improved homeostasis,” I say. “His vitals look normal, for someone going through this,” I add as I look to the monitor on the wall of his side. “The female has exhibited abilities of telekinesis.” I stop myself from frowning… they’re human?

“Keep an eye on them. I want to know more. I want to know how they survived the powers of the sceptre while many others did not. What makes them special, doctor? We are running out of bases to feed the Avengers.” He walks away before I can acknowledge his orders.

So the sceptre is here and they were just trying to keep themselves out of our radar. My stomach sinks slightly in disappointment as there was the possibility that what HYDRA was hiding was Barnes… maybe he’s still free then. Hopefully.

I look at the twins files for more information on why they would volunteer for such experiments. Native Sokovians, orphaned at ten years old and only having each other since then. I look up and notice that Wanda is staring at me. Or, correction, she’s staring into my soul.

I need to find the sceptre but that can wait at the presence of two enhanced individuals that have chosen the opposing side.

I open Wanda’s cell. “Miss Maximoff,” I greet. “Good morning,” she doesn’t reply. “I just wanted to learn more about you.”

Her head tilts but she doesn’t say anything.

“What made you want to volunteer for this… program?” I ask.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I believe there is something special about you and your brother. We’ve of course taken biological samples but I like to take a more… holistic approach to find out more.”

She looks at me and I swear her eyes glow red.

“I just want to help.”

She blinks and her posture relaxes as if she believes me. “I lost everyone but my brother. There’s so much wrong with the world. We just want to change it.”

“That’s why you agreed to be experimented on?”

She nods. “My turn. What did you do to the real Dr. Kovak?”

I look up sharply. How could she possibly…? Wanda doesn’t seem to want to alert the other scientists and agents of my presence so I clear my throat and straighten up. “She’s safe. I just needed intel.”

Her brow raises. “On what?”

“Can’t ask me two questions in a row, Miss Maximoff.”

“I could just… read your mind.”

“You can do that?”

Her brow quirks as an answer. “Have you been withholding information from Strucker?”

“Yes.”

I hum at her honesty. “Good. You can’t trust him.”

“And I can trust you? A strange woman who is wearing someone else’s face and clothes,” she counters.

“Compared to anyone else here? Yes.”

She is about to say something but alarms sound. I leave the cell, closing the door with a last look at Wanda. I’ll get her out, I promise myself.

“What’s happening?” I ask, tucking the tablet away.

“We’re under attack.”

“Who?” Strucker asks.

“The Avengers.”

Shit. I sneak out and hear Strucker giving out orders. I find a server room and start downloading what intel I can about HYDRA’s plans and remaining strongholds for any clue on Sergeant Barnes’s locations and slip out. Rogers doesn’t need to know I was here with no back up.

The cold air greets me as I climb out of the base and start to discreetly make my way back to the town to catch a train to the next city to catch a flight back to DC

I feel someone behind me and I sharply turn, dodging their hold and kicking them in the knee by instinct. I stop when I see who it is. But he doesn’t as he goes in for a punch, I dodge and use his shield to propel myself backwards to get some distance between us.

“Steve! Don’t sneak up on a spy like that, you’re gonna get yourself killed.” I reach a hand down and he takes it as he gets back up on both feet.

He frowns under his helmet but there is no recognition in his eyes. I remember than the veil is still on my face so I peel it off and undo my hair.

“Y/N? What are you doing here?”

“Same as you,” I shrug.

“Did you come in with a team?” he asks concerned as he places his shield on his back. “Y/N where is your team? Did you not have back up?”

“I went in alone, okay?”

“Why would you do that?” Someone in his comms must have spoken because he turns away briefly. “I’m dealing with something but south west is clear.”

“It was just intel retrieval. Nothing big.”

“It’s you vs HYDRA, that’s not enough. Did you even have an extraction plan?”

“I was gonna take a train to Bucharest and then a plane back to DC.”

He gives me a what the fuck were you thinking look. “You ride back home with us. But for now… care to join us?”

I smirk. “How could I refuse?” We enter the compound to take down more HYDRA agents. As Steve kicks down an agent Strucker runs into us.

“Baron Strucker. Hydra’s number one thug,” Steve says, circling the man.

“Technically I’m a thug for SHIELD,” he retorts.

“Well then technically you’re unemployed. Where’s Loki’s sceptre?”

“Don’t worry, I know when I’m beat. You’ll mention how I cooperated, I hope,” he surrenders immediately. Suspiciously.

I frown and see the flowing red eyes in the shadows.

“I’ll put it right under illegal human experimentation. How many are there-”

“Cap!” I warn but it’s too late as Wanda hits him with a red surge of energy that knocks him down the stairs.

I’m ready in case Wanda comes for me but she doesn’t, just exiting the place and closing the door behind her.

“We have a second enhanced. Female. Do not engage,” Steve says into his comms as he runs back up the stairs.

“You’ll have to be faster than that–“ I hit Strucker with a disc and he convulses as he falls.

“I love those things,” I remark.

Steve chuckles then picks Strucker up. “Guys, I’ve got Strucker.”

“Want me to keep looking for the sceptre?” I offer.

He nods. “I’ll take Strucker, you find Tony. Nat and Bruce are still on the field but Thor and Clint are on the jet.” At my confused look it’s like he read my mind. “Clint got hurt. But he’ll pull through.” He turns into his comms. “Tony, Y/N’s coming to you.” Steve gives me his communicator and leaves with Strucker.

I go back to the level where the twins were to start looking for Stark.

“Mr. Stark this is Agent – well former agent Y/N L/N, are you able to give me your 20?”

“Well, I found the sceptre. Bringing it up with me now. I was at the south corridor and I found a secret doorway.” I follow where he says, remembering the map I saw on the tablet. “Nice to meet you, former agent.”

“I’m nice to meet, Mr. Stark.”

“I like you.” He taps something on his bracelet and his armour envelopes him.

“Is that it?”

“Yep. Pretty underwhelming, huh?” he seems out of breath… shaken.

“Are you alright, Stark?”

“I’m fine,” he responds all too quickly.

“Let’s get to the jet,” I follow the coordinates that Steve sent me on my phone and the Avengers are all there waiting.

Natasha smiles as she sees me. “What a surprise,” she says going in for a hug as Stark hands the sceptre to Thor and starts up the engine.

“Whatcha doin’ all the way out here?” Clint rasps.

“I could ask you the same thing old man,” I lightly joke, weary of his injury.

“Who you callin’ old? We got a thousand year old and a hundred year old on board.”

“Alright, ease up before you hurt yourself even more,” Natasha says as she gives him a sedative.

Once Clint was passed out and secure I take a seat with Nat next to me.

“So what are you doing here?” she asks.

“Same as you.”

Raising a brow she sighs. “Don’t tell me Fury’s still working you?”

“Of course he is. We have to take down the rest of HYDRA.”

“That’s our job, now.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, you’re doing great just invading countries that already hate you and wrecking historical sites. Top notch spy work.”

“Not a spy anymore, Y/N and neither are you,” she retorts.

Steve enters our conversation, standing tall with his arms crossed. “What do you mean?”

“See, you don’t even do your research before you go in. What happened to knowing your enemy?” I ask them both.

“Last I checked our enemies were people we thought were friends so I think we know them pretty well,” Steve replies.

“The two enhanced?” I counter. “What do you know about them?”

“What do you?” Stark asks.

I smirk. “So nothing?” I pull out the tablet that miraculously did not take any damage. I turn it on and find the file on the twins. “They’re called the Maximoff twins; Wanda and Pietro. They were orphaned at 10 years old when a shell hit their civilian apartment in the Novi Grad Bombings. Sokovia has been in the middle of a rebellion for years now. They don’t like you guys very much. Wanda has… special abilities. Neuroelectric interfacing, telekinesis, mental manipulation,” at confused faces I simplify. “She can move things with her mind and read yours. The latter, she has kept from Strucker.”

“So how do you know about it?” Stark asks.

“Because I spoke to her,” I shrug. “I know she can read minds because she knew I wasn’t the doctor I took the identity of.”

“You got in proximity with them?”

I nod.

“You know how dangerous that is, Y/N? You could have gotten killed, going in there like that, all alone. Did anyone else know where you were?” Steve demands.

“Okay, one, I wasn’t alone, I had my weapons.” He rolls his eyes. “Two, that’s classified.”

“There isn’t a SHIELD anymore, Y/N. Information isn’t classified.”

“Then I’m not telling.”

“Why not?” Nat asks.

“Because you’ll yell at me.”

Steve presses two fingers on the bridge of his nose and huffs, knowing the answer.

“What about the other one? Pietro?” Stark asks.

“He’s just really fast.”

We land on the helipad at Stark tower and Helen Cho and Hill take Clint to patch him up. Steve asks about Strucker and we get the news that NATO has him and it’s all in all mission accomplished.

💖

Chapter 7

Thank you for reading everyone!

#marvel #mcu #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #reader #series rewrite #reader insert #you #Steve Rogers #steve rogers x platonic!reader #wanda maximoff #best friends with Wanda #winter soldier

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thedannyphantomcookbook · 3 years

Text

The Phantom Origins

Okay, so I know probably a bunch of people have already done this, but I wanted to rewrite Danny Phantom, from just before he got his powers to maybe when he tells his parents.

I’m tired of waiting for a reboot that may never come, so here is what I picture the reboot would look like.

I’ve always thought it would be darker and more horrific, that the ghosts he fights are more monstrous and demonic.

That there would be a little bit more of a medical concern for Danny’s humanity being affected by his ghost half. Is he becoming more ghost like? Is he gradually getting sicker and sicker, and his ghost DNA ravages through his body like cancer?

Would Vlad be not only a sexist, creepy, abusive old man, but contains a thirst for deception and power that he poses a real, apocalyptic threat on Earth and the ghost zone?

Are ghosts actually the spirits of the dead? Or are they a different breed of human that lives in a completely separate dimension, that’s is layered and hidden within ours?

What about Danny’s mental health. He has to keep this big secret from his parents because he absolutely FEARS what would happen if they found it to the point he’s scared they wouldn’t believe he was their son and try to kill him as a result, or keep him hostage in the basement, slowly torturing him and dissecting him until he’s dead? What would the world think of him? A prophet? A demon? Would they accuse his parents for experimenting on their own children? He would have so much fear and anxiety that he’d have to be on edge all the time, falling into depression, panic attacks - not to mention the PTSD he’d get from it all while battle nightmarish monsters and the hanging question over his head of what he is now.

These are just SOME of the questions I’ve had that Butch Hartman will never answer. He set up such a great plot and characters but carried it out pretty poorly over the show (which may or may not be his fault since they wanted to keep it kid friendly.)

I hope to get into the deep and dark and nitty gritty details of Danny Phantom we’ve imagined but never get to see. I wrote the first chapter below, and I plan to write much more. :)

I hope you guys enjoy it!

Follow me over at Ao3

Summary:

Dr. Madelyn Fenton and her husband, Dr. Jackson Fenton, have just built the world's first portal to the Ghost Zone - an alternate dimension where undead linger for all eternity. The only problem is no one believes in what they are doing. The townspeople call them the Fenton Freaks and the rejection letters from the National Science Foundation are piling up. Not even their own children can tolerate their ghost obsession. Their 14 year old son, Danny, does what he can to separate himself from his parents. Mocked by his peers and judged by his teachers, he keeps his head down and stays out of the spotlight.

It comes as no surprise to Danny when his parents' machine fails to work on the first test run. Discouraged, they leave empty handed for the weekend to go to the Ghost Hunter's Expo, where they were expected to present their portal during their panel. As soon as his parents leave, Danny invites his friends over to give a tour of yet another one of his parents' failed experiments. When he gets dared to walk inside the machine, he triggers something that turns it back on, and for the first time ever, his parents have an invention that works. But that's the least of the surprises when Danny emerges from the portal himself...

To Whom It May Concern,

To the esteemed members of the National Science Foundation, myself, Dr. Madelyn Fenton, PhD., and my husband, Dr. Jackson Fenton, PhD., write to you today to consider us for the New Exploratory Scientific Research Grant Award. Our combined decades worth of research within paranormal scientific research fields have led us to believe that the “ghost” entities that haunt our very Earth, could in fact be the missing link to creating new technology, curing human illnesses, and prolonging human life on Earth.

The term “ghosts” is defined as a religious or spiritual being, or the hypothetical soul of the human body, separated from physical forms, usually that of a person recently deceased. Dr. Jackson Fenton and myself have a different theory about the “ghostly” entities that visit our Earth. We have sufficient evidence to prove that ghosts are in fact not the spirits of the dead, but an entirely new species of the human race. We believe they exist in an alternate dimension - a separate plane of existence that is not unlike ours. Recent developments have also shown the possibility of dimensional travel - we believe ghosts are able to pass through into our plane of existence for a temporary amount of time. Through our rigorous research, construction, and experimentation, Dr. Jackson Fenton and myself have created what would be a “portal” to this plane of existence, to the “Ghost Zone.” By exploring and studying the ghost zone, we could collect a limitless amount of research and data that could be used to benefit humanity for the rest of our existence.

We have provided within our application our twenty years of research and development, along with video recordings of our experiments as evidence of our work in progress, as we humbly request your consideration for the New Exploratory Scientific Research Grant Award.

Sincerely,

Dr. Madelyn Fenton, PhD. in Quantum Physics and Paranormal Studies

Dr. Jackson Fenton, PhD. in Theoretical Science and Paranormal Studies

From the Grants and Admissions Office of the National Science Foundation

To Dr. Madelyn Fenton and Dr. Jackson Fenton,

Thank you for your interest in applying for the New Exploratory Scientific Research Grant Award. The New Exploratory Scientific Research Grant Award (NESRGA) is an esteemed scholarship opportunity that looks to provide funding for ground-breaking scientific research to scientists working within small and local laboratories. After carefully reviewing your application and research, we have come to the regretful decision to decline your request to receive the NESRGA.

We unfortunately could not approve your request due to the following issues:

Insufficient or lack thereof evidence or proof of scientific research of ghostly entities and/or undiscovered species, the “Ghost Zone” dimension in which these entities exist, or possible travel to said “Ghost Zone.”

Insufficient of lack thereof peer review research and laboratory data.

Paranormal entities and alternative dimensional research is not recognized under the National Science Foundation as factual scientific work.

We are thrilled to hear that you share such enthusiasm, passion, and ambition in the pursuit of scientific exploration, research and development. You are a part of a wonderful community, and through your tireless efforts, you will help bring our Earth into the future.

We welcome you to apply for the NESRGA again next year.

Sincerely,

Barbara Keaton,

Director of Grants and Admissions

National Science Foundation

GHOST HUNTERS EXPO - THIS LABOR DAY WEEKEND

To Drs. Maddie and Jack Fenton,

We are excited to have you return to speak at the Ghost Hunters Expo this coming labor day weekend. We have reviewed your Ghost Zone Theory and we anticipate your presentation of your research.

Please note: due to new regulations we cannot allow the following into the convention center:

Ecto-infused food, inanimate objects, or animal mutations of any kind.

Alarm or defense systems that release a form of knock out gas, ectoplasmic goo, ectoplasmic foam, spoiled meats, or live rodents. All alarms and defense systems must be turned off while inside the convention center.

Samplings or gifts of homemade cookies or other food, beverages, or gifts to bribe the judges.

Disclosed weapons that are not a part of your presentation and/or not approved by the convention prior (we will have metal detections at all entry points of the convention hall)

Asking for audience volunteers unless approved by us prior your scheduled presentation time.

Ghost claims targeted towards convention guests, judges, or other presenters.

All presentations and inventions must have been tested and approved by a judge prior to your presentation time (i.e. no last minute or surprise inventions).

Fighting or displays of physical aggression.

Destruction of convention hall equipment, the building’s foundation itself, or other presenters equipment and or inventions.

We thank you in advance for your compliance and full understanding of the new regulations.

We look forward to seeing you!

Best,

Trevor Martin

Ghost Hunters Expo Coordinator

“Did you see this?” Jack Fenton asked, waving the notice from the Ghost Hunters Expo. He scoffed. “New regulations...I wonder who were the bimbos that made them enforce these rules.” He crumbled up the notice and threw it carelessly on the floor.

“How’s that portal coming, sweet cheeks?” he asked his wife.

Maddie Fenton was deep within a hexagon shaped chamber carved out of her laboratory converted basement wall. The interior was lined with a colorful array of wires and tiny blinking lights. At the end of the chamber, sheets of metal and hardware fanned in on itself. Maddie was kneeled on the floor, wrestling with a few cords.

“I’m just struggling to connect these last couple of wires,” she answered, pinching the two cords together. With a last bit of strain, the cords connected with a satisfying click.

Wiping the sweat off her brow, she came out of the chamber. “Hopefully that will stabilize the gravitational pull of the Ghost Zone once we get the portal running.” She briefly thought back to a dark memory from their college days when their first Ghost Zone prototype had malfunctioned and the toxins from the Ghost Zone leaked out of the portal, resulting in displacing one of her lab partners for the remainder of their college career.

“We got it this time, baby,” Jack said confidently. “There is no way we could make the same mistake twice.”

Maddie sighed as she walked over to the control panel to record the ecto-readings. “I just wish we knew for certain what had gone wrong that day. All of this guess work is driving me crazy.” She picked up her notebook and briefly reviewed her meticulously hand written notes before adjusting some dials.

“Okay,” she huffed, satisfied. “I think we’re ready for a test run.”

Jack clapped his hands. “Excellent! I’ll go grab the kids!” He ran to the basement steps and shouted, “Jazzy-pants! Danny! Get down here!”

A few minutes later both of their teenage children shuffled down the basement steps.

“Is this gonna take long?” Danny asked, disinterestedly. “Tucker and I were in the middle of planning our next battlefield strategies for Doomed. There’s only a few days left of summer vacation and we still have so much planning to do if we want to beat the other online players and achieve the seven Keys of Destiny.”

“And I was in the middle of an important breakthrough in my self therapeutic psychology research,” their daughter, Jazz promptly stated. In her hands she clutched an open copy anxiety and phobias workbook. “Did you know that high functioning anxiety in adulthood is caused by childhood trauma from never feeling safe in your own home? This would explain so much about me and Danny -” she paused in her speech when she saw the machine her parents were working on.

“Oh, no.” She snapped her book shut and pinched the flesh between her eyes. “ Please do not tell me you called us down here to witness another one of your experiments. Don’t you remember what happened last time?”

“Oh, Jazz, relax,” Maddie said, waving her off. “Those burn marks from the last ectoplasmic gun experiment healed eventually. And look!” She walked over to a closet in the back of the room and pulled out two polyester jumpsuits. “We made you both your own custom fitted, lab safe, jumpsuits!”

Jack appeared beside Maddie. “And we matched them with ours! Jazzy-pants, yours is teal to match your mother’s. And Danny, yours would have matched mine but the store didn’t have orange.” he held out a plain white jumpsuit with black gloves and boots.

“And I haven’t even shown you two the best parts!” he grabbed the jumpsuits from Maddie and spun them around. Crudely pressed onto the fabric of the jumpsuit was a cutout of Jack Fenton’s smiling face, emblazoned on the chest.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Jack grinned.

Jazz was the first to respond. “Dad there is no way you’re going to get me to wear that,” she said while backing away and shaking her head. “How about Danny and I will just go upstairs and you can call us down after you’ve tested it? That way we’ll be safe and not have to wear those hideous jumpsuits.”

Danny silently agreed with her while struggling to conceal his own disgust at the suits. It was one thing to be forced to wear a jumpsuit like his parents but it was an entirely different level of lame to have to wear his father’s face across his chest. What if his parents insisted he wore it all the time, like they did? Involuntary images of him becoming the laughing stock at his new high school was surfacing in his mind, more than he already was for being the son of the city’s eccentric ghost hunting husband and wife team. He was already struggling to stay above the pathetic nerd social ring in his class. They’d have to create an entirely new category of nerd just for him if he wore that suit. The thought of it made him want to crawl away in a hole and be left there to die.

“Mom, Dad, I have to agree with Jazz,” Danny said. “The suits are kinda...lame.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Maddie dismissed. “These jumpsuits are the latest fashion that every ghost hunter wants.”

“And when we reveal these babies with my face on them, everyone will be scrambling for one. We’ll be rich!” Jack stated proudly.

Jazz snorted. “Um, I somehow doubt that. Look, we’ll just go back upstairs and you two can let us know when it’s safe, okay?” She looped a hand around Danny’s arm and started pulling him away.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Jack clamped a hand on both of them and spun them back around. “You two are being given the chance to witness scientific history! And we are not going to let you pass up on this.” He tossed the jumpsuits to Jazz and Danny. They unwillingly caught them.

Jazz glowered at Danny. “If you take any photos and post them on the internet, I will kill you.”

Danny held out his suit reproachfully. His dad’s smiling face seemed to be laughing at him, like all of the students as Casper High will be if they ever found out about this.

“Don’t worry about it.”

A few minutes later, Jazz and Danny stood alongside their parents in their matching jumpsuits. Jazz stood with her arms crossed, silently fuming, her foot tapping impatiently. At her mother’s insistence, Jazz was forced to tuck in her long, red hair and wear the hair sealing head cover and thick, dark eye protection goggles that came with it. At equal height, Jazz and Maddie were identical in their suits.

At least Danny couldn’t match his dad. Jack’s suit was bright orange and about twenty sizes larger than Danny’s, due to his father’s obsession with Maddie’s homemade fudge and cookie inventions. Danny’s own white suit was slightly too large for him, and hung in odd places due to his skinny frame. He didn’t have to wear a hood and goggles like his sister either - another thankful shortage from the ghost hunter’s clothing warehouse. He picked at his dad’s pressed on face design on his chest as he waited for his parents to get the machine ready for its test run. His dad had tried ironing it on, but had done it poorly, so that with a bit of a tug, it was already beginning to peel off.

Jack and Maddie Fenton ran back and forth across the lab, double checking last minute calculations. Machines whirred and beeped around them, the hum of electricity warm in the stagnant air.

Danny had a good idea of how this was going to go. If this would be like any of their past experiments, it would fail miserably. The experiment would go haywire, probably spout ectoplasmic goo everywhere or accidentally giving ecto energy to the nearest food item. One year, their parents had tried making the Christmas Turkey in their newly invented Ultra-fast Instant Pot and instead infused it with demonic ghostly energy and reanimated it. Danny remembered hiding underneath the kitchen table as Jazz had to beat it back with a pastry roller, screaming for their parents.

The ghost zone portal was their most ambitious project yet. For most of Danny’s life, they had dinner table discussions, weighing mathematical equations and scientific chemical balances in hopes of being able to one day engineer the world’s first ghost zone portal. He was fairly surprised when he found out at the beginning of the summer that they were finally constructing it, and even more so when they claimed last night it was completed. They had been rushing to get it done in time to present it at the Ghost Hunters Expo this weekend.

He glanced at the table beside him looking at the pile of papers his dad had haphazardly stacked among the beakers and ghost weapons. Sitting on top of the stack was the rejection letter from the National Science Foundation.

“It means that they don’t think what they’re doing is science,” Jazz had interpreted for Danny after reading it when their parents’ back was turned. “And who could blame them? There is zero evidence supporting the existence of ghosts. It’s just superstition.”

That’s all it was. Superstition. And yet, his parents had at some point in their youth latched on to the idea that ghosts were more than a myth, and even though they’ve never actually seen one in person themselves, they were determined to prove ghosts were real. What amazed Danny the most is the amount of people who also believed in the same theory. In the years past when his parents had dragged him and Jazz to the Ghost Hunter’s Expo, the crowds always seemed to grow bigger and bigger. Scientists, hunters, enthusiasts, and even ghost cosplayers gathered under the same roof for a full weekend, exchanging theories, stories and footage of what they thought were ghosts. The most ridiculous rumor he had heard at the last ghost hunter’s convention was one of a young, blue haired female musician, who became an overnight sensation after one performance at a local carnival. She had also disappeared quite suddenly after the performance, which raised a lot of speculation. Ghost hunters claimed her unusually pale skin and hypnotic vocals were a part of her ghostly powers. Jazz had stated that it was simply because she was a successful female in the patriarchy they had to deem her as a ghost to explain it.

Danny didn’t want to say anything else after that.

“Jack,” Maddie called from across the room, typing away at a computer. “Did you remember to pour in the ecto-purifier?”

“On it, baby!” Jack cried while fumbling with a control panel. Danny watched as grabbed a can of diet cola, which sat next to the similar sized gray cylinder labeled “EP.”

“Uh, Dad?” Danny called. “I don’t think that’s the ecto-purifier.”

“What’s that?” Jack asked. He turned to look at the object in his hand and barked out a chuckle.

“Thanks, son! That was a close one.” He placed the can of diet cola down and picked up the correct cylinder. “Who knows what would have happened if we purified the toxic ghost energies with diet cola. Could you imagine?” He poured the bright green liquid into the appropriate chamber.

In the corner of his eye, Danny saw Jazz shake her head. “Idiot,” she whispered.

Jazz believed she was the only mature Fenton in the family. At some point during her high school career, she had decided it was up to her to convince her parents that ghosts were not real, and to force them to change their careers to something more normal or socially acceptable. She had tried to get them interested in just about any other scientific field she could think of, such as deep sea diving to discover creatures living on the ocean floor, to NASA’s space engineering program. When those didn’t work, she tried to build a case proving the psychological damage they were causing to her’s and Danny’s upbringing. Over the summer, when she wasn’t preparing herself for the SATs she’d have to take later that school year, she poured over every psychological book she could get her hands on from the library. No matter how many times she argued about the permanent damage her parents were inflicting on their amygdala by creating an unsafe environment for her and Danny to grow up in, their parents would say it’s all worth it for the sake of scientific advancement.

Danny tried desperately to stay out of their fights. Most days, he was too focused on trying to survive a day without being called “that ghost geek” by his peers, no matter how many times he told his classmates he didn’t believe in his parents’ work. Maybe it was because of his small, bony limbs that made it so easy for his classmates to mock him. Or the fact that his only two friends in the entire world were also considered a variety of nerd within the social climate. His best friend Tucker was a little too obsessed with the latest technology and his other friend, Samanatha - Sam for short - was the only school’s goth girl, who filled her entire personality and outlook with dark and depressing outfits and literature. In a weird way, it did make sense that the girl who loved to read about the dead, and the boy who loved technology, would want to be friends with the kid whose parents called themselves ghost scientists. Still, they were his best friends and he wouldn’t trade them for anyone else.

He had been telling them about the portal his parents were building all summer. Just like he was, his friends were also doubtful it would work. They deliberated about what the inventions would actually do. Tucker still brought up the time Danny’s parents were testing out an anti-ghost gravity spray, to temporarily make a ghost lose their flight ability. The morning they were testing it out, Danny had woken up in a hovering bed. It had shocked him so much, he fell off his bed and face-planted onto his bedroom floor, breaking his nose. At some point, Tucker and Sam started placing bets about the outcome.

“Maybe the portal will just blast a hole through the wall and you’ll send up in the Amity Park Sewer System,” Sam guessed last night after he told them his parents were getting ready for their first test.

“Bet you five bucks that Danny will lose all of his hair this time,” Tucker had joked.

He absentmindedly ran a hand through his exposed hair and briefly wished he had a head cover and goggles like Jazz. He couldn’t help but notice there was something different about his parents this time. They didn’t have the same, bubbly and excited energy they usually had when showing off a new invention. They seemed more focused this time. Even his dad’s goofy banter towards Maddie had taken a back seat as his dad frowned over the controls. It was weird to see his dad actually concentrating. Maybe it was the hundredth rejection letter they received from the National Science Foundation, or the pressure to present this weekend at the Expo, but it seemed like they were seriously trying to make this thing work. They did not want to fail.

“Okay everyone!” Maddie ran over and started waving her hands. “Backs up against the wall.”

Jazz sighed and turned to walk over to stand behind the boxed in yellow line, the “safe” spot in the lab. Danny thought a metal containment center with a viewing screen would have kept them safer, but supposedly his parents didn’t have time to build one. Danny followed his mother and sister.

“Almost…” Jack muttered at the controls, typing away. Suddenly there was a loud click that echoed off the basement walls. Machines roared to life and lights winked on. Inside the portal, the metal fans began to spin.

“YES!” Jack punched the air, triumphant.

“Jack!” Maddie called to her husband, gesturing towards the safe zone. He jogged over and squeezed himself in between his two kids.

“This is it!” he shouted over the noise, which was gradually becoming deafening.

All around the room, machines and computers turned on. Attached beakers and graduated cylinders filled up with green, bubbling liquid. A wall lined with dialers bounced up and down. Puffs of smoke expelled out of exhaust pipes. The portal itself began to crackle with electricity, its interior fans spinning faster and faster until it started emitting a bright green glow. The pressure in the room changed, popping Danny’s ears. He felt the tips of his hair begin to rise with the electric waves.

The whirring of the fans inside the machine began to ring out a high pitch squeal as the machine glowed brighter, and brighter, blinding Danny’s naked eyes. He squinted and held out a hand over his eyes, peeking through his fingers. The air around them grew warm and staticky. His father clamped a hand tightly on Danny’s shoulder, as if to hold him back from running away.

It was working. Danny couldn’t believe it. Not once in all of their years of inventing ghost machines and hunting equipment, they may have actually been able to build something that worked like they wanted it to.

What would this mean? That ghosts actually existed? That his parents were not the crackpot fools the town took them for? And if they did exist, there was the one question that no one has been able to answer.

Were ghosts dangerous?

He looked up at Jazz. Her expression was unreadable through the head covering. He looked at his parents, wild and furious excitement in their eyes.

Then, when it seemed like Danny’s ears couldn’t take much more of the screeching noise, a BOOM exploded from the portal. Light poured out of the machine and flooded the room. Danny yelped and turned away. Jack stepped in front of his family and hid them with his massive torso from the explosion. Then, very suddenly, the room went dark. Every light and machine that had been just buzzing with life, died. Danny’s hearing rang in the abrupt silence.

“What the heck?” Jack was the first to say something.

“I got a flashlight, hang on,” Maddie said next. Danny heard her fumbling around her utility belt and a small light winked on. She shined it around the room. Curls of smoke rose up from the machines. The glow from the ecto-purifier had also faded.

“I don’t understand,” Maddie said, dumbfounded as she gazed around the room. “This should have worked.”

“We checked every calculation,” Jack said, equally mystified.

“And tested every single machine.” She threw up her hands. “I even made sure the damn computers turned on!”

“Well, obviously, this wasn’t going to work,” Jazz suddenly said, her anger returning. “You guys were trying to open a portal to nothing . Because ghosts don’t EXIST.”

She ripped off the hood and goggles. “I’m going back upstairs to change and burn this stupid jumpsuit, and work on processing this trauma that you have inflicted on us, yet again.” Without waiting for her parents to respond, she stomped back upstairs, her footsteps echoing off the silent basement walls

Jack shook his head. “What is her deal?”

“Oh, never mind her, Jack,” Maddie said. “We need to figure out what went wrong. We only have a day until the expo and we promised to present this.”

Danny’s parents turned their back on him and began working to restore the power, jumping right into a deep discussion. Danny took the moment to quietly slip away back upstairs.

The second he was back into his room, he let out a long exhale. Suddenly remembering he was wearing the jumpsuit, he hastily ripped it off and then threw it in the trash bin in the corner of his room.

He flopped back onto his bed, and lay in the stillness of his room for a few minutes to collect his thoughts. He stared up at the plastic, glow in the dark stars and planets stuck on his ceiling.

He couldn’t believe there was a moment back there where he thought the machine was working.

He didn’t want to imagine what would happen if ghosts were real. There were no real scientific facts about them. All those convention attendees at the ghost hunters expo all had different theories about what ghosts are - the religiously damned, aliens, spirits with unfinished business, souls that died before their time, another species - no one could settle on a single argument.

But if they did exist, what would happen then? Would they swarm the Earth, like cicadas after their years long sleep? Would they haunt each and every home and building in towns and cities, and try to claim it as their own? Would the world be plunged into a ghost apocalypse, where every human had to fight for their own human survival and soul? Were ghosts malicious or peaceful?

His parents might be arrested for creating the portal in the first place, if it did turn out bad. Or the government might force them to work alongside them to rid the Earth of the ghost population. What would happen to him and Jazz? Would they be put into juvie, just for being the kids of the Fenton Freaks? Would they be put into foster care, once the government decided Jack and Maddie were unfit parents for him and Jazz?

What if the human population adopted a sick fascination of ghosts? Businesses would try to profit off the ghosts by selling fake anti-ghost protection devices or offer tours inside “haunted” houses. There might even be a community in which some would fall in love or even want to become a ghost themselves.

The world would become absolute chaos.

Danny shuddered at the thought. He didn’t understand what his parents saw in trying to prove their existence. What good would proving the undead existed bring to the world?

His anxious, spiraling thoughts were interrupted when his computer dinged. Danny got up and sat down at his desk. He wiggled his mouse to wake up his computer. Tucker had sent him a message.

Still have all of your hair?

Danny chuckled and wrote back.

Yep. Nothing happened though. But the power in the basement blew.

Damn , was Tucker’s response. And I had just invested in a 25 pack of markers to color your head in Lancer’s class when you fall asleep.

Danny laughed out loud. I can only imagine all the pensises you’d draw.

I had planned no less than 50. Two for each color.

Well I hope you kept your receipt cause I still have a full head of hair. Unlike you. Danny made a jab at Tucker’s own buzzed haircut. He had tried growing out dreads for the school year, but his mother forced him to shave it off after he got caught staying up on the computer way too late one night. She paid the barber to give him a military buzz cut.

Shut up, dude, Tucker typed back. While you were away not getting your hair fried off your scalp, I was devising up a new battle plan to defeat Chaos.

Danny smiled. Oh yeah? Lay it on me.

#danny phantom #phantomorigins #phantom #ghosts #nickelodeon #fanfiction #danny fenton #half ghost #sam manson #tucker foley #jack fenton #maddie fenton #jazz fenton #dannyphantomfanfiction #Phanfiction #ao3 #ao3 danny phantom

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jackdawyt · 4 years

Video

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Today I’m continuing my new mini-series paving the road for the anticipated release of the next Dragon Age game. Through these videos, I’ll be delving into very particular honed-in lore and plot threads that are rather telling for the future narrative of Dragon Age.

Last episode I discussed the blighted mineral known as Red Lyrium as it spreads throughout the land, tainting everything it touches, wreaking havoc on the eco-system of Thedas. However, today we have a subjectively worse rival that already has plans for Thedas and its people.

A most prideful, hot-headed fool lingers. One who you could consider to be an enemy, friend or lover. But ultimately, and most importantly, he’s a man who in the end is sorry, and believes he’s only doing what he must for the sake of his people. Of course, we talking about Solas and his plans for Thedas.

In order for us to look forward regarding what Solas’ future scheme may entail; we’ve got to recollect everything that has been instrumental in his plan to restore the elvhen kingdom by destroying the Veil.

“Cry havoc in the moonlight, let the fire of vengeance burn, the cause is clear.” (Solas, DA:I).

Solas comes from a time when everything sang the same. A time before the Veil was created. When the ancient elven kingdom of Arlathan flourished. Elves were seen as immortal, powerful mages that ruled the lands. The most impressive of their kind were the Evanuris, whom the Dalish call "The Creators".

The Creators

“Long ago, there were two clans of gods. The Creators looked after the People. The Forgotten Ones preyed upon us. And one god who was neither. Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf. He was kin to the Creators, and in the days of old, often helped them with their endless war against the Forgotten Ones.” (Merril, DA2).

The Evanuris “were said to bestow all life's gifts and dole out its punishments” (WoT V.1). The pantheon consisted of nine “gods”:

Elgar'nan: God of Vengeance

Mythal: the Great Protector

Falon'Din: Friend of the Dead, the Guide

Dirthamen: Keeper of Secrets

Andruil: Goddess of the Hunt

Sylaise: the Hearthkeeper

June: God of the Craft

Ghilan'nain: Mother of the Halla

Fen'Harel: The Dread Wolf

“Fen’Harel was clever. He could walk among both clans of gods without fear, and both believed he was one of them.” (Merril, DA2).

While it’s unclear what exactly happened, the Elven Pantheon declared war on anyone who dare oppose them.

"It started with a war. War breeds fear. Fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Chains of command. After the war ended, generals became respected elders, then kings, then finally gods. The Evanuris." (Solas, DA:I).

Codex entries point to a longing feud with both the Titans and the Forgotten Ones:

“One day Andruil grew tired of hunting mortal men and beasts. She began stalking The Forgotten Ones, wicked things that thrive in the abyss.” (Codex entry: Elven God Andruil).

"Hail Mythal, adjudicator and savior! She has struck down the pillars of the earth and rendered their demesne unto the People! Praise her name forever!" (Codex entry: Veilfire Runes in the Deep Roads).

Regardless of who or what was defeated, the Evanuris were victorious in their conquest. This triumph was the beginning of the pantheons’ corruption - with their hubris - the Evanuris became a villainous tyranny.

In their lust for power, members of the Evnauris plotted against Mythal and killed her. This act would bring forth the elven kingdoms doom known as “the Betrayal.”

The Betrayal

“You said the elven gods went too far. What did they do that made you move against them?” (Inquisitor).

“They killed Mythal. She was the best of them. She cared for her people. She protected them. She was a voice of reason. And in their lust for power, they killed her.”

A crime for which an eternity of torment is the only fitting punishment. (Solas).

This chain of events set Solas’ scheme in motion – to avenge Mythal and right the Evanuris’ wrongdoings.

Solas rebelled against the pantheon, he worked to free slaves bound by vallaslin, granting them sanctuary from their tyrannical masters.

He created the Veil, a magical barrier that separated the foundations of magic that Arlathan was built on. The Veil’s creation brought destruction to the Elvhen, countless marvels reliant on the Fade crumbled, the people lost their immortality and the majority of their magic.

Then Solas banished each of the Evnauris to the Beyond, where they linger forever in torment.

This was the great quickening that the Dalish elves in Thedas still believe today. The disarrayment and destruction of the elven empire. However, ‘twas not Tevinter, nor the pride of mortal man who destroyed the elves.

A few even claim their ancestors were immortal, and it was only the arrival of humans- "shemlen" or "quicklings” that brought death to the "elvhen" people. (WoT V.1).

It was indeed Solas who destroyed the elvhen world.

"It was not the arrival of humans that caused us to begin aging. It was me. The Veil took everything from the elves, even themselves.” (Solas, DA:I)

After creating the Veil, Solas fell into a deep slumber.

"I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke still weak a year before I joined you." (Solas, DA:I).

Having slept for many years, Solas awoke. He witnessed the transition of his proud and immortal people, now reduced to the fringes of human society.

Once the greatest empire in Thedas, now a cluster of baboons with a false understanding of their existence. They spread false tales of the Evanuris’ feud, praising the false gods, and condemning Fen’Harel. Wearing vallaslin as worship, without realising their slave mark origin.

The elves today can’t even speak the same complexities of their old language, while the remains of Arlathan are nothing but a shallow husk, its memory long since gone, along with the majority of magic.

“My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down, but still some hope remains for restoration. I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die.” (Solas, DA:I).

While the blame falls to Solas for the elven people’s decimation, what the Evanuris had planned would’ve destroyed the entire world. Solas believed creating the Veil was the lesser of two evils.

“Had I not created the Veil the Evanuris would have destroyed the entire world.” (Solas, DA:I).

While Solas woke up still weak, he has plans to restore the elven people to their former glory. Originally, Solas planned to use his orb of destruction to destroy the Veil, re-establishing the world of his time. However, his slumber had made him too weak to unlock the orb, so using his agents, Solas indirectly gave his orb to Corypheus.

Corypheus, being an ancient and powerful darkspawn would then unlock the orb and die in the resulting explosion. However, that didn’t happen.

Instead, Corypheus uncovered the secrets of effective immortality, and the Inquisitor was the one who gained the orb’s power – the Anchor.

The Anchor

As a result, Solas joined the Inquisition with the sole purpose of defeating Corypheus and getting his unlocked orb back, so he could resume his plan to destroy the Veil. (which explains why he knew so much about the Anchor in the first place).

Of course, this plan too was unsuccessful because the orb was destroyed by failing rocks with the defeat of Corypheus. However, Solas did not expect to find someone he could relate to, as much as he did with the Inquisitor.

“You change everything.” (Solas, DA:I).

He cared for this world, and some of the people in it. And that truly surprised him. But that vulnerability is only going to make his plan harder. No matter how much the Inquisitor tried to sway him, Solas walks the journey of death, he would not have anyone close to him see what he will become.

“I walk the dinan'shiral. There is only death on this journey. I would not have you see what I become.” (Solas, DA:I).

If the Veil is successfully destroyed, the Evanuris (and whatever else lingers in the Beyond) will be released, after suffering years of torment. With their freedom, surely, they’ll unleash havoc on Thedas once again, exacting revenge at the one responsible for their imprisonment.

"Wouldn't the false gods be free?" (The Inquisitor, DA:I).

"I had plans." (Solas, DA:I).

In order for Solas to grant Mythal vengeance, he will need to silence the Evanuris for good. For this plan, Solas has taken an aspect of Mythal’s power so he can rise as the Dread Wolf.

The Dread Wolf

With that power now invested, Solas can transform into the Dread Wolf. In this form, the wolf is “lupine in appearance, but the size of a high dragon, with shaggy spiked hide and six burning eyes like a pride demon.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 496).

Solas as the Dread Wolf has taken residence in the Fade where spirits and demons serve him willingly. He has an enigmatic ritual for the Fade that has been set in motion. Since his orb’s destruction, Solas has been looking at other alternatives for tearing down the Veil.

“As the Avvar do. But whatever fear the name Dread Wolf carries, he has earned. While we might visit the Fade, it is his natural home, and the spirits there serve him gladly. They whisper in my dreams now, accusing me of crimes I never.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 498).

Currently, Solas hunts the Red Lyrium Idol, which apparently belongs to him, and he has a purpose for it. Other than that, not much else is known about it, not even its location.

"The Dread Wolf wants that idol, and he’s not afraid to get his hands bloody to get it." (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 490).

“He intends something for the Fade, and if he wants the idol, then whatever he intends will be terrible.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 498).

Solas has always had a network of agents working for him behind the curtains. However, the length of Solas’s spies has greatly increased. Many of the Dalish Elves truly believe in Solas's cause and have joined his fight and even the Ancient Elves have been acquired for his schemes.

“And now we know that the Dread Wolf has agents working for him.” (The Bard, The Dread Wolf Take You).

The elves who haven’t joined his ranks have begun to call his army - “Fen’Harel cultists”

Fen’Harel Cultists

“Each one of those damned Fen’Harel cultists. ‘Ooh, if we blow up enough people, ancient Elvhenan is definitely coming back.’” She caught my questioning glance. “They tried to recruit me a few years ago. I said no.” (Half Up Front, page 470)

Solas’ agents, or cultists, whichever takes your liking, already tried to manipulate a war between the Qunari Ben-Hassrath and Tevinter kinsman. An agent of Fen’Harel placed a Tevinter rogue on Qunari lands as a bomb destroyed the Qun’s new darvaarad.

Fortunately, the Ben-Hassrath discovered this plot before it was too late. However, If this plan was successful, it would’ve caused immediate chaos for all of Thedas.

“A Tevinter altus, striking at a Qunari settlement that had yet to enter hostilities? Ben- Hassrath wouldn’t be able to sit the war out anymore. Utter and complete chaos.” I felt nauseous. What I’d almost done, almost been responsible for. (Half Up Front, page 478).

And finally, most recently in a desperate attempt to intercept Thedas’ top spy factions, Solas disguised himself as an Orlesian Bard with a blonde wig and all the trimmings.

Interception

An Executor, Carta Assassin, Mortalitasi Mage, Inquisition Spy and, of course, Solas were present.

He listened as each faction shared their knowledge on the Dread Wolf, before the Executor could speak, Solas killed them. Then he attempted to lie about his knowledge on the Wolf, but was quickly caught out.

He turned the Mortalitasi and Carta Assassin to stone, and revealed himself to the Inquisition Spy known as Chater.

Out of his disguise, Solas appeared tired and sad. He knows that many oppose him and that they are not fools. Telling the Inquisitor what he intended to do was a moment of weakness.

“He sighed. “It was a moment of weakness. I told myself that it was because you all deserved to know, to live a few years in peace before my ritual was complete. Before this world ended.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 506).

He admitted he’s prideful, hot-headed and foolish. Most importantly that he’s sorry for what is to come next.

“I am prideful, hotheaded, and foolish, and I am doing what I must. When you report back to the Inquisitor . . .” His voice faltered. “Say that I am sorry.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 506).

I’ve already addressed the most apparent plot points that regard Solas’s future scheme like the potential destruction of the Veil and dealing with the Evnauris. But other plot points linger that intertwine with Solas’s plan:

Solas's Ritual

As I already stated, Solas has started a ritual ongoing in the Fade with the help of spirits and demons. It’s a very ambiguous ritual, however, we do know that binding spirits and using blood magic undoes both the work that Solas has planned for the Fade, and the ritual that has been set in motion.

“And as clear as the Dread Wolf’s anger at what we had done— the Mortalitasi binding spirits he considered his own, the Tevinter mage using forbidden blood magic— was the feeling that we had disrupted his own work.” (The Dread Wolf Take You, Page 498).

Perhaps more of these types of magic is needed to disrupt his ritual? This would make the Mortalitasi and Tevinter Magisters great allies in the coming war.

The Inquisitor

Solas’ journey in modern day Thedas started with our Inquisitor, surely his journey should end with them too. The Inquisitor swore to either attempt to redeem or stop Solas, this narrative needs to reach its end. Will Solas and the Inquisitor reach a happy climax? Probably not, but that doesn’t mean our Inquisitor will easily give up. The two characters need closure to end their story for good.

Mythal’s Vengeance

I feel like I need to reiterate that Solas did not absorb Mythal’s spirt, he only took an aspect of her power before she placed a piece of herself in an eluvian, as she finds her next vessel. This means that whoever drank from the Well of Sorrows are still bound to Mythal, Solas did not possess or absorb her soul, she is still alive.

All Solas did, with Mythal willing, was absorb an unknown quantity of her power so he could rise as the Dread Wolf and fulfil her bidding to slay the rest of the pantheon. I truly believe Mythal has a greater scheme at play, and Solas has fallen ridicule to her, he’s blind sighted because of the bond they share, but I believe Mythal has darker intentions, and they’ll soon come to play once Solas destroys the Veil.

So, what does come next for Solas? There are a lot of future topics we’ve touched on, but all I can say is we should expect to see him transform into the most villainous Dread Wolf as he stops anyone who dare intercede with his scheme. Not only that, but he has an army of spirts and demons in the Fade, with his agents on the field in Thedas. The tensions are rising, perhaps soon enough we’ll witness the magic come back, as Solas rises to destroy the Veil. The Evanuris are too going to be out for vengeance, only time will tell if we can save our friend before it’s too late.

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imhereforbvcky · 4 years

Text

Watch Me Run - Part 14

Masterlist - Series Masterpage - Part 15

Summary: You inherit a family relic that gives you the gift of foresight but there are others who are interested for more nefarious reasons. You turn to the Avengers for help. (Bucky x reader) Chapter: Bucky makes you breakfast and you have a new dream. Meanwhile, Natasha gets some answers.

Word Count: 3557

A/N: I make up so much shit related to infinity stones in this chapter. I have no excuse other than that idga(nymore)f. The rest is just mushy mush mush! Enjoy!

The last warm rays stretched long golden fingers through the trees. A breathless chill seeped into the air on the claws of shadow that crawled over the cabin earlier and earlier with each passing day. Even the sun hid its face from winter’s harsh touch in this barren place.

Glimmering ice lingered in every shadow: a frosty warning of the coming storm. Even sheltered inside, your nose had grown cold to the touch on that first morning when you woke to the unmistakable crunch of fresh snow.

You’d dreamed of that sound your whole life, if such horrors could be considered dreams. That grinding, biting, crunch of snow and ice under heavy boots had been knit into your bones, burned in your blood. It was the sound of a world too cold and too sharp to yield to the will of any man in it.

As a child it had been the sound of rescue, of paramedics come to haul your small shivering body from the wreckage of your mother’s car. Lately, the sound of otherworldly golden boots wading through snow and blood hunted you across dream and daylight alike.

Hiding from the unwelcome sound, your eyes pinched tighter shut, and you burrowed deeper beneath the heavy Italian wool blanket. Waiting. It smelled of the raw cedar linen chest. Its rough weave scratched against your cheek as you waited for the sound of relief.

In the long hours here in this small quiet cabin, in this wide open and silent wood, every noise – even Bucky’s hushed ones – had become intimately comforting. First, the deadbolt gliding into place with a swish-thunk. Then, the swift zip of his jacket, and finally the heavy one-two of his boots stomping off the mud, or today… the snow.

You’d learned long ago that while sleep was a necessity, it was not the relief for Bucky, that it was for you. True rest came with great difficulty, and when it did finally claim him, he often woke early, shoving away that unknowable darkness in favor of controllable, definable protocol.

Today had been no different. Dry logs clattered in the fire, crumbling their bark on the stone floor of the hearth. The stiff crumple of newspapers came next, then the sharp fwick of a match. While you’d been hiding from the cold and the steady march of time, he’d already checked his snares and trips, scouted the area for unexpected tracks, and returned with a sled full of bright smelling pine for the fire.

You shuffled to the doorway, dragging the scratchy wool blanket over your shoulders and paused at the entry. Sleep might not bear rest for Bucky, but just now, he looked about as peaceful as you’d seen him. Confident in his sweep, warming by the fire he’d just built, muscles a little sore from the work and a little stiff from the chill in the air, he sat on his feet, kneeling before the bright flames.

Relaxed by his ease, by the very nature of his constancy, you watched for a moment. The warm glow brightened the dark brown of his hair, softened the steel blue of his eyes until he let them fall closed and his head fall back on his shoulders with a sigh. He rarely looked so at ease.

The smile crept across your face unbidden. A slow curl of your lips accompanied a contented tilt of your head. When had running for your life become so pleasant?

“Sleeping Beauty wakes,” he teased, smiling to himself, but otherwise unmoving as he soaked up the fire’s warmth.

“Does that make you my fairy godmother?” you tossed back as you stepped into the room, laughing away the heat rising in your cheeks. “You know, swooping me off to the forest to protect me.”

He laughed, turning to watch you arrange the blanket as you sat beside him in front of the fire. ��Not how I’m usually cast, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“Who would you rather be?”

Again, he laughed, this time shaking his head, with his eyes firmly on his feet.

“Hey, I’ve got something for you,” he changed the subject. Or tried.

“Fauna, did you make me a cake?! It’s not even my birthday!”

“What?” he frowned, clearly the cabin hadn’t been stocked with Disney movies. “No. Not a cake.”

Natasha stood on the sidewalk looking up at the lavish building with a scoff on her lips. Stately carved stone pillars stood in perfect lines, dividing the deep red brick. Row after row of delicately wrought iron balconets guarded lavishly shrouded windows. At the center of the steeply pitched copper roof, green with age and weather, stood the unmistakable round window. It was intricately latticed and appeared as an exact twin to the one she’d just left behind in Nepal.

She checked the paper in her hands one last time, the one the Sorcerer Supreme had given her.

“Flew half way across the world and I could’ve just taken a cab down 6th,” she grumbled, shoving the paper in her pocket before bounding up the stairs.

She froze when she raised a softly closed fist to knock and the cheery fall morning around her melted into a dim, musky hall filled with ancient looking relics, knick-knacks, books and museum-quality furniture. Immediately on edge, she tried to keep her stomach from flipping again.

“You don’t have the stone.” The voice echoed off the richly stained wood cases.

“Seemed unwise until we know why everyone wants it,” she answered coolly, eyeing the man who seemed to float down the wide staircase. He reminded her vaguely of Tony. Dark hair tinged with grey, carefully kept facial hair, a sharp intelligent eye, and an even sharper tongue. “Why you want it.”

“I need to see to the stone-keeper.”

“And I need answers.”

“There’s no time for mincing words, Ms. Romanoff,” he complained, sweeping past her and pointing a sharply angled hand at the door. “You brought a homicidal Asguardian fugitive to my doorstep who is hunting infinity stones. That stone protects your reality. My job is to protect this realm, and that means the stone. It’s always been safest with The Seers, but if the chain has been broken…”

“The Seers?” Natasha interrupted. “Who are they? What makes them equipped to protect it over your order? Over us?”

Strange sighed. Irritation sagged in the frown of his lips and the roll of his eyes as he reached for a heavy tome. It flew to his waiting hand from a shelf across the room and when he dropped it on the table, thundered open to a page depicting a family tree in minute detail.

Natasha recognized it immediately as a perfect copy of the one she’d seen that day you first crashed into their lives with a story that seemed too crazy to be true. A story of visions and time-bending and stones. And yet, here she stood in the sanctum of a practitioner of the mystic arts, staring at the exact same family tree that had been scribbled into the back of the family album your grandfather had mailed to you. The one that had held the time stone itself.

“They’re a family,” he explained, pointing to the page. He studied Natasha as she worked to school her shock. “An ancient line of sorcerers. Gifted in our arts, they go as far back as we have written record.” He pointed to a name high on the list. “Suresh The Philosopher: authored many of our foundational texts and spells.” He indicated another name. “Mina The Guardian: appointed the first masters of the mystic arts to maintain the sanctums. Nobis The Wise created the Order of Seers. And so on and so on for generations. Decades.”

“She knows none of this,” Natasha breathed, drawing light fingers over the names on the page and recalling that day in Tony’s office. “She had no idea what that album meant. What she could be.”

“Who she is.” Strange corrected. “She must be told. I can’t allow the stone to remain unprotected. I can help, but you have to take me to the stone-keeper. Now. Loki is not the only one in the universe who seeks that power.”

Natasha sighed, finally in concession. “That’s impossible. I don’t know where she is.” And it was true. She had nothing. No stone, no stone-keeper. Just a word with a man who had a phone number.

“Nothing’s impossible.”

His word was curt and final. Before Natasha’s frown could dawn into an argument, he’d spun a gleaming orange rope, sparking and snapping as it opened a hole in the reality of space and they stepped into a conference room in Stark Tower.

“You might want to lock down the next room.” He calmly suggested before nodding through the glass to an empty office.

The sparking gold ring had just begun to fade as Loki stumbled into the vacant office as if out of thin air.

“Maybe you should let me do the cooking,” you grinned, sliding your elbows over the counter.

Bucky spared a quick glance for you from the overflowing pan. Over his shoulder, you could just see the corner of his mouth quirked up and that glint in his eye. It was like a lightning strike, sending a fresh heat zipping through your entire nervous system.

“You haven’t even tried it yet,” he argued.

“What is… it exactly?”

His smirk only grew as he reached for two plates.

“Garbage eggs,” he said with absolutely no further explanation.

Your excitement turned to a scowl while he scooped the concoction onto two plates and slid one to you.

Bucky had a very different definition of cooking than yours. You had argued about it once, early on. Well, argue isn’t the right word. It was playful prodding really and the conversation ended in a shrug when he offered one of those grins. The kind that invariably forced all the sensible words out of your head.

He was far more likely to heat up a can of beans over the stove – still in the can. Or take a fork straight into a rehydrated sleeve of rice and beef goo, made for camping and efficiency. It wasn’t that he didn’t like good cooking, only that he didn’t require it. Not on mission, anyway. He’d been trained by the US Military and then by HYDRA into the perfect soldier. Anything that tasted good was simply a waste of precious energy.

You, on the other hand, were certain your insides had turned to molten imitation cheese weeks ago from all the frozen or rehydrated food.

“You said you were sick of junk food,” he shrugged, strangely unwilling to meet your eye.

“So you made garbage instead?” you teased.

“Yup.” He shoveled a massive bite into into his mouth and grinned. Still, though he smiled, he wouldn’t look up. Instead he stirred the plate around. “It’s eggs and potatoes and whatever is almost ready for the garbage.”

“An empty-the-cupboard breakfast,” you surmised.

“Mhmm. Try it,” he stabbed a piece of potato.

You eyed him warily as you scooped up a bite. As you did, he finally lifted his eyes. Not his head, though. He looked like a puppy waiting to be kicked. It wasn’t a five-star meal, but you’d take anything over a microwaved gas station breakfast sandwich. This, at least, was fresh-cooked and warm, and damn it all if it wasn’t alright.

“Not bad?” This time, he grinned a little. His brows lifted slightly, waiting and anxious.

It was then you realized he’d done this for you. When you’d complained about all the food-in-a-bag, when he’d denied you the chance at the hospital café and you’d griped, he’d heard. Not only had he heard you, here he sat offering what you asked for, or as best as he could manage given the circumstances.

“’S good,” you beamed up at him, warmed head to toe by this one small, intimate act. “Nice and salty.”

He nodded, pleased and relieved. He glanced back at the pan, still warm on the stove. “You um,” he stumbled, “You were tired of the instant meals, so.”

Your face burned at the memory of complaining about the food at the hospital, at the recollection of Bucky’s hand closed around yours. How comfortable, how easy it had been done, and how something from that instant had shifted. Something you couldn’t – wouldn’t – name. If you gave it a name it had a shape and that shape might not fit in this tiny cabin, on this dangerous assignment. Or worse, it might not fit in the shapeless world after the danger passed, when the boundaries were lifted.

“You know what this needs?” you asked. Taking another grateful bite and smiling wide, you swallowed the garbage eggs with the anxiety. “Hot sauce!”

You could see the wheels turning, as he eyed you, measuring your suggestion.

“It does,” he finally agreed, turning back to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” you laughed, knowing full well there was no hot sauce to be found in the efficient little cabin. Only dehydrated chicken and rice, canned beans and more potatoes.

Without a word, he reached deep into a cupboard and set a can on the counter with a loud clank. He peeled back the lid on a stew of hot chilies.

Your eyes lit up before you dove into the can with a spoon, drizzling the sauce all over your eggs and potatoes. Bucky did the same. When you both reached into the can simultaneously, you jumped back, a laugh on your lips at your own eagerness.

Bucky looked at you with an expression warm and gentle, like leaves falling quietly in golden afternoon sun. It quickly grew into a laugh of his own.

“You’ve uh,” he chuckled. “You’ve got something…” he motioned to your cheek. The brick red sauce had flung from your spoon when you’d withdrawn so quickly and now splattered your face.

Heat rose in your face again; you tried to laugh it off. You swiped at your cheek with the heel of your hand.

“Did I get it?”

Another chuckle as he shook his head. His lips rolled between his teeth for a fraction of a second.

“Now?”

“Here.” He reached a hand across the counter between you. Without even thinking, you leaned forward, pushing up on your toes to close the distance.

It wasn’t until his thumb swept high over your cheek that your heart began to race. As if, with that touch, that brush of skin, the unspoken shift had been not named, but marked. Without meaning to, he’d brought the feeling to life, shoved it into that golden light.

He’d swept the sauce away but lingered close, fingers hovering just barely over the span of your cheek. Frozen, mesmerized by this newness, you waited, drawn tight as a bow. He never broke eye contact, never pulled away. So finally, you leaned into his hand, just a small tilt of your head.

In an instant you were spinning. The copper relic at your neck burst into green radiance. A sharp intake of breath served as the only notice something was not right.

Bucky pulled away and watched as you stumbled back, completely lost to the power of the stone.

Somewhere in the blend of present and future before your eyes, you knew what you must look like. You knew your eyes had glazed over, had become distant and unseeing Your face had fallen slack with the force of the change, fingers dancing over the cool metal of the necklace. You mirrored your grandfather.

Without his control, however. The dreams took hold when they would, and you fell, powerless to their urging.

In the dream Bucky’s hand still lay on your cheek as it had in waking. His touch remained gentle and warm. He smiled at you with an ease you’d never seen before. It settled over you like a glowing fire. Familiarity, comfort, safety.

The coarse scratch of his growing beard made a pleasant swishing sound as it moved over the soft white fabric on his pillow.

“Do you know you smile when you’re dreaming?” he asked, voice rough and quiet. He must have just woken. You loved when his voice sounded this way. It meant he’d slept well, rested, safe and at home beside you.

Your own voice mumbled out an answer, heavy with contentment and sleep. “Only when I dream of you.”

Your fingers curled around Bucky’s wrist, holding him close while you turned your head slightly to kiss his open palm.

He rolled his eyes, a silent joke, always teasing. But there was a smile there too, the soft content kind that let you know there would be no interruptions today. No missions. No fear. Just this. The cotton sheets ruffled quietly as he shifted closer and pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead, then your nose.

“What was I doing?” he asked while the tips of your fingers traced the strong curve of his shoulder. “In the dream.”

“You know how when you’re mad, you clench your jaw?”

“I do not,” he argued.

You laughed and burrowed tightly against his chest, legs tangling as you scooted closer.

“And you sigh.”

He took a breath and paused, holding back the inevitable sigh, before letting out a small chuckle. “Well you got me there.”

“I brought home an elephant, and you were doing the jaw thing,” you traced the line of his jaw. “And then you sighed when I said I wanted to keep it.”

“I’d do a lot more than that if you brought home a 6-ton pet.”

“But I saved it from a circus, so you let me keep it anyway,” you continued.

He hummed, smoothing a hand over your hair and pressing his lips to the top of your head. “That big bleeding heart o’ yours,” he kissed you again. “Always gettin’ us into trouble.”

“No more than your stubborn streak,” you countered, tipping your head to kiss his neck, up, and up to the edge of his chin.

“Who’s stubborn?” He slid strong unrelenting arms around you, pinning your own to your sides. Your entire body locked immobile against his.

“Bucky!” You tried to sound outraged when you were anything but. Your giggles drifted on the breeze beside the gossamer curtains on out the open window. The soft rumble of his happiness tickled and scratched at your ear, it warmed your skin and rippled down to your belly until you stilled again in his arms.

Just as quickly as the dream had fallen upon you, taking hold of all your senses, it lifted. Worried grey eyes roved over you, glancing furtively at the ornament hanging over your chest, its green light dimming slowly.

You sat on the floor, leaning against the couch. That was unusual. Normally when the dreams struck, the force of it overtook you, left you in a heap on the floor. But this time, you hadn’t woken with so much as an ache. Not one bruise.

You noticed Bucky’s hands just then. One curled over your shoulder, the other cradled your head with fingers curling behind your neck. “I’ve got you,” he kept muttering quietly while looking you over again and again, worry pitched in every syllable. He must’ve caught you, guided you to safety, and stayed, watching helplessly as you’d slipped into another time.

“You okay?”

You only nodded, swallowing thickly and dodging his probing gaze.

“What was it?” he pressed. He was anxious and that was unusual. “What did you see?”

“I—Nothing,” you hedged. Your skin had begun to burn at the memory, at the way he was holding you now, so like the dream and yet so unlike. “It was nothing. We’re not in any danger.”

Except you were. You were in very real danger of leaning forward to kiss those almost-familiar lips that had whispered such sweet words in your dream.

“That thing has lit up every time you’ve had one of those dreams,” he urged. His fingers dug into your shoulder. “And every time it does, Loki has been close. Close enough to take it from you. You need to tell me what you saw.”

“It wasn’t Loki,” you managed. “It was you.”

His eyes flashed wide for a moment, before a frown deepened across his dark features. “Me? I did someth--”

“Not like that,” you stumbled. “You wouldn’t have hurt me. It was after, I think. After all of this. I wasn’t worried about Loki, or the stone, or any of this.”

Bucky stared at you, frown as firm as before. He was unsure and critical. Finally, his gaze tore away from you at the sound of a sharp repetitive beep. You watched the color drain from his face before he leapt to his feet, reaching for the pager on the table. The pager he’d bought for Tony Stark to call if anything came up between check-in calls.

He glanced at it, then stared at you for a long moment, trying to work out the puzzle. If you’d withheld anything from him.

Meanwhile, your heart was hammering like ocean waves in your ears. So loud you wondered if he could hear it too. The longer his silence stretched, the more you began to dread what he might say.

“We have to go.”

Part 15 >>

#bucky x reader #bucky x reader angst #bucky x reader fluff #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky bodyguard fic #watch me run 14 #wmr 14

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parkers-bitchass-world · 3 years

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Okay so I made a spin-off idea for supernatural.

But it’s not great. Here’s the 3 seasons I have kinda storyboarded, and as you’ll notice they get worse each season. This is just for fun but if you have any ideas, hmu

Also I’m not great at explaining myself so if you need me to clarify anything just tell me

Season 1

Three teens come across the entry to the bunker. They’ve heard rumors about that place, and they dare each other to go inside. The lights are off and it’s clearly been abandoned for years.

They find the lights and look around the dusty bookshelves and see an open book, a journal about like wendigos or something, and they scoff and say this place is an abandoned madhouse or something. One of the teenagers secretly takes a book home, and that night they get attacked by a monster, but the book tells them how to get rid of it. They go back to their friends and explain how hunting is real; how everything in the books is real.

From that point on, they learn how to hunt, using notes and books they find all around the bunker. They find a bunch of notes from Sam and Dean, and they start using Sam and Dean as their guides, even tho they’ve never met them.

There’s an overarching plot to the season, but I haven’t quite thought that through yet. All I know is that in the season finale, the teens are chilling in the bunker when they hear the door open. Someone comes around the corner, armed and ready to fight. He asks who the kids are and the kids explain how they found the place, then they ask who he is, and he says “my name is Sam Winchester” and that’s the end of the season.

Season 2

Sam tries everything me can do to stop the kids from hunting, by telling them about Dean and how dangerous the life is, and how they could be dead after next hunt and whatnot. The kids refuse to yield, and Sam gives in and agrees to be their mentor. His son, Dean Jr. wants to learn about hunting too.

The kids ask one day who Castiel is, and Sam begins to explain and tell stories about Cas, and at the end of that episode, cas appears suddenly like “thank you for the sentiments, Sam.” And Sam is like “what, I thought you were dead,” to which cas is like “I was. Briefly.”

Cas then goes back to heaven and we see Dean for the first time. We then get backstory on Dean and cas meeting in heaven after Dean died, and destiel, obviously, after Dean works through personal issues.

This is where dual plot lines begin, and things get complicated. While the teens are hunting, they learn about heaven and how, after Cas and Jack rebuilt it, it only had so long until its new foundations started to crumble. So Cas and Dean and Jack take care of that while Sam and the teens hunt more. I need to work on more plot for the teenagers

One day, Dean Jr is just vibing and Dean appears to him as kind of an apparition Bc he was named in honor of Dean so they’re like,,, spiritually tied together. Dean tells Jr not to tell Sam yet Bc he knows what Sam is like

Dean, Cas and Jack finally fix what was going on in heaven, and Sam, Jr and the teens have noticed that things aren’t quite right, and in the season finale, everything falls to shit, and Sam sees Dean for the first time Bc Dean appears to Jr

Season 3

Season 3 is them fixing the shit they thought they’d fixed, and Sam and Dean catch up, Sam tells Dean about destiel, and in the end of the season, Dean disconnects himself from Jr, so he and Sam say goodbye and Dean tells Sam he’ll be waiting upstairs

The teenagers are still there I guess, I really didn’t think this through enough

So there I guess

I know it’s not super fantastic but humor me lmao

#jensen ackles #misha collins #sam and dean #spn fanart #spn season finale #spn spoilers #spnfandom #supernatural #supernatural fanart #supernatural fandom

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i-do-trash-fanfictions · 3 years

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Ann’s Journal Entry #5

I walked around the small town. It wasn’t big. Just wooden houses with stone foundations, some were shops. There was a medical building, a building where they made clothes (I had forgotten what they were called), and one large one where they kept the food. Maria had explained that once a month everyone got a certain amount of food depending on how many people were in a household. They had a farm there too, and there were a few people who went out hunting everyday. For foods that they couldn’t grow or hunt for, Callum would leave when they ran out and go get more.

Maria had other duties to take care of, so she ended up letting me wander around by myself for a while. Soon, I heard Cal’s voice and peeked around the corner of a house.

There was a fire pit, though there was no fire lit, and kids were surrounding it. Cal sat on a log, and was deep in a story about Guardians flying their ships to the Dreaming City to find their lost friend.

“That was a story that Sora used to tell, I think.”

I turned to see the same girl, Lexi, standing beside me, also peeking around the corner.

“I’m not sure. I wasn’t born when she was alive. But my mom told me a lot about her.”

“Your mom is Maria?”

“Yes.” Lexi paused. “Is being a Guardian cool?”

“What do you mean? Of course it’s cool.”

“Maria says that Uncle Callum didn’t always think so.”

“Callum’s your uncle?”

“Not by blood. But everyone calls him that.”

“Oh. Cal doesn’t think being a Guardian’s cool?”

“Maria said that he had told her it’s hard work. There’s a lot of pressure on you all the time. And that you don’t remember your past, who you were before. Is that true?”

“Yeah. No Guardian remembers their past. The most you’ll remember is your name.”

“Oh.” She said quietly. “I wouldn’t like that. You wouldn’t know your family, or your old friends.”

“And you’re not allowed to look for answers. The Vanguard doesn’t allow it.”

“Why not?”

“Because when you get resurrected, you can change. Becoming a Guardian is like the Traveler giving you a second chance. Sometimes it hurts to know what you were before. What if you were a bad person then, but you’re a good person now? Wouldn’t it bother you to know that at one point you went about... I don’t know, murdering people?”

“Yeah. That would bother me.”

Suddenly a man came running past us and ran to Callum, interrupting his story.

“That’s one of our searchers. They got out and scout the forest to see if there are any signs of Fallen.” Lexi told me.

Cal sat up immediately and told the children to head to their homes. They all did so. The older ones helped the younger ones, and so did the adults. The searcher bounded off on Cal’s orders. I stepped out.

“What’s going on?” I asked Cal.

“Fallen.” He said, running off. “They’re on their way.”

I turned to Lexi. “Go home to your mother.”

She nodded and ran off. I followed after Callum.

We entered his house and he picked up his auto rifle from it’s place beside the door. I grabbed my hand canon from the counter and the two of us ran out the door again. A few men and women were already out there with their guns in their hands. We waited, but there was nothing but silence.

Then the first dreg jumped out. A man dodged and fired at him, killing it immediately. Then the rest jumped into view. All I heard was gunfire and the screeches of fallen as they were shot down, one by one. I dodged the bullets fired my way and took down as many as I could. Most of the other fighters ended up getting split up into different spots. I could see Callum a ways away from me fighting off four of them at a time with a dagger of light.

Two fallen ran at me and I quickly shot one, then turned and shot the other. I tried to make my way to Callum, who was getting surrounded by a few more. A small yell pierced the air and I turned to one of the women fighting. She had gotten sliced on the arm by a Vandal. If she died there would be no going back for her.

I turned and ran for her instead. I fired at the Vandal, and in two shots it fell to the ground. A dreg ran at her and she quickly shot it down herself. I went to her and shot another dreg.

“You’re hurt. Bleeding. You should go.”

“No,” She answered, shooting another one. “We do not turn around, even though we have only one life to give. We fight just as the Guardians do. We will not back down unless we have to.”

“But what if you die?” I said firing off three shots and getting three headshots.

“I won’t die. And I won’t turn around until I have to.”

I knew that no matter what I said, the woman would not leave the battle, so I simply nodded and kept fighting, making my way towards Cal once more.

He was surrounded by many Fallen. I was sure that they thought if they could get him down, they could get ahold of Argent, then kill her so she couldn’t rez him. I wasn’t about to let that happen.

I fired two shots, then reloaded. A dreg crumbled to the ground. Cal shot three in the head, but two more took their place. A vandal dodged one of my shots then ran at me. I dodged one of his blades and took it from him as he passed by me. I threw it and it lodged in it’s throat.

Suddenly there was a war cry amoung many Fallen. But it didn’t come from any around us. Many more jumped into the fray, along with a few captains, all of them coming from the forest. They had backup!

I took a look around and saw the fear in the eyes of the civilians. I knew that no matter how much we fought, we were too far outnumbered. The battle was pointless.

But then a gunshot rang out.

#destiny 2 #destiny #destiny guardians #destiny game #anns journal entries

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mcmansionhell · 5 years

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2018 McGingerbread Hell Competition Winners

Happy New Year, Folks! I’m pleased to announce the winners of this (past) year’s McGingerbread Hell Gingerbread House Competition!!

First off, I cannot find the words to say how much joy each and every entry to this competition has brought me. Every single one of the participants put their 100% best McMansion Hell face on and the results were charming, hilarious, and, if we’re being punny here, downright sweet. This may be the best idea this blogger has ever had.

Second, let me say that the when I say the competition was fierce, I mean, it was fierce. So much so that I drafted the fellow judgement of two of my favorite colleagues, my literary agent Caroline Eisenmann, and fellow architecture critic/Editor of Chicago Architect Magazine Anjulie Rao to help me narrow the 43 contestants down to 8.

Just a note: Last names of the winners have been abbreviated for privacy reasons. If you would like your full name to be published instead, please email [email protected] with your preferred name.

We’re going to start our line up with the 5 honorable mentions in alphabetical order, after which there will be a break to take those of you scrolling through this on the dashboard to the full article where the top 3 McMansions will be revealed.

Without further ado...

Honorable Mention #5 : Manoir de emporte-pièce by Anya D.

The judges were impressed by the whimsy, creativity and finely detailed execution of Anya’s house. Caroline summed it up best: “what else is a McMansion if not a bunch of smaller houses wrapped into one package?”

Anya writes:

Hi I'm Anya and I'm 12. I made my Gingerbread house from Gingerbread I mixed and baked myself. The house shapes came from a cookie cutter. It's held together with royal icing frosting I made. The shingles are almonds and the house off to the side is the dog house and has candy dog bones on it. The "lights" on parts of it are candy balls. I hope you like it!

Honorable Mention #4: AMAZING Custom Home with Quality Features by Sydney E.

The judges were impressed by the house’s fine craftsmanship, attention to detail (especially the peppermint columns, the gumdrop crenellations, and the chandelier in the back) and great sense of humor. Anjulie remarked: “Love the inclusion of the nuclear family.” What really had us in stitches was Sydney’s wonderfully rich description, especially this part:

“...You'll know you're living in the lap of luxury when you see the ENORMOUS GOLD CHANDELIER in the dining room. But it's the ROOFTOP PATIO with no discernible purpose or point of entry that will really set you apart from your neighbors. "Hey, how did you get up there?" they'll ask, but you're not telling (mysterious!). The landscaping will make you feel like you're in the countryside, in a sea of royal icing TURF GRASS (shown here, lightly dusted with coconut snow). The FOUR TREES on the property are either too far from the house to provide any shade (stately!) or extremely close to the house and actively obscuring at least one window (posh!). The entire house, the front walk, and the driveway are all bordered in royal icing ENGLISH IVY, which is definitely never going to be a problem for native plants (colonial!).”

Honorable Mention #3: Suburban Hobbit House by Jennifer K. & Cara M.

The judges were impressed by the difficulty of execution in Jennifer and Cara’s house, especially the dome, the cleverness of using almonds as cladding, and the hilariously barren “asphalt” lawn complete with soul patch. Kate remarked: “Pretty sure I saw this exact house in Bergen County, New Jersey.”

Jennifer and Cara wrote about their house:

Made of solid gingerbread in shape of skulls (had the pans), graham crackers, lots of icing, nuts, chocolate, a candy cane, grape tic-tacs, decorator sprinkles, butter-rum Lifesavers, fondant, Tootsie Rolls, and a loaf of rosemary bread. Round center mass house with back porch nub, two wings, a charming turret. We totally meant for it to look this way.

Honorable Mention #2: European Charme by Núria O.

The judges were very impressed with the fine detailing (such as the columns, balustrades, and front door), the crisp, clean execution of the design, and total commitment to the McMansion Aesthetic™ from front to rear, including the completely barren lawn.

Núria describes the house in finely practice Realtor-ese:

Beautiful gazillion-square-feet chalet featuring lots of personality and European flair. This cozy 4-bedroom, 10-bathroom cottage is made of sturdy construction-grade tan-beige gingerbread from top to bottom. Roof plates are structurally tinted, not painted, ensuring a durable color that will last until the last crumble is eaten. Windows glazing is made of gelatine sheets coated with black-coloured blueberry jam to ensure privacy as you lounge by the bay window or enjoy the views from the beautiful faux-balcony.

All doors are solid gum paste, with royal icing on all window frames as well as the balustrade. This home is ideal for entertaining, with its luxurious two-story entrance featuring genuine Spanish _neula_ columns with doric capitals, ornated pediment and a quaint half-tindered wall that gives true European _charme_. Utilities are housed in a lovely turret next to the service door. The garage accomodates two SUVs or six European sedan cars. The magnificent brown-sugar-paved front yard features icing plants and a signature landscaped crushed-sprinkle turf patch on cookie soil. The same type of grass was used in the large, sunny backyard which also has a patio area.

Honorable Mention #1: Existential Crisis on 34th Street by Caitlin R.

The judges were very impressed by the house’s clever use of different baking materials and attention to detailing, especially in the icing work. Kate was especially excited by the rounded gingerbread turret, and Anjulie loved the “Existential Crisis” detail and monumental marshmallow columns. The description had Caroline especially in stitches.

Caitlin describes the house:

This nine-bedroom mansion is made from the most exquisite of gingerbreads. Lovingly handmade from scratch, and crafted by local artisans, it's ready for your own sweet family. Grecian inspired columns impose your might on the neighborhood, while a pebble-clad tower with bay windows adds a touch of country charm. Architectural details include a 'stonework' wall and chimney, sweet dormer windows, and a luxurious back porch. A myriad of windows let light into this expanded historic house - the original building dates all the way back to 1982! Come by today, and soon you'll be calling this three-and-a-half story, Greco-Chateauesque Italian Revival Americana, 18,600 square foot mansion - home!

Now on to the TOP 3 PRIZEWINNING HOUSES!

It all comes down to this. It was stiff competition through and through, and the judges deliberated long and hard about who the top 3 spots should go to. Each house showed tremendous ability in craftsmanship, detailing, and McMansion Engineering. Without further ado:

Third Prize: Saccharin Sanctuary by Christa H.

The judges were wowed by the amazing craftsmanship and attention to detail present in Christa’s house. Caroline was impressed by the use of Cinnamon Toast Crunch as shingling, Anjulie loved the jellybean stone accents, and Kate found the use of sticks of gum as fake-stucco siding to be very clever. The execution of the lawyer foyer, turret, and appropriately nonsensical rear exterior put this house in to the third place slot.

Christa’s description, in perfect Realtorese:

This fabulous 1.5 story house features a gorgeous columned entry, double garage, show-stopping turret, and the picture perfect back patio. Built from the finest gingerbread and white chocolate... you can be sure that this house has a superior foundation that you can trust for years to come. Jelly Beans, spear mint Lifesavers, Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Double Mint gum among other award winning materials make this house’s curb appeal unforgettable! List Price: 🍬574,900 Est Mortgage: 🍬2,240/mo Listed By: Sugar & Space Reality®️

Second Prize: The Hundred Thousand by Louisa G.

The judges were blown away by, as they say, the sheer size of this lad. The monumentality of such a massive roof must have taken some serious gingerbread engineering, all while perfectly encapsulating McMansion Roof Culture. The engineering, clean execution, attention to detail (millions of nonpareils!!), and true, well, McMansion-ness of this house vaulted (ceiling) it into 2nd place.

Louisa describes the house thusly:

The Hundred Thousand has no equal. This 37-piece towering gingerbread edifice was baked and constructed over four days during the heat of an Australian summer, by an Australian and a Finn, using a Finnish gingerbread recipe. Inspired by Mt. Nub, The Hundred Thousand boasts a porcine screaming porch, eight ahoy-mateys windows, a royally-iced gable front that almost but not entirely obscures the front door, and palatial grounds landscaped with topiary sweets, all topped off with a soaring roof tiled with hundreds & thousands.

So many hundreds & thousands were used that the builders ran out of material - causing the construction project to grind to a halt for almost ten minutes, until the Australian’s father arrived with more much-needed building supplies. The Hundred Thousand was fixed together using high-quality caramel, and is internally braced by two large gingerbread cross-panels. This fantastic abode required nearly 2kg of flour and eight eggs (provided by the Australian’s chickens) and was constructed as large as the oven would allow, measuring a whopping 40 cm across on the front facade, and nearly 30 cm high.

And finally, (DRUMROLL PLEASE)

First Prize: Casa de McGingerHell by Beth and Tina C.

From the moat, dome skylight, and lawyer foyer, to the rice crispy treat retaining wall, and chocolate rocks, this house, in the words of Caroline, was “truly next level.” The judges were blown away by the incredible attention to detail and clever use of different materials, specially the pretzel railing on the bridge, the marshmallow penguins, and we all freaked over those sugar glass and water elements. From the several different types of windows, bizarre massing, and three car garage, this house encapsulates the deranged opulence of McMansions in the sweetest way possible.

Beth and Tina describe their house:

Located centrally and literally dominating the entire living room, this McGingerMansion features over twenty handcrafted stained glass windows, a double sized garage, and three hand laid rock face walls! This gingermansion also has not one, but two incredible water features including a delightful frozen waterfall in the spacious backyard. Boasting several pre-decorated pine trees surrounding the property, this festive gingermansion showcases several dozen strands of lights and as well as a handful of charming wreaths.

The one hundred percent genuine pretzel log deck overlooking the backyard is the perfect place to entertain friends and family alike, especially during the holiday season! Standing at just over a foot and a half tall, this truly massive gingermansion has a total composition of just over twenty pans worth of gingerbread. Call now to schedule a tour today; this gingermansion won't last long! *Disclaimer: As required of us by law, we must disclose the presence of a minor pest infestation in the form of roughly a dozen cute, but possibly rabid penguins on the property.

On behalf of the judges and McMansion Hell, we would like to thank everyone who entered the competition for their amazingly wonderful houses, and for the funding from McMansion Hell’s Patreon supporters whose generosity made running the competition and supplying the prizes possible.

Stay tuned for this year’s new and exciting McMansion Hell features:

- The conclusion of the 50 states, starting with Virginia next week. - A series of essays on kitsch - Looking at McMansions decade by decades - McMansions in film and media - Updates on the McMansion Hell Book

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adonis-koo · 4 years

Text

Sorry my asks was too long I had to make an acc and I hope you don’t mind I just re post all my asks as submit instead coz it’s long!

1-9 after reading ch 11 and prob unpopular opinion but I kinda felt like sometimes tease!jk behavior comes across as emotional manipulative with how he tends to guilt trip mc with his double standards when he’s angry.

He makes her feel bad for things he’s doing the same. And what he said was crossing the line and downright cruel. I understand the reasoning but I have to agree with that anon who said he was let off easy

2-9 I feel like he’s so far given a lot of excuse and pass for his toxic behaviour just because he has a messed up past. When I look at the conflict between mc, he tends to lash out towards her a lot when he can’t express his emotions properly or is jealous. It makes mc look like his emotional punching bag at times and coz he’s more aggressive than her, she ends up get dragged by or is affected by his emotions a lot more than hers does his in a negative way. Mc ain’t right too but she never lashed out the way he did.

3-9 Mc ain’t right too but she never lashed out the way he did. Sure he apologized but I feel like it was dismissed and that behavior wasn’t addressed more seriously. him being forgiven so easily doesn’t seem to allow him the chance to experience the full consequences of his actions and he needs to learn he can’t always deal with his pain by self-harm if he did happen to lose mc.

4-9 and mc seems a little over depend on jk’s approval. If him not apologizing would be enough for her to shut down that bad, than it shows her dependence on him might be bordering on unhealthy. It feels like all her approval and acceptance of herself at this point stems from jk’s behavior and words towards her because as you mentioned, her friends wouldn’t be able to pull her out of that situation if she did shut down.

5-9 She seem to feel insecure when he’s not giving her the attention she wants coz of her insecurities of not measuring up. I’m not sure if she’s aware of that and if she is it’s not addressed as much. Her accepting his apologies feels like a temporary bandage to her deeper issues and enabling herself to be more dependent on him instead of a chance for her to face it alone and grow.

6-9 I feel mc needs more chances to find her own worth and love outside of jk. To know she don’t need his love to feel lovable and worthy since he’s not the best person to get it from. She also needs the chance to be stronger and take more assertion and power as well, to balance the power in their relationship because it feels v imbalance now.

7-9 She needs a bit more equal grounds and feel in control and know she has as much power as him. She’s missing this in both sex and her relationship with him since the type of man she likes - the dominant and caretaker type like jk who has a tendency to be in control, can hinder her from growing stronger and independent.

8-9 And jk kinda needs someone more assertive and put him in his place and don’t take no bs from him. Someone who’ll be willing to walk away and have a time out when needed instead of always accepting him back so easily after he apologizes when he messes up. I’m actually glad mc walked out & I wouldn’t blame her if she did decide to time out from him in this ch. I mean he needs to be treated w/ understanding but too much dismissing his behavior will only enable him to continue excuse his problematic side.

9-9 Change requires quite some time and I’m glad they talked it over. But I just felt the way it ended didn’t really addressed fully those toxic sides to their relationship when the negative influences they have on each other outweighs the positive so far. I don’t know if I’m making sense I’m not the best at explaining stuff. But of course they have a lot more room to grow too since the story is not over and I’m excited to see their relationship grow more. I honestly really love your writings and I’m so invested in the characters so I hope this doesn’t sound like I’m being hateful because your writing is amazing.

~~~

(edit: PC tumblr won’t let me use my pink font >:( )

So I’ve read over this very carefully multiple times and gave it a lot of thought because you pointed out a few things I hadn’t quite thought of or saw it in that type of angle before, so first of all, thank you! I NEVER want to portrayal a relationship that is toxic in a non intentional way, so let’s go ahead and dive on in.

Something I’ve tried to avoid is giving ‘excuses’ especially in the sense of using Jungkook’s background for it. Something I used to constantly say (and I should probably start saying again) yes he has a reason to act out the way he does, it does NOT mean it’s okay by any means. But in a way, we use our past experiences as human beings to guide us, bad experiences leave negative effects.

While we could argue Jungkook ‘needs to learn’ by suffering consequences (which to a degree I do agree because as a previous anon said he needs to be held accountable for his actions) it wouldn’t necessarily be effective in this situation because Jungkook is actually very self aware he can’t escape through self-harm or self destruction, he does understand his actions and what he is doing isn’t okay.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t make mistakes- or fuck up big time he’s extremely hotheaded and impulsive and it’s something he CONSTANTLY battles with, something I wanted to portray when writing tease is the very essence of humans, we can be self aware of our destructive tendencies and yet still do them without realizing it in the moment- only to catch ourselves realizing we did it later on. Which is what happened after their fight.

It’s a war between wanting to heal and become healthy while still struggling to let go of his ego and anger that get the better of him. It’s what makes him human, it doesn’t make it right by ANY means, but it’s a struggle of growth, and no matter how much we grow there will always be ups and downs and set backs. That was definitely something I wanted to portray in my writing, while we don’t see this internal battle in Jungkook as the fic isn’t in his POV we do get to see a lot of this in his journal entries.

This is however something we get to explore a little in the upcoming arc and it’s something we heavily explore after the upcoming arc.

Let me state again this probably still sounds like an excuse and it does not in ANY way mean to be, the only thing I can really do is just explain why I’ve written him this way. I can’t justify his actions or defend him (other then his charactization which still isn’t really defending him because it’s more to do in technicality of writing, if that makes sense?) because that would be enabling him and glorifying unhealthy relationships which we don’t do in this house 🤢

So let’s discuss a little about MC’s behavior, she is 100% dependent of Jungkook’s approval and praise and in a more unconscious way, that was pretty much what I was aiming for. But let’s take a look at their entire relationship through the eyes of the story, Jungkook and MC, in reality, set themselves up for this. Ever since they met they accidentally established a power dynamic-

(via mentor/trainee taken a little too seriously even Jimin states in chapter 2 ‘“You don’t see any of us grinding on our trainee’s, so what’s the difference Guk, hm?” Your lips parted at his words slightly, was he insinuating this wasn’t normal?’ This was the first clue that their mentor trainee relationship was not normal compared to all of the others soloists who had trainee’s)

-that should have never been allowed to flourish before they really got to know one another. Because that’s the first step to what lead to all of this.

It first started innocently, MC just wanting to be seen as desirable by someone cute like Jungkook, and him being her mentor she wanted his approval on knowing she was doing well. But due to their natural tendency to fall into dom and sub combined with their already established mentor trainee without the foundation of a steady platonic friendship beforehand, it quickly descended more and more into MC needing his attention all the time, needing to know she was good enough and etc.

Really, this goes back to a previous ask I answered: Jungkook and MC have a lack of respect and knowledge for/of one another as people, as two individuals outside of the crumbling dynamic they established when they first met. I mean, sitting here thinking about it, I’m really not surprised it became such a toxic fest between them. They completely set themselves up for this unintentionally and now they’re going to have to learn is how to be a couple (and friends) without the power dynamic or else things are bound to fall apart.

Like you said change does take time and it’s something we’ll begin too see slowly developing between them both in the upcoming arc, but the one question that really struck me was your main one. We’re all aware of these toxic dynamics going on between them both, but why weren’t they addressed and talked about? I feel a little dumb for having to think about it when it feels so clear to me now. They themselves, don’t realize just how toxic their relationship has become, how are they supposed to when it’s been set up this way from the beginning? Their (unfair and unhealthy) power dynamic is all they’ve ever experienced one another through.

MC jumped out of one controlling relationship only to enter another more appealing one without realizing it and Jungkook has never even seen a healthy relationship let alone experience one. The only unhealthy aspect they are both aware of are the ridiculous double standards Jungkook had put on her in the past, because it’s the most blatant and dominant problem between them both. All of these other issues are more underlying and they are both oblivious too.

We’ve both said change takes time, but I think as Jungkook and MC begin to see each other as people outside of the power dynamic, and as they get to know each other as people and no longer as caretaker/little, sub/dom, mentor/trainee, these problems will eventually fix themselves, that doesn’t necessarily mean they won’t be orally addressed in the story. But from a writing perspective it leaves me to wonder how do I address this when they the characters aren’t even aware of how unhealthy their relationship is? That’s not really a question for you guys too worry about though lmao.

Anyways I’ll start wrapping things up but one last thing I really liked was your opinion on MC needing more independence and growth on her own. I can’t say for sure that’s what we’ll see in this upcoming arc but it’s something I’m definitely aiming for. As someone who though likes to submit I need a sense of autonomy and identity outside of someone else, so I can appreciate your words for MC!

I genuinely think they can be what they need for one another, but it’s always going to be a work in progress because as humans no one is perfect! It all boils down to what you’re willing to deal with in a relationship and what you aren’t, that of course isn’t an excuse to not work to become a better person or the best you can be! But a natural understanding. Anyways I hope I answered to the best of my ability, I said it once and I’ll say it again, I never ever ever want to portray a relationship that isn’t purposely set up toxically.

And that’s not too say I thought for a moment I had, because I’ve clearly stated in the past that this arc was specifically aimed at their toxicity, but it was more of a moment of panic that: ‘oh shit, I can NOT let this go on in the future of the story’ because like I’ve said before tease is all about character development, it won’t make them perfect but I want them to be a THOUSAND times better at the end of the story then where they are now.

Anyways no worries hun! I just hope this clarified a little bit! MC and Jungkook’s real relationship is only now just beginning to unfold in the upcoming arc, we’re only 1/3 of the way through the story so there’s still plenty of time! Thank you for sticking with it though no matter how frustrating the characters may be! I love getting asks that keep me on my toes, it helps keep me grounded and make sure I don’t accidentally become too biased to one narrative.

Thank you so much for sending in hun! ~~

#missy answers #tease #submission

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phinnsyreads · 4 years

Audio

Item #: SCP-1141

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: All public zoos in Connecticut, Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Vermont are to be under constant surveillance by personnel at Site-85 and Site-86. Should SCP-1141 occur, the approximate nature and threat level of SCP-1141-1 is to be ascertained as soon as possible, with the nearest branch of Mobile Task Force Gamma-80 (aka "Ecologists") deployed to the zoo in question with all equipment deemed necessary.

Upon arrival, MTF Gamma-80's task is to destroy SCP-1141-1 or render it inoperable as soon as possible. The use of force is authorized for this purpose. If SCP-1141-1 does not pose an immediate risk to the public, MTF Gamma-80 will purchase several food items and prevent all public access to SCP-1141-1. If this does not result in the disappearance of SCP-1141-1 within twenty-five minutes, Site Director Jackson is to be notified. Food items purchased from SCP-1141-1 are to be sent to Site-86 for further research and containment.

AMN-M-4311 is to be distributed through the zoo's public address systems, mass texting services, and all relevant social and news media after the disappearance of SCP-1141-1 and the departure of MTF Gamma-80 in order to prevent dissemination of information regarding SCP-1141 and related Foundation operations. Damage to zoo property and any casualties are to be attributed to fire, vandalism, or animal escape as deemed appropriate to the situation. Should Site-85's budget allow, an anonymous donation may be made to the affected zoo to cover costs of repairs.

As of ██/██/████, additional resources have been allocated to projects deemed capable of neutralizing SCP-1141, with all strictly relevant research under the purview of Dr. Edelmann.

Description: SCP-1141 is a phenomenon in which an instance of SCP-1141-1 instantaneously appears at a public zoo in the New England region of the United States. This occurs approximately thirty minutes prior to the opening time of the zoo in question. The infrastructure and nearby structures (such as utilities, enclosures, pathways, and other buildings) will be altered to accommodate SCP-1141-1's presence, as will maps of the zoo. SCP-1141 will only occur under the following conditions.

No instances of SCP-1141-1 are operational.

Less than 20% of the zoo's grounds are covered in snow.

The temperature has been above 15°C during operating hours for the past week.

At least 250 days have passed since the demanifestation of the most recent instance of SCP-1141-1.

Instances of SCP-1141-1 take the form of a fully staffed, supplied, and operational restaurant that is thematically consistent with other restaurants in the zoo and with the area of the zoo in which it is located. For example, an instance of SCP-1141 that manifested near a leopard enclosure was called "Leopard's Spot Snack Shack". Food served at SCP-1141-1 is consistent with food served at similar establishments, with the exception of each instance offering guacamole with pineapple chunks. Food and other supplies will appear as needed inside SCP-1141-1, out of view of the public. Staff of the zoo will not demonstrate any familiarity with SCP-1141-1.

All individuals staffing SCP-1141-1 are anatomically and behaviorally consistent human beings, and will run SCP-1141-1 to the best of their ability. These individuals are fluent in English and knowledgeable in the operation of SCP-1141-1. They are either unwilling or unable to answer personal questions (such as identity and personal history) or questions pertaining to the nature or origin of SCP-1141. They will not leave SCP-1141-1 willingly.

Instances of SCP-1141-1 have an unpredictable and often dangerous effect on their surroundings. The exact cause of this is not known with certainty; however, analysis has led several researchers to propose that instances of SCP-1141-1 do not necessarily operate under physical laws or constraints present in our dimension prior to their manifestation. See Event Log SCP-1141-1 for details.

If an instance of SCP-1141-1 is rendered inoperable or if its presence causes obvious injury to a person visible from SCP-1141-1, the instance will demanifest within the next twenty-five minutes, with all infrastructure, structures, and maps of the zoo returned to their previous condition. All food items sold by SCP-1141-1 will remain, and may continue to demonstrate anomalous properties.

Event Log SCP-1141-1

All locations and several manifestations have been removed from this document as per Level 2-Probationary Clearance protocols. This document will serve to illustrate the effects of SCP-1141 and should not be taken as a comprehensive list of SCP-1141 events.

Year: July 1985 Event: Accurate description of SCP-1141-1 could not be gained. Instance and all of its contents manifested at approximately 5000°C; despite this, it appeared to be fully functional and did not combust. The instance disappeared after its foundation crumbled, resulting in structural collapse. Fire caused by SCP-1141-1 destroyed several animal enclosures and injured four park employees before being extinguished.

Year: June 1990 Event: SCP-1141-1 manifested as the "Amazon Basin Café". While the building remained intact, SCP-1141-1 appeared to experience gravitational force approximately 2.3 times stronger than Earth's surface gravity. Two orders of french fries were procured prior to SCP-1141-1's disappearance due to an inability of its staff to serve customers. Testing indicated that this food had no greater mass than comparable french fries, yet weighed 2.3 times as much as their mass would indicate.

Year: June 1991 Event: SCP-1141-1 was entitled "A Grizzly Tale". The instance was found to be fully operational and not immediately dangerous. A variety of food items were purchased before SCP-1141-1's disappearance was induced by the placement of Foundation guards to prevent entry. Analysis of the food indicated that its de Broglie wavelength was approximately 1 cm, despite having a normal mass. The food has been designated as a separate anomalous item and is contained at Site-86.

Year: April 1992 Event: SCP-1141-1 was not detectable aside from alterations to infrastructure. Maps of the zoo marked a restaurant called "Safari Grill". The changes to the zoo's infrastructure reverted two hours after opening, presumably when it became apparent that none of the zoo's patrons were aware of SCP-1141-1. Later records indicate that relatively frequent repairs to structures near this area have been necessary since this manifestation.

Year: September 1994 Event: SCP-1141-1 manifested as "The Glacier Café". Reports and later analysis indicate that this instance of SCP-1141-1 was subject to drastically accelerated buildup of static electricity. SCP-1141-1 did not appear to be grounded; further, weather conditions at the time, including winds in excess of 50 kph, contributed to this problem. Seventeen individuals, not including the occupants of SCP-1141-1, were killed by static discharge before SCP-1141-1 disappeared.

Audio Log 1141-7

Conversation between two individuals occupying SCP-1141, recorded July 1978 via hidden microphone. The individuals in question have been identified as one Duane and Betty according to the names on their nametags. The conversation was held in English.

Note: Special Containment Procedures at the time of the recording involved keeping a relatively safe instance of SCP-1141-1 in operation at the █████████ Zoo. Access was denied to the general public, and personnel regularly purchased food from SCP-1141-1 to maintain containment.

Duane: I don't think they're actually eating the food. The maintenance people have been carrying out more trash than they were when we were scouting.

Betty: So? They're still buying it. Does it matter if they eat it?

Duane: I didn't get into the restaurant business in this universe to not be allowed to actually serve my food to the public, [unintelligible]. It's probably poison or something, isn't it. Or Miranda messed up the speed of light again. I can't even tell.

Betty: So why don't you go talk to them and convince them to let us work? They know we won't break containment or whatever it is, right? We can talk and act just like people.

Duane: And how do I convince them that it won't end up like it did in ███████? Or █████████? I swear, a tiny fraction of the ketchup is accidentally ██████████ and you can't be trusted with anything.

Betty: Asking some human scientists for help is out of the question?

Duane: You know they wouldn't understand anything about how we make this happen. They're still primitive.

Betty: According to your standards, maybe. But if you're going to be difficult, then whatever. Honestly, your obsession with 'restaurants' and 'zoos' is kind of creepy, and a little racist. Do humans even count as a race? I don't even know, honestly. I've been breathing oxygen for too long.

Duane: Well, you're perfectly free to leave, if it bothers you that much. Except you can't, because you lost your travel license in [unintelligible]. So you're stuck with me and this creepy, racist restaurant until Miranda can nail down their physics good enough for us to not kill anyone.

Betty: So now you care about killing humans?

Duane: [Unintelligible]. Just shut up. We're leaving.

SCP-1141-1 demanifested seven minutes later. Further attempts to restrict the public's access to SCP-1141-1 from that point on have resulted in SCP-1141-1 disappearing. Containment protocols have been altered appropriately, and SCP-1141-1 has been upgraded to Keter class.

Addendum: Notes from Drs. Edelmann and Foster:

“Until we fully understand and can predict the properties of SCP-1141, the possibility remains that it could trigger a catastrophic event, such as an antimatter explosion or vacuum metastability event, with no forewarning. I formally recommend fast-tracking research that could be useful in producing the means necessary to neutralize SCP-1141.”

“Approved.”

===

[The voice of Duane was provided by @navox-the-weary.] [The voice of Betty was provided by Spera Crinis.] [The voice of Dr. Edelmann was provided by @iridethedirt.]

===

[This episode was requested by Patreon patron Robert Curry. To join him in his support of the show, and to gain access to a number of patron-exclusive benefits, visit www.patreon.com/thescpfoundationdatabase.]

#phinnsy #scp foundation #reading #voiceover #storytelling #podcast #sci-fi #horror #urban legend #folklore #fiction #scp 1141 #patreon

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thevividgreenmoss · 5 years

Text

By any reasonable measure, the neoliberal dream lies in tatters. In 2008 poorly regulated financial markets yielded a world-historic financial collapse. One generation, weaned on reveries of home ownership as the coveted badge of economic independence and old-fashioned American striving, has been plunged into foreclosure, bankruptcy, and worse. And a successor generation of aspiring college students is now discovering that their equally toxic student-loan dossiers are condemning them to lifetimes of debt. Both before and after 2008, ours has been an economic order that, largely designed to reward paper speculation and penalize work, produces neither significant job growth nor wages that keep pace with productivity. Meanwhile, the only feints at resurrecting our nation’s crumbling civic life that have gained any traction are putatively market-based reforms in education, transportation, health care, and environmental policy, which have been, reliably as ever, riddled with corruption, fraud, incompetence, and (at best) inefficiency. The Grand Guignol of deregulation continues apace.

In one dismal week this past spring, for example, a virtually unregulated fertilizer facility immolated several blocks of West, Texas, claiming at least fourteen lives (a number that would have been much higher had the junior high school adjoining the site been in session at the time of the explosion), while a shoddily constructed and militantly unregulated complex of textile factories collapsed in Savar, Bangladesh, with a death toll of more than 1,100 workers.

In the face of all this catastrophism, the placid certainties of neoliberal ideology rattle on as though nothing has happened. Remarkably, our governing elites have decided to greet a moment of existential reckoning for most of their guiding dogmas by incanting with redoubled force the basic catechism of the neoliberal faith: reduced government spending, full privatization of social goods formerly administered by the public sphere, and a socialization of risk for the upper class. When the jobs economy ground to a functional halt, our leadership class first adopted an anemic stimulus plan, and then embarked on a death spiral of austerity-minded bids to decommission government spending at the very moment it was most urgently required—measures seemingly designed to undo whatever prospective gains the stimulus might have yielded. It’s a bit as though the board of directors of the Fukushima nuclear facility in the tsunami-ravaged Japanese interior decided to go on a reactor-building spree on a floodplain, or on the lip of an active volcano.

So now, five years into a crippling economic downturn without even the conceptual framework for a genuine, broad-based, jobs-driven recovery shored up by boosts in federal spending and public services, the public legacy of these times appears to be a long series of metaphoric euphemisms for brain-locked policy inertia: the debt ceiling, the fiscal cliff, the sequestration, the shutdown, the grand bargain. Laid side by side, all these coinages bring to mind the claustrophobic imagery of a kidnapping montage from a noir gangster film—and it is, indeed, no great exaggeration to say that the imaginative heart of our public life is now hostage to a grinding, miniaturizing agenda of neoliberal market idolatry. As our pundit class has tirelessly flogged the non-dramas surrounding the official government’s non-confrontations over the degree and depth of the inevitable brokered deal to bring yet more austerity to the flailing American economy, we civilian observers can be forgiven for suspecting that there is, in fact, no “there” there. For all their sound and fury, these set-tos proceed from the same basic premises on both sides, and produce the same outcome: studied retreat from any sense of official economic accountability for, well, anything.

...You’d think that our recent bruising encounters with the devastating fallout from the deregulators’ handiwork in the housing market of the early aughts should, by rights, render Friedman’s complaints about the public sector’s assaults on market virtue the deadest of dead letters. But, if anything, the ritual defense of the market’s sovereign prerogative has dug in that much more intractably as its basic coordinates have been discredited. As critics such as Dean Baker routinely point out, the stalled recovery out of the Great Recession is almost exclusively a function of the failure of our neoliberal economic establishment to speak honestly about a collapsed housing bubble that created a yawning shortfall in demand—a shortfall that, amid the paralysis of credit markets in the same recession, could be jumpstarted only by government stimulus.

All sorts of absurdities have flowed from this magisterial breakdown in comprehension. Since the neoliberal catechism holds that stimulative government spending can never be justified in the long run, much of our debate over the recovery’s prospective course has been given over to speculative nonsense. Chief among these talismanic invocations of free-market faith is the great question of how to placate the jittery job creators. At virtually every turn in the course of debate over how steeply to cut government spending in this recession, our sachems of neoliberal orthodoxy have insisted that any revenue-enhancing move the government so much as contemplated would spook business leaders into mothballing plans to expand operations and add jobs. It became the all-purpose worst-case scenario of first resort. If health care reform passed, if federal deficits expanded, or if marginal tax rates were permitted to rise for the vapors-prone investor class, why, then the whole prospect of a broad-based economic recovery was as good as shot.[*]

And since neoliberalism is most notably a global—or properly speaking, the globalizing—ideology, such pat distortions of economic reality are no longer confined to the Anglo-American political economy. Nor are they confined to strictly cognitive errors in policymaking. The collapse of the Rana Plaza garment factory in Bangladesh has yielded commentary from neoliberals that might well merit entry into the psychiatric profession’s DSM-5 as textbook illustrations of moral aphasia. Here, after all, was a tragedy that would appall even the darkest Victorian imaginings of a Charles Dickens or a Karl Marx: factory workers earning a monthly wage of $38 crowded into a structurally unsound multistory facility built on a foundation of sand above a drained pond. Three stories of the factory had been hastily erected on top of an already unsound existing structure just to house the fresh battalions of underpaid workers demanded by bottom-feeding international textile contractors.

Government inspectors repeatedly demanded that the facility be shuttered on safety grounds, but the plant’s proprietors ignored their citations, reckoning that the short-term gains of maintaining peak production outweighed the negligible threat of a fine or safety citation. Nor was there likely to be any pressure from Western bastions of enlightenment and human rights. The ceremonial stream of Astroturf labor-and-safety-inspecting delegations from Western nations made zero note of the cracked and teetering foundations of the Rana Plaza structure. Lorenz Berzau, the managing director of one such industry consortium (the Business Social Compliance Initiative), primly told the Wall Street Journal that the group isn’t an engineering concern—and what’s more, “it’s very important not to expect too much from the social audit” that his group and other Western overseers conduct on production facilities. And, as Dave Jamieson and Emran Hossain reported in the Huffington Post, labor organizers have long since learned that the auditing groups serve largely as pro forma conduits of impression management for consumer markets in the West. The auditing of manufacturing facilities in the developing world “ends up catering more to the brands involved than the workers toiling on the line,” Jamieson and Hossain write.

Yes, factory owners and managers well understand the permissible bounds of discourse in such Potemkin-style inquiries—and instruct their workforce accordingly. “What to say to the auditors always comes from the owners,” a Bangladeshi line worker named Suruj Miah told the two reporters. “The owners in most cases would warn workers not to say negative things about the factories. Workers are left without a choice.” Sumi Abedin, one of the survivors of an earlier disaster—a factory fire in the nearby Tazreen plant that claimed the lives of 112 workers in November 2012—told the Huffington Post that on the day of an international audit team’s visit, management compelled workers to wear T-shirts designating them as members of a nonexistent fire safety committee, and had them brandishing prop fire-extinguishing equipment that plant managers had procured only for the duration of the audit.

What this disaster ought to have driven through the neoliberal consensus’s collective solar plexus is something close to the polar opposite of its cherished, evidence-proof theory of the captive regulator: a largely cosmetic global watchdog effort funded overwhelmingly by private-sector concerns, far from delivering oversight and accountability, has incentivized fraud and negligence. And conveniently enough, it’s the race-to-the-bottom competitive forces unleashed by the global workplace that ritually sanctify all of this routine dishonesty. In their malignant neglect of worker safety measures, local factory managers are able to cite the same market pressures to maximize production and profit that have prevented the ornamental Western groups conducting audits of workplace safety practices from releasing their findings to the workers at risk of being killed by the neoliberal regime of global manufacturing.

Still, the dogmas of neoliberal market prerogative are far sturdier than a collapsing factory or a raging fire on the production line. If the dogmatists have thrown overboard Hayek-era intellectual values like experimentation and skepticism, at least they can stave off their inevitable extinction by shoring up Friedman-era platitudes and, from the mantles of the nation’s most prestigious universities and op-ed shops, try to pass them off as the nation’s highest common sense. So former University of Chicago law professor Richard Epstein, who helped found the influential law and economics movement that essentially transposed the shibboleths of public choice theory into legal doctrine, has patiently explained that the just and measured response to the collapse of Rana Plaza is to seek enforcement of preexisting building codes across the Bangladeshi private sector. Writing on the heels of the disaster, in the Hoover Institution’s web journal, Defining Ideas, Epstein takes pains to rule out the passage of any “new laws” to improve worker-safety standards or international monitoring efforts.In other words: Bangladeshi workers can either be more safe or starve more rapidly.But lest even this minimal recourse to regulation sound like too heady a plunge into statist remedies, Professor Epstein also cautions that the aggrieved and grieving workers in the Bangladeshi garment trade must not veer recklessly into unionism or other non-market-approved modes of worker self-determination. After all, he reasons, “in order to stave a shutdown off by improving factory safety, the savvy firm will have to raise its asking price from foreign purchasers . . . and may have to lower wages to remain competitive.” (This is another classic myth of the neoliberal faith—the rational “trade-off” between personal safety and wages that the independent broker makes when he or she contracts with an employer to freely exchange time and skills for wages. Only, of course, the notion of such rational choice has been reduced to a bitter farce in workplaces such as Rana Plaza, where the basic human rights of workers are only acknowledged theatrically, for the purposes of Potemkin auditing tours.) A more activist approach to the crisis in global worker safety would create intolerable distress to Epstein’s utopian vision of the carefully calibrated relations of global market production. Sure, the EU might ban exports of clothes bearing the taint of labor exploitation—but such a measure would just perversely create “undeserved economic protection” for EU economies that are net clothing exporters (and by implication, would deprive consumers of the sacred right to the cheapest possible attire that bullied and undercompensated labor can provide).

Neoliberalism, the Revolution in Reverse

#this one goes #essays #*

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drumpfwatch · 5 years

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Da Wall

So, I promised I’d talk about the wall, so let’s talk about the Wall. This essay will be divided into three parts. Why it’s racist and hateful, why it’s a bad idea regardless of all of that, and what better ways we could possibly spend the money Trump wants for the wall.

PART 1: WHY THE WALL IS RACIST AND HATEFUL

I feel like this is one of those things that, from the onset, should be obvious. If we’re so concerned about immigrants coming into the country, why is no one arguing for a border wall to be built on our northern border to keep these scummy Canadians out, what with their always saying “soh-rry” and gun control. No, we’re targeting the people from Iran and other Middle Eastern countries, whose homes have been destroyed and burned in part by our own hands. No one’s stopping red haired people on the street to ask them if they have their papers lest they be sent back to Ireland because they’re all drunkards and stinky (at least not anymore). No, we’re interested in keeping the Mexicans out, whose country has been ravaged by gangs and horrors.

So when people talk about keeping “immigrants” out of America, they’re not actually talking about immigrants. They’re talking about brown people. At this point, that should be common knowledge, but it somehow isn’t. That should be enough right there to prove point the first, but let’s throw one or two more things into the pot to prove the pattern.

If racial hatred isn’t the reason for this wall, then what might be? Safety? I mean sure, a giant, massive, border spanning wall would make an invasion difficult, but Mexico - or any of the South American countries - aren’t exactly interested in sending an army to attack us and take over.

No, they really aren’t. Despite what the president is saying, MS13 is not taking over American towns. They have members who live in those towns and operate within those towns, but they certainly can’t be shown to be “ruling” a town in any capacity. Prove me wrong. Name a city taken over by MS13. Further, MS13 is actually a transnational group that is both American and Mexican, but that’s a whole other story.

The point here is that there’s no real threat. We’ll talk more about this later, in the second section of this essay, but the people coming to America from the South are often people fleeing MS13 and trying to get away, and they do not make up the majority of illegal immigrants. They’re also not in any regard, illegal. They come seeking asylum, and there is nothing illegal about seeking asylum. These people have to go threw and incredibly long and obnoxious process designed to root out people who might be, say, MS13 members. That process itself is full of broken and stupid problems that I could write an entire essay on, but that’s besides the point. The point is that these people who are sneaking across the border aren’t sneaking in and getting caught by the guards, they are deliberately finding border patrol agents and surrendering themselves to them in the hopes of living a better life in America. These people are fleeing tragedy, they are not, as our President has called them, rapist and thieves. Why in the everloving hell would you want to come to America if you were a criminal, our police force is better (and also fucking hates you for your skin color half the time) and it’s just harder to get away with stuff here.

So what other reason could there be? Glory? Don’t we revere the Chinese for their mighty wall? Yes, but most of it has since crumbled, the project took 2000 years, and the process of working on it was so intense that it’s said people were buried in the foundations because there was no where else to put them. As you might imagine for a wall that took 2000 years to build, it was also built with different materials and was impossible to maintain, which is They why most of it no longer exists. The Great Wall of China was built to keep out barbarians - literal, honest to god sword swinging, shield bearing, head-severing, plague-body-catapult-launching barbarians. Our wall is being built to keep out the suffering and weary.

Besides, if “Glory” is really your interest, there are other, cooler things we could build beside a wall. A symbol of division and separation. What about building a new statue of liberty? Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free. But no, you want a wall.

I’ve heard other reasons, but I think I’ve established that the wall isn’t for glory, or for security, or for anything else. The wall is to keep brown people out. A people who are looking for help. And amusingly, it’s not even going to work.

And you wanna know the funny thing? Not even the Great Wall worked to keep those barbarians out. Which brings us rather nicely to Part 2.

PART 2: WHY THE WALL IS A BAD IDEA REGARDLESS

So, there’s no reason to build the wall that isn’t “we don’t want them Mexicans comin’ into our country”, and I think I demonstrated that pretty clearly. But what if you still don’t believe me? Or what if you’re the sort of sick, disgusting sack of shit who’s freely willing to admit that you want to keep Mexicans out because they’re polluting your race or whatever nonsense. Well sadly, the wall isn’t going to work.

The big nail in that coffin here is that the majority of “Illegal Immigrants” are here not because they snuck past the border and got in, they came here legally and just overstayed their visas. They enjoyed the life they led here so much they wanted to stay in spite of the rules (and in spite of the racism), that should be something we’re proud of. Sure they’re breaking the laws, but we should be altering those laws. Maybe we give Visas for longer (for instance, no small number of these cases are students who overstay because they were unable to complete their course work in the time expected, usually because of a change in major) or maybe we have an easier pathway for people who have temporary visas to become permanent migrants.

Point is, sneaking through hidden in trucks isn’t actually how this is happening. These people are coming to America, legally seeking asylum or otherwise surrendering themselves in the hopes of finding a better life. They want to live here because they genuinely think it’s better. Then we started ripping their children away from them and leaving deep emotional scars that probably won’t go away for a long time, if at all.

But what if that doesn’t matter to you? You’re concerned about the drugs coming through the border. Well buddy, most drugs come through legal ports of entry, hidden in teddy bears or orifices no one wants to think about. Hell I’ve heard tell of a family stuffing their recently dead baby with drugs and pretending it was sleeping the whole time. They almost got away with it too. But those people were tourists who came in on planes, or occasionally boats, not on foot through the border crossing where they’re going to be stripped and inspected within an inch of their life.

But all of this ignores the simple fact that even if there were a large amount of people sneaking into the country, getting pass the border patrol agents with drugs and guns and taking over Texan and Californian towns, a wall isn’t going to stop them. How do we know? Because walls have already been built in certain places along the border, and it took the people who do sneak through about a month to dig a tunnel under the wall that took the government years to actually locate.

It doesn’t help that ne’er-do-wells could buy a ladder for a couple hundred dollars that can scale the wall, depending on how tall the stupid thing is (I found a few 35 foot ladders for about $300-$400 dollars) and a pair of wire cutters that can cut through barbed wire for 13, 14 dollars and another 12 dollars for for the rope to get down. Each of these could also be reused as often as necessary, with the rope needing the most replacement. This wouldn’t exactly be a stealthy way of doing the project, but the fact that it’s not that hard and pretty much within anyone’s capacity to do and think of should be proof enough that this is a really stupid idea. The wall will not deter immigrants. It will inconvenience them at most. If stripping them of their children didn’t stop them coming this way won’t either.

So the wall won’t accomplish the task it’s touted for, and even if it did, it’s an easily surmounted problem. But the wall is also actually a huge problem in a lot of ways you wouldn’t expect. A lot of little caveats pop up as you try and build this stupid thing, so let’s go over a few of them.

The first is acquiring the land for this undertaking. As it turns out people actually own that land who aren’t the United States. After all, there’s almost 2,000 miles to cover! We know this because border fencing already exists along some 600 miles of it, sporadically placed, and some of that land was taken from good, wholesome Texan farmers. One such family tells the story of how they used that land for pasture and crop growing. They couldn’t well move because of the complexity of their operation, and the difficulty of moving an entire farming operation as big as they had, so the government seized their land anyway through eminent domain, and effectively left them almost homeless and without their livelihood.

I don’t know how much land along the border isn’t owned by the United States. But given how much of a problem this was for just that quarter section of it, I doubt it won’t be a problem. The government just taking people’s lands because they want to is not a precedent we want to set under any circumstances, especially if those circumstances are racism.

But let’s pretend that isn’t a problem.

Let’s say you’re the sort that doesn’t mind private citizens losing their property for The Greater Good™, consider that that isn’t the only issue. There’s the matter of treaties. Some of that land happens to be on Native American reservations, so taking it for this...well, let’s say they tend not to be too happy about that. Especially since the last time more than one of their grave sites was busted up. But then there’s also the Rio Grande, which stretches for 350 miles between Texas and Mexico, and is protected by various treaties, one of which says that you can’t build anything that would disrupt it’s flow.

But let’s pretend that isn’t a problem either.

The next issue is getting the material to the actual construction site. As it turns out, concrete and steel don’t get up and walk on their own and build themselves, they have to be carted to the site. This will, needles to say, be difficult. Roads will have to be built along the wall so that these materials can be transported, or specialized trucks will have to be used. Either way, that’s more money for the wall then just the wall. Lots of little things like this show up. There are forests in the way, those have to be cut down. What about property the government doesn’t seize? Is it alright to sandwich that between the border wall and the actual border? It’s happened before! So we already have all this extra nonsense in addition to the nonsense of the wall itself.

But let’s pretend that this, too, is somehow magically not a problem.

There’s also environmental concerns. I mentioned before the Rio Grande is a problem because of treaties around it, but that treaty exists for a reason. Blocking the river will cause huge problems because you’re damming it up! Suddenly everything on the other side of the wall doesn’t have that water, and I shouldn’t have to explain why that’s a problem. Habitat is being destroyed, either cause serious problems or else it will be a weak spot in the wall, and I’m not sure how he plans to build the whole thing without crossing it at some point without building more stupid wall all the way up to Colo-freakin’-rado! There’s also all the natural habitat of animals that’s going to be disrupted by a massive stupid wall. Not saying that there will be ecological collapse, but we already have a species or two there on the Endangered Species list.

But let’s pretend that this is also not a problem.

Each of these little problems ratchetts the price of Da Wall up. Clearing pathways, building roads, carrying the concrete and steel to the site, buying the land from people (or the money required to steal it away), all of these add more money, and that’s if money is your primary concern. The environment, the livelihoods of innocent people, the treaties we break, and the changes all caused by this stupid thing. So if your only concern is money - your own money - then the wall is still a bad idea because it will cost you, the American Taxpayer, a shitton of money.

The Trumby wanted 5.7 billion for it, but actual estimates by people who actually build this sort of stuff think that the actual wall will take closer to 12 billion. You will be paying for that, not Mexico - the shutdown was proof enough of that. So can we all agree the wall is a really stupid idea? Please? Let’s think about some better things we could do with just that 5.7 Billion he demanded in the shutdown.

PART 3: BETTER WAYS TO SPEND THE MONEY

So what are some better ways we could spend 5.7 billion dollars. Well, first, with that money, we could replace the pipes in Flint Michigan - 100 times over. So what else can we add on top of that. You could do what I suggested when I first wrote an anti-wall post under another name, and you could give everyone in America a 10 dollar cake, (with 5 dollars for shipping). You’d still have 651 million leftover tool! Subtract the 55 million from that to fix flint and you still have 596 million dollars left over. Hm, what else can we do. We could then spend about 400 million to recreate about 40 Neanderthals - a reproductively viable population - and have another human species around. Not only would we learn some cool stuff, I’d personally love to have a Neandtheral friend. That leaves us with 196 million to work with. I’m tired of doing math at this point, but I think you could start an 8 acre solar farm with that money in the Mojave or something. And finally we could spend another 55 million dollars on a private island just for me because I DESERVE SOMETHING NICE DAMN IT.

We could also go back to the Moon, that’d not only be a glorious endeavor but one that would actually further science. Heaven forbid our country do that, though. I looked around and the estimates I saw when I researched the number said we could travel back and forth from the moon for 700,000,000 the first time, and then fly there and back again TEN MORE TIMES.

And that’s with the low figure. I computed that you could buy every homeless person in America a house, buy each state in the Union its own private jet for public use, and still have more than enough to BUY EVERYONE ON THE EARTH A COPY OF OCTODAD: DADLIEST CATCH.

You want me to go on? Because I totally can, I’m enjoying the hell out of this. What are some ideas you have that we could better spend 5.7 BILLION on.

#Da Wall #Drumpfwatch #Wednesday Essays #by Phoenix

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jinkisbelly · 6 years

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Champion No More 1/?

This is the Fight arena au that I had posted on Ao3, being I’m going to update it soon I figured I’d post it here. Ao3 link

Rating: pg -13 (violence)

Pairing: Jongyu

w/c:2k

Summary: In a neighboring Kingdom where criminals and captives are forced to fight to the death, a Prince finds his past can no longer stay in his distant memories.

The stomping of the crowd above them caused tiny rock pebbles to fall around them. The rattle of the chains holding the prisoners’ hands and feet together couldn’t be heard of the noise above and before them through the small openings in the thick, metal bars. Out before them was the fighting arena, ground brown dirt, walls tall and thick up until a chain dome. Jonghyun scrunched his nose at the looming, dirty figures around him. He knew the people around him were the exact type his Father worked to eradicate, and he wondered what they would do if they knew who he really was. His thoughts, however, were mostly on his men that fought and died to protect him when they were attacked at the border. He never should have risked their lives following a group of bandits like that.

He was taken from his thoughts when he could hear the grunts of the people around him, the clank of their metal cuffs, and the heavy breathing he had felt on his neck since he was pushed into this God forsaken holding cell. He pushed up on his toes to look over the shoulder of the man in front of him and he slowly figured why silence had fallen. The crowd had stopped cheering when the King just across from them stood up, announcing the reigning Champion. The metal gate to the left opened with a loud clang, but Jonghyun couldn’t see him from behind the few giant men in front of him. The crowd roared, so loud it almost masked the sound of the challenger’s gate. The sound only calmed down when the King yelled, “And Begin!”

He knew sooner or later he would be pushed into that arena to fight for his life and from what he heard from the group cell he was thrown into when he was first brought into the compound, he would be fighting the standing Champion. Apparently, one who’s stood undefeated for more than three months. He tried to look past the men in front of him to see the Champion, but all he saw was the person’s back. Jonghyun sighed and settled for just listening.

---

The challenger kept circling, keeping her distance as her weapon was held with a tight fight. With a sigh, the Champion stuck one of his swords into the ground and leaned heavily on it. “Are we going to fight? I have a loaf of bread waiting for me when I kick your ass.” His voice was barely heard over the roar of the crowd.

Her jaw clenched with her gritted teeth and weapon being raised to point at him. A small smirk lifted on the corner of the Champion’s mouth when she charged him with a yell. He watched her feet as he waited to pull his second sword free from the dirt. She was unsteady, all the fear and rage changing her technique he could see she had with the way she was holding her long sword. He could cut her down fairly quickly and easily, but he was thrown into this for the entertainment of the King’s people, and he would give them all a show. He stayed leaning on his sword until she had her sword moving toward him, but before the blade could land on him he had his blades up blocking the blow. Her balance was off without a good foundation under her and with a shove, she stumbled away. “Is that all you got? I thought you were an Assassin… I feel cheated.”

She growled as she squared up again, “You’ll die this day Pirate.”

“Mm,” Jinki twisted his blades to stretch his wrists for a moment as he glanced at her with a smirk on his face. “That’s Captain to you.”

----

That voice.. He knew it. It was like a ghost from the past, going straight through him and taking his breath away. Before he could stop his feet from moving he was wiggling and moving around the men in front of him to have a clear look at the arena. He had to wait for the Champion to turn, but the moment he saw that smile his suspicion was proved to be correct. There stood Jinki. His hair was longer, but it was the same dark red tinted color he had as a child. His skin was darker, kissed by the sun, and there was a scar down his left cheek.

Jonghyun couldn’t breathe. Jinki was supposed to be dead. Thirteen years since he accepted Jinki was gone and would never be coming back, and there he was. Moving swift and agile as he cut his opponent down. Her blade never even was close to blocking his attack as it fell to the ground. Jinki pulled his blades from her chest, and Jonghyun watched curiously as the man kneeled down and closed her eyes. He mumbled something with his own eyes closed before he rose and walked back toward his entry point. He threw his swords into the dirt a little ways from him and waited. His eyes never left the woman’s body until she was dragged away.

Jinki was alive and Jonghyun would probably have to fight him for his freedom.

----

The holding cell he was put into was smaller than the other, but he wasn’t alone. He shared the space with 3 other captives. They were big, gross looking men and one woman who seemed to sit next to him. He knew what would happen to women put into cells with these types of men. He could peer through the small window of bars in the middle of the thick wooden door if he stretched his neck far enough, but there was much out there but stone and other cells. There were individual cells to the left from what he saw on the trip back from watching the fight. He wondered what cell Jinki was in. His thoughts barely left the man after the realization that he was alive hit him so harshly as he witnessed him cut his opponent down so swiftly.

If the words of the woman were to be taken as the truth Jinki was a pirate, a captain at that. Is that where he had gone when he disappeared all those years ago? Is that where he had been for the three years Jonghyun searched for him before giving up? How could he give up the life they planned together for one of pillaging and murder on the sea? His head hit the stone behind him as his eyes fluttered closed and his thoughts drifted to how Jinki glowed against the green of the grass in the hills behind the castle they used to ride down, how rich his hair was swirling in the waters of the sea as they swam where the castle curved around the shore, and the way he made hands rough with years of work feel so smooth and soft against Jonghyun’s skin.

He was almost losing himself in his thoughts when the woman shifted roughly against him brought him from them. His eyes snapped open to find the bigger of the two men had approached the woman and was trying to touch her where she did not want him to. Jonghyun could tell she wasn’t a fighter like the woman who died in the ring with Jinki just before, just an unfortunate soul who got sold or captured into this horrible mess. Her eyes were big and pleading as she turned toward him. She wanted his help and Jonghyun wasn’t about to witness a cruel act if he didn’t need to.

He grabbed the man’s wrist and with his other hand slammed the side of it firmly against the inside of the man’s elbow. “She does not want this.”

The other man across the room growled, “Don’t get involved in something you cannot handle, Little man.”

Jonghyun sighed, “You just had to mention my size.”

By the time the guards got the door unlocked and open the two big men were unconscious on the floor and the woman was helping to stop the blood dripping from the cut on Jonghyun’s cheek with a piece of cloth ripped from her tunic. He spit onto the dirt dusted stone floor as he glared up at the guards, “Maybe next time separate the men from the women.”

--------

Jinki sat on the floor just by his cot, softly rubbing at his wrists and hands as he stared where the floor and the cobblestone wall met just across from him. The woman’s face was still so fresh and present in his mind. Her bright green eyes, the scar on her left eyebrow, the heat in her gaze and the confidence of her step, flashing through his vision in tiny little images. She would fade, just like the rest, but not for some time. Not until the next week when another captive was thrown into the ring with him and he would again have to kill them for his own life.

With his eyes closed, he pressed his palms against his temples and deeply breathed to try and calm down. Life on the sea wasn’t exactly moral, but unnecessary killing was something that seeped deep into his bones and shook him to the core. What made his life any better than those he was taking? What made his life worth enough to keep adding people to the list of opponents he had to cut down to still be here? He growled, anger bubbling up in him, as his hands curled tightly into fists. He had met cruel people, a few were apart of his crew, but none viewed death and killing with such amusement and entertainment as the King and his people watching these fights every week. His assassin enjoyed death, but it was more the rush of excitement, the exercise of his muscles going in for the kill, and always the target was given a proper death. Jinki knew his opponents were lucky to have dirt thrown back over them once they were tossed into the ditch dug for them.

Soon the season would come to an end and someone would be given their freedom. Jinki was determined to be that someone and no one was going to come through that metal gate that would change that.

------

The next two fights were over before they even begun. Jinki was tired of putting on a show for longer than he needed to. Each time his opponent was cut down Jonghyun could see the flame inside his eyes dim just a little more. After the second was killed and crumbled onto the ground Jonghyun felt thick hands grip his shoulders and tug him through the men. Standing before him was the King’s Guard Captain, the man who controlled the fights. He sneered, “The next fight is the last. The winner will receive their freedom, and what better final opponent than a Prince.”

Panic filled Jonghyun’s chest as he was tugged through the underground of the stadium toward the opponent’s entry gate. He swallowed thickly as the body of the most recent challenger was dragged from the arena. He heard the announcement over the roar of the crowd barely. Jinki’s back was toward him, shoulders square and head held high as he listened for the crowds’ reaction to whoever was standing in the opposite gate. The gasp confused him and when he slowly turned what he saw was what he expected.

“And for the final fight, to whom the winner will be granted their freedom, the Champion’s challenger is a neighboring Prince, Jonghyun Kim of Yohal.”

Jonghyun first saw fear in Jinki in the almost month he had watched him fight when their eyes locked across the arena.

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#jongyu #jonghyun #onew #shinee #onjong #fight arena au

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