HAPPY TEN YEARS

THE ACCIDENT, circa 2010.

“ white male, mid 40s, looks like some sort of animal attack. multiple lacerations, centralized to the right abdomen – he's lost a lot of blood. ”

2,100+ words, tw - blood, mild gore, animal death, hospitals, mild emetophobia.

&&&

INT. POLICE CAR – NIGHT

“ yeah chief i’m en route now. bout two minutes out — ”

the radio chirps to life as sheriff wilkes responds, “ call was about some sort of disturbance at the old mill on mulberry. no suspect was spotted, but the caller said they heard a whole lotta commotion coming from somewhere out back. said she could hear a voice, ” there’s a pause before the sheriff speaks again.

“ —don’t go doing anything stupid, son. ”

“ can’t make any promises, sir, ” he lets out a slight exhale of a laugh before placing the radio back on the dock.

the mill is right down the road, gabe remembers, just far enough on the edge of town to not have to deal with many calls, but close enough to residents to be concerned when the situation arises.

EXT. DECOMMISSIONED MILL

he parks the mustang by the street, not wanting to risk any stray gunfire in the event of a shootout, but this means he has to walk the rest of the way to the sight of the call. jogging down the dirt path toward the massive old building, he waits until he’s a bit closer to unholster his gun, retrieving his flashlight from the utility clip on his belt as well.

at first glance, the door doesn’t appear to have been tampered with. gabe takes a deep breath and begins to circle the perimeter.

he knows offhand there are four exits to the building, including two garage doors, but the caller reported hearing noise coming from inside— so he has to search for possible points of entry, before ultimately checking out the inside of the building for himself.

sucking in another centering breath, he proceeds, continuing past the first door and onto the second, gun and flashlight in position as he examines every window he passes.

he’s coming up to the third window, just before the second exit, when a soft snap stops him in his tracks. a brief glance downward confirms no debris beneath his boots. eyes and firearm scanning the grass beside the building, gabe ultimately comes up empty, proceeding forward.

maybe it was a squirrel. or the wind.

he shakes away the thought, doubtful that he could be so lucky. in fact, his luck just about runs out as he approaches the second exit.

there’s broken glass, blood.

the small glass paneling along the top half of the door’s been shattered.

someone’s been here.

INT. DECOMMISSIONED MILL — MAIN OFFICE

the door creaks open as he nudges it forward, careful to avoid stepping on the worst of the glass, or the blood. but it quickly becomes much harder as he makes his way through the abandoned central office toward the door leading to the factory floor.

there’s a trail of blood this time, and viscera, leading past the open office door and out into the other room. there are marks in the trail, clearly footprints, but barely distinguishable.

unknown if animal or human.

the thought of finding an animal out on the factory floor, coupled with the sheer amount of blood he’s already seen, is enough to send a chill down gabe’s spine, but he powers through it, continues forward.

INT. DECOMMISSIONED MILL — FACTORY FLOOR

the moment he steps past the threshold, he has to suppress a gag.

he’s immediately hit with a smell so strong, so pungent, it makes his eyes water and his stomach clench.

one hand lifting to quickly block his nose and mouth, he scans the area, notices the blood trail continuing.

“ fuck. ”

taking a few short, shallow breaths through his shirt sleeve, so as to not take in too much more of the horrific smell, gabe swallows harshly, opting to hold his breath instead as he rounds the corner.

the blood finally stops after a few feet, but the sight it leads to is not for the faint of heart— or stomach.

it looks like a deer.

gabe is almost positive of that, but there’s not much left of it besides a pile of unidentifiable gore, antlers discarded a few feet away. the hand holding his flashlight once again sneaks upward to cover his mouth, the smell doing absolutely nothing to quell his roiling stomach or racing heart.

funnily enough, the more prominent trail of blood appears to stop right here, as if the deer were dragged through the mill and onto the factory floor, before being devoured— utterly eviscerated.

gabe’s eyes scan the area again, before locking onto a few scattered splotches of blood, a distorted footprint here and there; but they’re erratic, and there’s no clear path in any specific direction for him to follow.

he’s about to continue along the perimeter of the inside wall when something clatters onto the floor from somewhere behind the massive machines in the center of the room.

the urge to announce himself, to warn the intruder of his approach, is quickly quelled by the sound of something snuffling about. by sound alone, gabe can tell that it’s massive, whatever it is.

he clicks off his flashlight; there’s enough moonlight streaming through the skylight to illuminate the animal’s hulking form.

a wolf? no, too big — and moving much too fast and too unpredictably to be a bear.

gabe crouches down behind a wall, actively working to both calm his racing heart and come up with a plan of action. he doesn’t have any sort of tranquilizer on him, but he’s got to get rid of the creature somehow.

if it's already begun exploring buildings in town, it's already become too much of a risk to the residents.

the problem is, who’s to say it wouldn’t immediately come after him when provoked?

he peeks out from behind the wall at the continued racket coming from across the room. visible in the small space beneath the rusted machinery, are four monstrously large paws.

“ whatthefuck— ” he whispers breathlessly to himself before immediately clamping a hand over his mouth.

the creature pauses, listening.

gabe holds his breath.

after a few more seconds it goes back to tearing through whatever its discovered. old food stores? gabe’s not sure. he can’t think straight anymore. all he knows is he needs to get out and as far away from this building as possible. he’s got to warn the town. call animal control. call— the army? who the hell knows.

his thoughts are racing now and his movements aren’t as careful, but his gun is still gripped tightly in one hand, flashlight tucked back safely within his belt.

but as he stands, there’s a miscalculation, and the flashlight knocks into the surface of the work station he’s been hiding behind.

a single screw rolls its way off the edge and falls to the ground with a soft — tink.

&&&

EXT. DECOMMISSIONED MILL

gabe isn’t entirely sure how he made it back outside, but he’s almost certain that’s the moon he’s looking at in the sky right now.

he sucks in a shallow, ragged breath, wondering briefly why he’s on the ground, with the immediate pain that follows being his only answer.

there’s a growing warmth spreading from somewhere beneath his midsection, the source of the pain, and gabe swipes one hand clumsily across the ground before lifting it toward his face.

the action leaves him shaking with effort, but the result — draws a choked sob from his throat.

his fingers come away slicked with crimson.

he can feel the sticky heat spread all the way across the ground beneath his torso, the puddle growing with every continued heave of his chest.

the sick, heavy feeling in his stomach tells him he’s dying. he doesn’t want to believe it, but his vision is starting to go fuzzy and there’s a numbness in his toes, leeching out from the wound like a sickness.

gabe takes another ragged, deep breath, as deep as his body will allow, suddenly content to just lie there— the pain begins to fade anyway.

maybe he can just close his eyes, let go.

but then his sluggish mind snaps to the poor soul who might eventually find him.

would they — find him?

he’s not sure where he is in this exact moment, but he can’t have stumbled too far away from the mill. or been dragged. there’s a millisecond of an attempt to crane his neck to look, but he can barely manage that, his gaze drifting back up to rest on the glowing silver orb in the sky.

it is kind of beautiful, the moon. he’s never really paid enough attention to it before, which is a damn shame, he thinks.

gabe blinks heavily, and all of a sudden there’s a figure standing over him.

there’s not enough energy remaining in his body to allow him to flinch or react in any sort of way beyond a soft huh but—

it’s a man.

gabe doesn’t recognize him upon first glance, but there’s a strange familiarity in his eyes. stringy, dark hair hangs in clumps, obscuring much of the man’s face, but gabe can tell he’s filthy, caked with whatever the hell is causing that utterly rancid odor.

dirt and blood. a lot of it.

the man lingers over top of him for what feels like forever, and gabe only stares, mouth opening and closing a few times, like a fish out of water.

but just as suddenly as he’s appeared, the man vanishes.

“ hey— wait- h- ” gabe’s voice suddenly comes back to him, but the stranger is already long gone.

with one final burst of energy, gabe clumsily fishes for the walkie on his belt. he might be out of range, it might even be dead, but he’s got nothing left to lose, so he calls.

pleads.

cries.

officer down.

&&&

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM — A FEW DAYS LATER

the smell of antiseptic is what ultimately rouses him from sleep the next morning. memories of the night prior feel like something of a distant dream, or perhaps a nightmare.

had it actually happened?

the sharp tug of the adhesive holding gauze to his skin as he shifts in bed provides an immediate answer.

blinking awake, gabe takes in the sight of the empty hospital room with a sigh of quiet relief.

holy shit.

someone had found him in time.

and now he’s alive, in the hospital, no doubt healing from one of the worst animal attacks anyone in this town has ever seen—but alive.

he’s feeling moderately okay as well, which is a goddamn miracle, but the deep red stains visible through the back of the gauze wrapped around his midsection tell another story.

curiosity quickly gets the better of him and he shifts in bed, swinging his legs over the edge before he notices some items on the table nearby.

a single card sits beside a small blue teddy bear, the words it’s a boy! written across the soft white fuzz of its tummy.

guess they didn’t have any sorry you got attacked by a wolf-bear thing and almost died teddy bears left in the hospital gift shop, he thinks, eliciting a slight chuckle.

taking slowly to his feet, he scoops up the card for a moment as he passes the table.

love, dorothy.

of course.

gently returning the card to its place, he begins the slow shuffle toward the bathroom, dragging the IV pole and heart monitor behind him as he glances toward the door, making sure no one’s on their way in to stop him and return him swiftly to bed.

the coast seems clear, as he drags the metal contraption over the threshold and shuts the bathroom door behind him.

throughout his short trek from the bed to the toilet, he’s expecting to feel — much worse than he actually does. strangely enough, he feels better. almost energized. like he’s just woken up from a particularly restful nap.

he still looks fairly rough in the mirror though.

there’s a small amount of stubble covering his cheeks, the rest of his face littered with yellowing bruises and a multitude of butterfly stitches. context clues tell him this must not be his first night here.

he leans forward, inspecting the bandages adorning his face for a moment before gingerly peeling one off.

the skin beneath is smooth, no laceration in site.

gabe takes a step away from the mirror, brow furrowed in confusion.

suddenly, his hands are moving to push aside the hospital gown before he has a chance to think about what he’s doing, peeling away heavy, sanguineous cotton to reveal unmarred, clean skin, all before he can take in a second breath.

the pungent, coppery tang of the blood on the gauze is enough to send him sprawling for the toilet, heaving nothing but bile until his throat burns.

it’s then that the hospital staff barges into the bathroom to address the sudden spike in readings of his heart monitor.

gabe sits mute on the cold tile floor, racing heart suddenly filled with more questions than answers.

Ode to an Angel-Chapter 2

Summary: You had been alone in this apocalyptic world since you got seperated from your old group and lost your brother. You were on your way to an old metal factory in the hopes of finding your former group when a herd of walkers dragged you in to the woods. You took refuge in a hut, where you met him. You have got a long road ahead and some reckoning to do. (Set in the end of season 2)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader

A/N: Ahh... the second chapter is here... Thank you for your likes and reblogs for the first chapter. This is my first time writing Daryl, and I’m a nervous wreck, I don’t know if I’m doing this right ahaha! This chapter reveals more about the reader and her past! I can’t wait to dive deeper into this journey. Feedback is always appreciated. Please let me know what you like or don’t like about the story.

This chapter’s recommended song is “Because We Have To” by Low Roar. 

Spotify  Youtube

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 2  

Then…

At this point you didn’t even know who to trust, this man could even lead you into a trap for that matter. But you knew that the factory would be somewhere near the area he was showing you. 

“Thank you,” you said turning your head to face him. 

He got up from his knees as he let out a humming sound as a response.

“Ya gonna need more than just two bullets if ya gonna take tha’ route,” he said putting your gun and knife back on the table and left the cottage, closing the door behind him.

 Now…

The time had seemed to come and pass. There was a full moon when you had found the old metal factory, and you haven't seen another since then, which told you that it hadn't been a whole month since the factory.

It was a total failure. There were just dead workers walking around. There was nothing, no sign of settlement, no one… your chances of finding your former group were getting low.

You had checked half of the areas that you thought were their kind of places; remote, large, and safe. You didn't know where else to go anymore. They could even be dead by now. But if there were no place to look for, then you were going to look for them. You owed it to your brother.

However, you did not have the energy anymore, being on the road— on foot, was taking all the power you had in you. It could have been weeks since you’ve ended up alone, wandering around to find a bunch of people...

Moreover, you would most definitely be dead by now if it wasn’t for the man with the crossbow. Yes… a couple of weeks ago when you thought that he was taking half your food, he was actually leaving two of the canned food and an additional bottle of water for you. He did not say anything about it, you didn't know why he did it. He just helped you.

You remembered him looking at you before fumbling with his bag.

When you’d checked the drawers again before leaving the cottage, you’d spotted the mushroom soups and the bottle of water. Maybe he looked at you and saw no threat, just a broken girl. He could’ve easily pitied you.

It’d been two days since your food ran out and the boiled dirty water in your canteen was almost finished. You’d avoided eating frogs or snakes since then, but you were starving. It seemed like your belly was sticking to your spine and your lips were cracked from dehydration.

You were walking through the woods, trying to find the highway, then maybe a car to spend the night. The sun was high up in the sky, the Georgian summer heat working against you, your whole body was covered in sweat. The humidity was making it almost impossible to breath.

You could not bring yourself to lift your feet fully to take a step. At this point, you were just dragging them to keep you standing. When you couldn’t keep on going, you sat next to a large tree, laid your back against its trunk, and closed your eyes.

You were all gathered around the fire. The military camp that you took refuge had been bombed a week ago and you were on the run with your little group and your brother. Neither you nor your brother liked to be around people like them; selfish, loathing, and vulgar.

“More people mean better chance at surviving,” he told you, “We just have to put up with them.” You two moved away from the fire to come near the truck.

“I don’t trust them,” you said pointing your chin towards the group of four.

“I know, me neither…” he reassured you, “we need to stick with them ‘till we’re out of the city,” said he.

When the outbreak happened, you and your brother hit the road for the military camp. They said that it was a safe haven for all people, and it really was— until the government bombed the whole place down. You’d managed to get out with a small group of people. You were with them ever since.

“Okay, but I don’t know how long I can keep up with that asshole’s bullshit,” you said turning your head to the brunette man sitting beside the fire. He was just a few years older than your brother. He had good survivalist skills, but he was a total self-absorbed asshat, who kept ordering people around like he was the one in charge.

“You will have to try, sis, just a little while longer, ” your brother said as he wrapped his strong arms around your shoulders.

           You reluctantly opened your eyes. Resting for a few minutes did good for your body. You reached for your canteen to take sip from your little remaining water, wanting to boost your energy just a little more to keep going. As the warm water washed down your throat, you found yourself wanting more but you refused to drink any more.

           As you tried to get up from the forest floor and reached to support yourself, your hand connected with something slightly colder and moist. You turned your gaze towards the object and saw a large beige colored mushroom.

           You once ate a mushroom that looked just like this one, so you assumed that it was not poisonous. Even if it were, you were too hungry to think on it.

           “Hello dinner,” you said smiling to yourself as you reached for the wild plant.

           You broke the mushroom from its root with a swift motion. You did not want to waste your matches for cooking. You mostly used the matches to start a fire to boil the dirty puddle water. You blew air onto the large plant to get rid of the excess dirt and soil.

           You started to eat with such hunger that the mushroom was gone within minutes. You were far from being full, but it was going to have to do.

           You got up from the ground after eating the whole thing. You needed to move forward. The highway was only couple of hours away and you had plenty of time to get there before the sunset.

           To your surprise, you did not come across that many of the dead throughout the day. There were couple of stray ones here and there. You didn't even bother to kill them. To be honest, you were still scared to get close. You did not interact with them unless you had to.

           After a while of walking, you needed to stop as your stomach started to feel funny. You felt a sudden urge to throw up, but it didn’t happen. You were having hard time figuring out where to step as the trees were all in motion, their branches intentionally blocking your way. You continued walking, but you fell a moment later when the forest floor beneath you began to move. Mushroom…

           A second later, a piercing pain shoot through the left side of your waist, a warm red liquid spreading around a spot, marking the fabric of your top. You had just realized that you’d fallen over a piece of wood.

You sat on your knees and removed the piece of wood with a groan. You successfully got up despite the mobile ground and the biting pain on your abdomen.

When you were fully standing you untied your shirt around your waist and pressed it to your wound with one hand. Beads of sweat were crawling down your temples to your chin. Just as you were about to move your feet, you recognized a figure standing in front of you.

           It was a male figure, slightly taller than you, broad shoulders, dark greasy hair…

           “What the hell are you doing here?” The figure talked. His voice was very familiar.

           “What?” that was all you could say, you were in utter shock that the man appeared out of nowhere.

           “It isn’t worth it, (Y/N),” now that the he’d talked again, you finally figured out who the figure was.

           “Matt?” It was your brother. Your chin trembled as you spoke his name. This wasn’t real. No, it was not.

           “What you’re doing…isn’t worth it.” He repeated.

           “Yes—yes, it is…” you said. Your voice was hoarse because of the lump in your throat. Tears were threatening to spill.

           “Stop chasing something you’re not supposed to, sis,” he spoke so tenderly. You felt a pang of grief inside your chest. Well… at this point your heart was taken out of your chest and was squeezed in someone’s hands. That was what it felt like.

           “They killed you—,” your sentenced was cut when he spoke, “It doesn’t matter what they did to me. Be smart,” he urged you, his sharp gaze was piercing through you.

           “Matt…” you were going to argue but in the blink of an eye, the figure disappeared. “Matthew!” You shouted after him, but he was long gone, and it wasn’t meant to last. You knew that it was the mushroom. You ran after him anyway, not bothering the pain, but your legs failed to carry your weight as you fell flat o your face.

           Dehydration, starvation, and exhaustion all together had tired you. The poisonous mushroom and the blood loss did no good on top of all. The dizziness was unbearable now. Your stomach ached like someone had punched you with full force.

Sleep and it will be all over. A voice inside your head snapped. You struggled to get up, but your surroundings went dark and the last thing you saw was the dying sun on the Georgia horizon.

Your eyes fluttered open just a little as you feel yourself moving. But no, you were not laying on the rough forest ground. Instead, you were being carried. A moment later, your eyes closed again, not allowing you to identify the person carrying you.

Muffled voices raised around you; they were two men; you could tell that one of them was old.

“…your responsibility.” The older voice said.

Your mind immediately went to the sharp pain on your abdomen. You frowned at the aching pain as you opened your eyes.

“Hey, she’s waking up,” the younger man said. He looked like he was in his thirties and had dark wavy hair that he had swept back. His sounded cautious. Next to him was the older man.

“Where the hell am I?” You asked the older them; your voice was croaky from sleep.

“Good morning, my name is Hershel.” The man talked, he was much older than the other man, his hair was whiter than the snow. You did not know these people. The last thing you remembered was the sunset, the pain and a person carrying you in the dark. Maybe you did find what you were looking for all this time. But you had to be smart.

***

Chapter 3

Adrestia

i started this fic over a month ago and only recent finally figured out how to actually write it dang blast

fallen hero: rebirth, no spoilers, ~1.9k words

“Watch out, that’s Puppetmaster!”

A spike of adrenaline courses through you and you can’t help but cackle as you dive feet first through a a stack of boxes, sending crates of delicate electronic equipment everywhere. “Out of the way losers! I’ve got a a timetable to meet!” You can hear alarms sound around you as the factory  goes into full alert, the clanging of barring gates. You grin under the mirror sheen of your helmet. That suits you fine, keep the small fry penned up and out of the way? You’re too kind.

The wall in front of you collapses into dust and you tear through the office, grabbing at papers at random. What you take doesn’t actually matter, compromising their records is the goal here. Still you make sure to capture as much as you can on your in-suit camera so you can review everything later. You never know what kind of dirt you’ll find.

Damage done, you refer to your map, dissolve another wall and follow your thread out, back to the main entrance. As expected by this point, its Lady Argent, hands at her sides poised to rush you, a half-circle of rent-a-cop security goons behind her to block you in. “A factory, Puppetmaster? This a step down for you.” She hunches down, fingers lengthening into sharpened claws.

Your face twitches under your helmet. “Don’t read the papers, Argent? It’s Banshee.” You hiss. Your voice, filtered through your helmet has a hollow reverberating sound, like a bell. You take a quick count of Lady Argent’s back-up, who’s most pliable to tying up the rest. None of the officers seem to trust Argent. Good. That makes this easier.

The metallic woman looks unimpressed. “Can’t say I care what you call yourself.”

That does it.

One of the rent-a-cop’s guns goes off ‘prematurely’, firing wide to your left, the rest follow in blind panic as you dive to the side. Argent is too focused on you, but with the Rat-King’s help you’re able to pull the rest of the goof troop into your song, pulling their attention in random directions. One of the shots dings Argent in her shoulder, bouncing off to through ground and to her credit she doesn’t look for the culprit, making straight for you.

You run your hand along the ground as you move, leaving a split in the asphalt as the Nanovores chew through material. Lady Argent tries to cut you off so you encourage two of the goons to stumble into her way as you continue your circle around them. You can’t afford to move slow enough for a deep groove, but if this works as planned, all you need is to prime the cut.

If it works.

Argent huffs, shoving one of the men the side, only for the another to conveniently take position between the two of you. “Get out of the way!” It doesn’t slow her down long, but it’s enough for you to finish the circle. Under your helmet you grin, heart pounding. 

All that’s left is the magic word. You give the Rat-King the command to pull the strings and yank everyone back in.

You dash forward and slide down, just under the swipe of her claws. She turns to stab down at you as you come to halt. You roll out of the way and kick her arm aside on your way back up. 

You check to make sure everyone’s inside the circle you’ve carved through the asphalt. “Look alive boys,” is all the warning you give before an explosion rocks the ground under everyone’s feet. You leap back as the asphalt caves in under their feet. The coast is clear enough for the moment that you can risk taking a quick check of everyone’s mental state; a lot of fear and alarm, but the headcount is still the same. You think.

Hopefully.

You shake your head. Focus. Don’t get distracted.“Well, that’s not supposed to be there!” You call down to Argent, exaggerating the sarcasm in your voice. You watch Argent and the rest pick themselves up, clear rubble off their buddies. You have to steel your heart against it, remember who they are, what they represent. You admit though, Argent makes it easier, she’s staring up at you, a single silver middle finger outstretched.

You try not to laugh. Focus. Remember the goal. Don’t get distracted. “Maybe instead of chasing ghosts you should take a look around down there, hrm? Might be surprised what yo-“ You cut yourself off, the Rat-King pulling your attention away just in time to sidestep Herald's dive.

That’s a surprise, is Herald's back in action already? Weren’t they keeping him on the press circuit while his leg healed? Well, that’s his mistake to make, you suppose. You strike at his back as he goes past and send flyboy spinning head over heels down into the hole. Is he strong enough to carry Argent out? You don’t intend to stick around and see, it’s time to make yourself scarce. 

You don’t need to hear the stomping of boots in the hallway to know your time is almost up. You seal the envelope in your hands and push it across the desk to the man in the three piece suit cowering before you. “Looks like the party has arrived. Do consider what we’ve talked about, won’t you dear?” He hesitates so you reach into his mind and give him a push before stepping away. By the time the riot police have broken down the door the envelope is gone, inside his vest.

You watch the police fill the other end of the room, shields up and guns drawn. The idiots. They’ll kill your hostage if they shoot like this. You don’t see or sense any of the Rangers. That’s just fine with you, if maybe a little strange. The man in charge steps forward, hand on the trigger finger. “Banshee, you’re under arrest. We have you surrounded.” You don’t need to read his mind to know from the look on his face and the way he’s holding his gun that the man is regretting coming in to work today. What does the LDPD think they’re doing? They’re no match for you. Sure, you aren’t immune to bullets, but when has that ever stopped you?

You reach out to his mind and encourage him to lower his gun before he sets off the whole room. “Banshee?” You laugh, the distorters warping it into a shrill, discordant noise, then say innocently, “Don’t know anyone by that name.”

You crouch down, bracing yourself, placing a hand on the floor. You’ll only have a second before the tension of situation wakes them up again. “I’m just a ghost.” There’s a moment where it seems like nothing is going to happen and then the nanovores eat a hole in the floor directly beneath you, dropping you down. You grunt, letting the armor absorb most of the shock, though the landing still plays hell on your knees. You’re going to regret this in the morning.

Above you the room erupts in shouts of alarm and someone fires their gun, setting off another gunshot, then another. You grimace in frustration and reach back up to give them a metaphorical shake of the shoulders. You can’t have them killing your new plant.

You break into a run, following your thread to the nearest elevator shaft and breaking the door open with a mixture of force and nanovores. As you make your escape sliding down the elevator shaft you can’t stop yourself from humming a few bars, the chittering of the Rat-King creates an accompaniment in the back of your head. 

Hitting the basement level you barely manage to clear the doors when Lady Argent is on you, all knives and quicksilver. Her claws dig into your arm before you’re able to get her to back off with an uppercut to the head. Argent flexes her jaw and gives you a predatory grin. “I had a feeling I’d find you down here Ghost.” 

You study her face, waiting for a sign of any sudden movement. Getting predicted like this is embarrassing but you need to save the over-analysis for when a woman capable of opening you up like a can-opener isn’t staring you down.“Ghost? I– I wasn’t being literal up there.” You’ve got to reassert control of the situation. You make sure to put an edge to your voice, “It’s Méabh, sweetheart.” You just came up with that one on the spot. You kind of like it. “If you’re going to play lap dog, at least remember to fill in the incident report form correctly this time, will you?”

Argent’s grin turns into a scowl. “Ugh. I don’t actually care,” and she moves in.

The subway tunnel shudders, loose bits of concert drizzling down. An abandoned pet project from a self-obsessed billionaire thinking they could revitalize a city located on fault line with an underground rail system. Rich people. It had been a good hideout for a while. Now?

Now you can feel your heart pound in your throat as the two of you exchange blows. When you try to slide past her, Lady Argent is ready for you, raking claws against the side of your armor, trying to find a point of purchase to pry you apart. You grab her wrist and pull her down on top of you. It’s a stupid move, and you pay for it with razor filings running down your sides but because it’s stupid she doesn’t expect it and you’re able to knee her in the gut and kick her away.

You hate fighting Argent in an enclosed spaces like this. It’ll be a game of attrition as to whether you can get away before she can land a clean hit. The two of you are back to circling each other when you bump up against a support pillar.

Maybe….? You mentally check your map.

You’ll need to stall Argent. “Well! We met again, Lady Argent.” As you talk you rest your hand on the concrete pillar beside you, coaxing the nanovores to get to work. “Accosting a private citizen in the sanctity of their own home? People are going to talk.” 

Lady Argent narrows her eyes, “Méabh.”

“You remembered this time, I’m touched.”

There’s a shark-toothed grin and the distinct feeling that she’s sizing you up. “You haven’t changed your name yet?”

“Oh, still thinking it over.” You give a theatrical flip of your hand. “I don’t suppose you have a suggestion?”

“My only ‘suggestion’ is bringing you to justice..” She keeps her focus trained on you, ready for the moment you make a move. Part of you is surprised she’s still letting you talk. Is backup on the way? That’s not Argent’s style.

“That’s a good thought about justice.” You rap your armored fingers against the pillar, testing to see if it’s hollowed out yet. “There’s been a distinct lack of it in this city, don’t you think?” …Maybe you should go with your first choice for a villain name? You’d been resisting because it seemed, well, too obvious. But nothing else was feeling right. 

“Oh please, is boring me to death with clichés the best you can do?”

“See, it’s that kind of thinking that’s the problem. Lets the real bad guys stay on top.”

Argent finally notices how you’ve kept your hand pressed to the pillar, and growls. “What are you up to?”

“Are you talking about, like, in general or just right now?” You can’t help it, you cackle. “Because I’ve got a list.” You push hard against the concert. The stone breaks like glass and the ceiling sags from the sudden lack of support, tiles crashing down around you. “Right now?” You drop your voice for effect. “Adrestia is cleaning house.”

Promptathon: Please, some Modern AU Tanbarun arc? Shirayuki jumping in the river, or like, closer to the beginning of that story thread?

“We should probably get up into the lab,” Shikito says, adjusting the thick rims of his glasses.

“Oh!” Shirayuki glances down at her watch, the small hand lingering threateningly by the two. “I didn’t even realize! I – I guess I lost a little time, there.”

“It’s all right,” the tech assures her with a soft smile. “Me too. I always lose track when people get me started on water conditions.”

Obi snorts from where he’s leaning against the building; she can’t see his eyes through his mirrored shades, but she knows he’s rolling them. She’s half tempted to ask about his attitude, but he’d probably say something about nerds flirting, and – and a half a dozen more embarrassing things, if how he is in front of Zen is any indication.

Gosh, it’s like people can’t be friendly anymore.

“You’re right though!” She holds up the plastic boxes with her tubes, plus Kihal’s master mixes. “These samples won’t test themselves.”

Shikito grins, running a hand through his hair. All it does is rumple charmingly, making him look even more like a science hipster, and just – she likes this guy. Trusts him. He may work for Brecker, and Brecker might – emphasis on might – be a river-polluting scumbag like Kihal says, but she doesn’t think the guy who just spoke passionately about mercury parts per million in local fish populations for a half hour could callously poison them.

“Great, let’s head up.” He holds open the door. Obi doesn’t move.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asks, sending a nervous glance toward Shikito.

Obi tips down his glasses, amber eyes slanting toward their tour guide. “Hard pass, Doc. I think I’ve had as much nerd mumbo jumbo as I can take.”

She’s about to remind him that all that nerd mumbo jumbo is his major too, when he adds, “And I’d hate to get in between you two love birds.”

He is just – too much! God knows why she thought she was starting to like him.

“If that’s what you want.” She wishes she was more like Kihal; then she’d just be able to strut past him, as if he was about as interesting as the dirt on her shoes, but – but –

She’s just herself, and she scuttles like a bashful crab after Shikito, face flushed.

“The testing lab is up at the top of the building,” Shikito tells her, leading her to the stairwell. “It’s only three floors up, but of course we made the installers haul the delicate machinery up two flights, and put all the offices on the first two.”

“Classic lab protocol,” she laughs. “I think them chem people put their NMR on the 12th floor.”

He grimaces. “Jeez. At least they were able to use elevators though.”

“You say that,” she teases, springing up the stairs beside him. “But you haven’t been in the chem building elevator.”

He laughs. It’s…nice. “That’s fair.”

She lets them be silent a few steps before asking. “So, do you like working for Brecker?”

Shikito shrugs. “I actually was hired on by Izana Wisteria. He owns the building, and the labs, but Brecker is the one with the patents for the testing equipment.”

“Isn’t that weird?” She bites her lip, unsure of how to put her thoughts into words. “I mean, he’s the one who made the test to detect his own factory pollution. That seems like a conflict of interest.”

“Or he’s just environmentally conscious.” Shikito tilts his head thoughtfully. “I can’t really say though. I don’t work for Brecker directly. Most of my reports go straight to Wisteria. I can’t say I’ve ever seen inexplicable results though. Just…normal river fluctuations.”

“That’s good.” Still, Shirayuki can’t shake Kihal’s theories. “I mean, at least with this, we’ll be certain.”

“Exactly!” Shikito ushers her through the door to floor three, and down the hall. “We’ll either find there’s something hinky with the tests, and we can fix it, or we’ll find out nothing was wrong in the first place. Neither thing is bad, just – science!”

Or it means Brecker’s been lying about his testing prototype, costing Wisteria Holdings millions of dollars and ransacking protected waterways both in Massachusetts and the Caribbean, but – sure. She’d feel like Obi trying to take away Shikito’s level of optimism.

Besides, she thinks as he opens the lab door, everything could turn out fine.

“Mr. Brecker?” Shikito’s gaze darts to Shirayuki, as if she might know something about his employer mysteriously appearing in the labs. She shrugs; Izana hasn’t told her anything.

Brecker stares out a bank of windows lining the wall, a panorama of fall foliage where it looks out over the other side of the river.

“It’s beautiful this time of year, isn’t it?” he says in his sonorous voice, every inch the commanding CEO the magazine covers have painted him as. “I’ve always liked New England in the fall. It reminds you how fleeting this all is. Ephemeral.”

“I…yes?” She may not know much pop culture, but she’s seen all the Sean Connery Bond movies – must watches, according to Oma – and this is all starting to feel very…moon base. “I should really…get started on these tests.”

“Shirayuki.” He turns to her, sudden, blocking her attempt to get to the bench. “Let’s make a deal.”

She takes a step back, pulling her samples against her chest. “W-what?”

“Come now,” Brecker drawls, confident. “We’re all adults here. I’ve heard of you. You’re a transfer at the university. Major in biology. Focus undecided.”

Her skin crawls as he looms closer. “H-How –?”

“You’re a friend of the younger Wisteria. Zen.” He smiles, a cold, snake-like thing. “It must be rough, keeping up with that crowd, isn’t it? Wisteria, worth hundred of millions. Seiran – that’s billions there. Didn’t know that, did you? Even that boy, Lowen – his parents make six figures each, and neither of them begin with a one.”

He laughs. “Not quite the sort of crowd for a girl who came here with dollar bills shoved in her backpack.”

“T-that’s –”

“Izana doesn’t approve, isn’t that right?” he oozes, driving her another step back. “It will be hard for you to keep up your…acquaintance with Zen if big brother doesn’t agree, won’t it? After all, they’re so close…”

Her back hits the windows, cold even through her dress.

“I can change all that. Money. Opportunities. I can give you them all.” His smile is as much a warning as a rattle. “All you have to do is make sure your samples test clean. It won’t be so hard –”

Her hands clench on the plastic. To think, this is – this is what they think of her –

“I won’t tamper with test!”

“W-what?” He rears back, like she slapped him. “You think you can refuse –?”

“Of course! What was the point of all this if it’s all faked anyway.” Now it’s her turn to advance, driving him toward the benches. “I didn’t come here to be bribed. I came here as an impartial party, to do these tests because you thought Kihal would be too biased and skew the results!”

“I brought you here to –”

“To do my job!” she snaps, rattling the box in front of him. “The river will pass if your factories are as clean as you promise. And if it doesn’t –”

“That won’t happen!” Brecker shouts, his face a rictus of rage. “Because there is no way I’ll let you run them!”

He grabs the box from her hand, shoving past her.

“Hey!”

“Mr. Brecker –”

He opens one of the windows, wrenching the handle, and tosses it down into the churning waters of the Connecticut.

Shirayuki stares. “You – you –”

“What now, Miss –?”

“You son of a – a bitch.” She throws herself past him, and it’s good she’s small, good she never got as tall as Opa because –

Because she fits through the window perfectly.

A Perfect Encounter - Part 1

Bucky Barnes x Reader AU!

Summary: sometimes, being at the wrong place at the right time means that your life can change.  

A/N: “I´ll tell you my name if you can find me again” is my prompt to celebrate that @just-some-drabbles has hit 4k followers. Congratulations! I have already written to you toooo many times to tell you about your awesome work and writing skills, so you deserve them and more :) 

Tags: @supersoldierslover @barnesandnoble13 @amrita31199

(Credits to the owner of the gif)

“I come back from work now, and the house is filled with strangers that Tyler has accepted. All of them working. The whole first floor turns into a kitchen and a soap factory. The bathroom is never empty.” 

Your cellphone buzzing interrupts your reading. “Fuck,” you tell yourself as you take it out from your coat pocket, “I forgot to put in in silent mood.” After you check the notification (a message from your friend Natasha telling you that she won´t be able to meet you at the bar,) you silence the cell phone and keep it back in your pocket.

You do not get angry with Natasha; on the contrary, you just answer: “it is ok, Nat. See you on Monday then!” and you take advantage of the fact that you can be here at the park reading until whatever-hour-you-want.

“Teams of men disappear for a few days and come home with red rubber bags of thin, watery fat.”

“One night, Tyler comes upstairs to find me...”

“Great,” you think as you see with your peripheral vision that a man sits in the same banch that you are. You came to this park so you can be in peace, not to be surrounded by anyone, it does not matter if the person next to you right now is a complete stranger. 

You try to keep reading “...hiding in my room and says, ´Don´t bother them. They all know...” Now this man´s phone starts to ring and you lose your concentration once again. You take a deep breath trying to calm down, and you convince yourself and your mind to focus on the book. “Please, brain do not get distracted too easily. I want to finish this chapter, at least.” 

And your brain does.

“I say, no, I can´t say what´s going to happen. And I push the one, two, three molars into the dirt and hair and shit and bone and blood where Marla won´t see.

CHAPTER 15.”

Now that you have finally ended chapter fourteen, you are back to reality. You look around you as you take a deep breath of the fresh air of the park; you take a look at the kids playing in the playground, a mother and her child eating their icecreams, the old man walking with his dog, and you cannot avoid looking at the man who still is by your side: he checks the hour two or three times every two minutes. Before you can even laugh at his action, you return to your book.

The minutes pass, you are on the next chapter, and the man is still there. Now he seems bored, his interest in whatever he had it in is gone. You could see that, discreetly, he has been looking, reading, or trying to read what you are reading. “If you can´t beat your enemies, join them,” you think and smile at your thought. 

“The Fight Club,” you say out loud without taking your eyes off the book.

“S-Sorry?,” the man asks in a confused tone.

“The book,” you close it so he can see the cover, “´The Fight Club.` Come on, don´t be shy, I know you were looking at it.”

“Sorry?” is all he says again.

You laugh at the poverty of his language. “Don´t be, we all do that.”

Now he laughs. “Do you like it so far?” is the first question that came to his mind as he checks the time again. “I have seen the movie and I think it was awesome.”

You smile turning towards him, “you liked it?! Wow, I do not even know you, but you are smart.”

The man narrows his eyes, “who does not like it?”

“Well, I am not surrounded by people who have watched it or liked it, so... I can´t talk to anyone about ´The Fight Club´ or other movies.”

“You are not supposed to talk about The Fight Club.” You both laugh at his spontaneous joke. “What other movie do you like that not everybody likes or has seen?”

You cannot believe you are having this nerd but interesting conversation with someone you do not know. “Well, let me think. Um, I enjoyed ´Donnie Darko,` ´The Perfectionist.` I do not remember what else, but I am such a freaky when it comes to movies and series.”

“Oh, then I am a freaky too. I have watched ´Donnie Darko` like a thousand times; of course that when I watched it for the first time, I looked for all the theories of the movie on the internet.”

You laugh because you did the same as soon as Donnie Darko finished the first time you watched it. “People are insane! How can they come up with all those theories?!”

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes have passed and you two are still talking about movies and series and the books they are based on. You can see that the man, whom you came to know is named Bucky, checks the hour for the 174th time as he puts a face of resignation. “Don´t you have her number?” you ask Bucky.

“Uh? H-how do you know?”

“That you are on a blind date or that she has not come yet?” Bucky looks at you almost afraid of you, “don´t look me like that; I am not a psychotic person who has been following you all this time, but I have been in both situations so you can say I am a survivor of blind dates and of being stood up.”

Bucky cannot avoid the laugh, “I like that nickname, ´survivor.`” Bucky finally keeps his cellphone in his pocket and continues, “yes, she is not here.” He looks at the floor, almost embarrased at his situation in front of a stranger, “I must look like an idiot right now.”

“Nah, don´t worry. It is possible that you do not see me anymore, so do not be embarrased in front of me. Besides, now you have an anecdote to share with your friends.” Now you are the one checking the hour as you realize the sun is almost gone. You think a few seconds on what to do, but finally your mouth is faster than your brain, “um, Bucky, do you want to go with me to a bar?” You get up from the banch while you keep talking: “I mean, I do not do this at all, I am not inviting whoever I meet at the street to do something, but since this girl is not coming and my friend either, I thought...”

“Yeah, yeah, why not?” You are surprised by Bucky´s sudden response. “You  already told me you are not a psycho so, yes.”

Being in New York means walking a lot from one place to another in its endless blocks, but neither Bucky nor you feel the walk towards the bar exhausting or long since you have not stopped talking and laughing, yeah, laughing at him being stood up.

“Optimo Bar, I have never been here before,” Bucky tells you as you open the front glass door of the bar and the music welcomes you.

“Well, I am happy to be your first,” you answer in a serious but funny tone of voice. It is weird how Bucky does not even take the comment out of place; he just looks at you and laughs.

You make your way towards one of the fewer empty tables walking through the people who are laughing, speaking, drinking, eating some fries. 

“Do you come here often?” Bucky asks you as he puts his coat on the back of the chair and takes a sit.

“Sometimes,” you sit right in front of him and continue: “with my friends we choose this place. It just feels good to be in a place where you feel comfortable, you know?”

“Yeah, I underst-” 

Bucky is interrupted by the waitress who comes to take your orders. You rapidly choose your favourite beer while Bucky takes his time to read the menu before choosing another brand of beer.

“Can I ask you how did you notice I was in a blind date?” Bucky asks once the waitress leaves your table.

You laugh at his question, “oh, Bucky women know and notice everything. I realized you were checking the time continously and you were wearing that scarf which is so striking. When we were talking and you checked the hour in your phone again, you just make that face of resignation and took the scarf off like you did not want to be found by her.”

Bucky cannot believe all the analysis you just did of him, “you are a good observer.”

“You were right by my side, it was not hard to ignore you. Where did you meet this girl?”

“We have a friend in common, Steve, and he had the idea of the blind date. He insisted so much that I finally gave up and accepted.”

“I am sure that Steve is gonna be jumping of happiness once he knows what happens with his romantic plan.”

“Now I can tell him that I came to a bar with a complete stranger.”

“Hey! We are not complete strangers!”

“Yeah, my bad. Well, I can tell Steve that I came to a bar with a freaky half stranger who likes these weird movies, just like me.”

“´A super-cool-freaky stranger` is the best way to define me. All this that is happening today with you is a great story for me; I should write about you.”

“You write?”

“Yeah, I´m a journalist. But do not get too excited because I am gonna write about you being stood up.”

“Just tell me where you write so I tell my friends not to buy that edition.”

Instead of laughing, you look at Bucky with a serious no-so-serious face. “And you, Bucky? What do you do?”

“Well...” Bucky, looking at his glass of beer, makes a pause not being sure if he should continue. “I am... a stripper.”

“A stripper?! That´s great!” Your face is shining like a child who was just told he is not going to go to school today. “I have never met one before! You do not look like one though, but I think that in your guild you all know how to cover when you are not working.”

“You are not looking at me wrong,” Bucky is surprised by your reaction.

“Why would I? It´s a job, this is a free country.”

“You have no prejudices, do you?”

“Only with those who do not like animals or music.”

“Good to know I do not fit in any of those categories, but I have to tell you that I am not a stripper,”

“What? Oh, shame on you! Then, what do you do?”

“I am a lawyer-”

“Oh,” you reply.

“A cool lawyer,” Bucky adds when he sees your face of disappointment.

“I will still tell everyone I know I met a stripper. I don´t know much about the lawyers´ world; do you work in a law firm, like in the ´Suits` series?”

“Every single series is under your radar! No, not in a buffett, I specifically work for Tony Stark.”

“Tony Stark, eh? He is like the Donald Trump of technology. I mean, not that he is a crazy evil man, I am just saying that for all the businesses he has,” you try to explain yourself before Bucky thinks wrong about your idea.

“I have to tell my boss you just compare him with Trump and I don´t think he will be happy about it. But yes, thanks to all his businesses I have a job; you can imagine all the demands and legal procedures he is involved in.”

“If I get anxiety when the deadline to present my articles is near I cannot even imagine what it is like to be Tony Stark.” When you hear the song that stars playing on the background, you rapidly change the topic: “Oh! I love this song.”

“Where is the quite sweet reader of two hours ago?” Bucky asks as he sees you moving your head at the rhythm of the song.

“She disappeared the exact moment you sat by my side at that park, Bucky.”

“Hey, you have not told me your name yet.”

“You are right!” You take another sip of beer, “this is fun. What do you think is my name?”

“A game trying to find out your name?! You are a girl out of the box, Christina?”

“What?! Christina?! What kind of name is that? Keep trying, Bucky.”

Before Bucky can even tell you the second name he has in mind, his cellphone starts buzzing. He looks at the screen to see who is calling: Steve. “Oh, sorry, I have to take this call.”

“Yeah, do not worry. Right behind that big black door” you indicate Bucky as you point it out, “is the patio.”

Now that Bucky is in the patio, all the noise from inside is just a murmur. “Steve, hi.”

“Man, where the fuck are you? What happened to you?”

“W-what? Kirsten talked to you? She did not go, Steve.”

“But Kirsten told me she did go and she waited for you a lot until well... she realized you were not going.”

Bucky is totally confused, “how is that that she did go? I waited for a long time too!”

“Are you sure you both were in the same place?”

“Prospect Park, Steve. I was there.”

“No, Bucky, it was Flushing Meadows Park,” Steve laughs at Bucky´s mistake. “Did you really make all that journey to Prospect Park?”

“Um, yeah. I do not why I thought it was this park. I really do not know.” 

“Ok, Bucky I am gonna tell Kirsten you have been a bit distracted and that only that was the problem. Aren´t you lost right now?”

“Thank you. No, trust me, I am fine now.”

Steve´s laugh can be heard once more. “Take care, Bucky. Bye.”

“Bye, Steve.”

Bucky laughs at himself, how did he confuse these two places that are not even close to each other? “At least I met her,” Bucky thinks as he goes back inside the bar.

But you and your coat and bag are not in the table anymore.

Bucky starts looking for you everywhere, but you disappeared just like a ghost. “Great, tonight is not my day,” he tells himself as he approaches his chair. Once in the table you shared, he notices a piece of paper under your empty glass of bear. 

“I´ll tell you my name if you can find me again.”

If you want to be tagged in this series, tell me!

Befores and Afters (a Mass Effect story)- for Kaidan Week 2017

(OK, so I’m really cheating on this one with 0 writing time so far this week- I wrote this at Christmas 2012 for a gift exchange. Sorry.

Mass Effect 3. FemShep/Kaidan.)

***

Befores and Afters (Some things change. Some things don’t.) I. Mako Her drone just barely fits under the Mako. She wouldn’t need it, normally, but her hands are full with the torque wrench, she’s got a bolt between her teeth and her headlamp keeps threatening to fall off. The light from the drone offsets the shadows from the maintenance trench just enough, and when she mutters around the bolt it chirps cheerfully in response, its tinny voice reading off the next set of pre-programmed instructions. USING A MALLET BREAK THE CONTROL ARM FREE OF THE SPINDLE Mallet. Shepard rests the wrench on her stomach, feeling around her for the appropriate tool without result. Which is still on the workbench. Damn it. She bends her knee to kick the edge of the hoverboard with one booted heel, sending it scooting out from beneath the Mako- and squarely into Kaidan’s ankles, knocking him back a step before its momentum dies. “I thought I heard you muttering under there.” He crouches down beside her. “Isn’t it supposed to be impossible to break a Mako?” “Whmph-” She spits the bolt at him; it clinks off his belt buckle and lands on the floor beside his foot. “Whoever said that wasn’t trying hard enough. I think we cracked an axle on that last slide down the mountain.” Kaidan picks up the bolt, twirls it between his fingers. “That would explain the loud noise and the wheel wobble. I knew that terrain was impassable.” “We passed it just fine.”

“Until you broke the Mako.” He sets the bolt on her stomach, next to the wrench. “At least the system’s clear of geth. Maybe they’ll even give us a real mission soon, instead of mopping up stragglers in the Terminus.”

“Yeah, well. The medals were pretty shiny.” Her scar twitches, pulls her right eye closed into the semblance of a wink. Kaidan snorts. “And that and a dead Reaper’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Did you need something?” She gestures awkwardly toward the workbench. “I forgot the mallet- I haven’t fixed an axle since Basic. Wires and lasers are more my thing, y’know? But the mechanic’s on shore leave until tomorrow morning, so-” her drone peeks out from the repair bay, chiming impatiently, “-I figured I’d take a stab at it.” “A stab?” “Metaphorical stab. With hammering.” Lifting and setting the wrench beside her on the hoverboard, Shepard powers down the gravity control and starts to sits up even as he pushes her back down, one hand on her chest. “Hey, now- watch those hands, Alenko.” He grins and waves her off. “I’ll get it for you. Mallet, right?” “Yup. Should be on the… right. I think.” “So it is.” He rises and his footsteps move away for a moment, then pause. “On one condition.” Something scrapes along the bench surface; his footsteps come back, closer, and she turns her head to look at him as Kaidan waves the mallet in front of her, crouched down to whisper in her ear. She rolls her eyes at him. “On what condition?” “Promise you won’t steal the blankets again.” His voice is barely audible, even so close. (They were always careful, in those days- regulations and all- but caution turned every moment into an opportunity, like how the elevator just happened to get stuck for about a minute whenever they were in it together.) “You have seriously cold feet, Shepard.” “I promise.” Kaidan nods solemnly, reverses his grip and hands it to her, handle-first. “Have fun.” “Will do.” She kicks the hoverboard back into gear and slides back under the Mako as her drone reactivates with a happy-sounding hum. USING A MALLET BREAK THE CONTROL ARM FREE OF THE SPINDLE “Yeah, yeah.” After a moment, the drone’s synthetic voice is lost beneath a flurry of hammer blows. *** Shepard didn’t expect to find much left on Alchera, honestly. Her ship- Joker’s baby, but in her heart it was hers- sits in a dozen pieces on the surface, scattered armor pieces and dog tags like deformed metal flowers on red dirt but then she comes down a hill and there’s the Mako, resting on a rocky outcropping like she just drove up and left it there yesterday. Never mind that it’s been two years. Never mind that it must have fallen out of the sky, landed there when the Normandy broke up during re-entry (though she was mostly broken up already, long before she hit the atmosphere). Never mind that the rear axle she replaced so carefully is still intact when she peers beneath the vehicle, complete with the scratch on the right-hand side where the torque wrench slipped out of her hand. Maybe it really is impossible to break a Mako. She scales the rocks and kicks at the door until it opens, reaches inside and pulls the dangling fuzzy dice off the viewport; they fit neatly into an empty ammo pouch, and when she returns to the SR-2 she drapes them over the corner of the frame that holds his picture. ***

II. Armor “But now we’ve got reports about you and Cerberus.” She denies it, of course. She’s working with Cerberus, not for Cerberus, the change in preposition making all the difference in the world, but the words seem interchangeable to everyone but her. The armor doesn’t help. The style’s the same that she always favored, with plenty of pouches and pockets for spare wires and ammo and odds and ends. Her shotgun sits comfortably at the small of her back; her sniper rifle, an upgraded version of the gun she’s used since her trips to the firing range with Mom, rests along her spine in its scabbard. She looks the same- except for the orange blazon on her shoulder like a traitor’s brand. In the end, Kaidan walks away, and Shepard doesn’t fault him for it. When she gets back to the ship she dismantles one of the pop-up turrets and uses the laser to blast the painted logos off her armor. She’s finished with the body armor and halfway done with the helmet by the time Miranda stalks into the armory. “Shepard, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her speech’s particularly clipped today, the consonants sharpened to knifepoints. “Making some adjustments to my gear.” Shepard finishes with the laser and makes a few passes with a buffing pad before picking up enamel and paintbrush. “Orange isn’t my color.” Miranda scowls, picking up her breastplate in one hand and one spaulder in the other. “This is Cerberus property, not some off-the-rack Alliance garbage. It’s not yours to deface.” She finishes the white stripe down the armguard, looks up and snorts. “Oh, really?” “We’ve discussed this, Shepard. You’ve already made non-standard adjustments to your weapons, the drones-” “-and half the crew are aliens and it pisses you off, Miranda. I get it.” The stripe’s still too damp to tape over; she’ll have to do the red later. “But I’m pretty sure we’ve established this is a non-standard mission.” Arms folded across her chest, Miranda stands in the doorway. “Field research suggests that this armor pattern is optimal across nearly every combat condition. You may lose the element of surprise.” She pushes a few buttons on her omni-tool and her drone flickers to life, hovering just at eye level in front of the other woman’s face. “If people see me coming, lady, it’ll be because I want them to.” Shepard smiles over the static buzz of the drone’s energy field. “So if I want to paint my armor bright fucking pink with lime green polka dots, I will.” Miranda narrows her eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some work to do.” She turns her back to the door and doesn’t look up until she hears it close. *** She always liked the way Kaidan looked in blue- the color did something remarkable against his hair- but she has to admit his new armor is pretty spectacular. Maybe it’s the pockets. You can never have enough pockets. The first time she fights beside him when he wears it, they end up pinned between two buildings with a turret on their rear and an Atlas shooting rockets up their noses. Shepard hates Atlases- can’t get close enough to shotgun them, sniping takes forever, so she’s stuck plinking away at the damn thing from behind a crate between carefully timed Overloads. “Low on ammo here,” she shouts across to him, sending her drone behind them toward the turret. He throws a clip across; she reloads the rifle and aims across the crate, finally getting a clear line of sight to the mech’s pilot through the shattered bubble. Her shot catches the Cerberus soldier just between the eyes, and as he slumps out of the cockpit the mech powers down. Behind them, the turret explodes in a shower of sparks. “Clear?” Kaidan checks their tail. She crawls out of cover, looks right and left around the empty Atlas. “Clear.” The turret’s dead, a few parts still useable- she tucks those into her belt pouch- but its thermal clips don’t work with rifles. Shepard looks back to Kaidan with a shrug. “This rifle’s an ammo hog. Can you spare any more?” “Eh, I’ve got plenty.” He opens one of the front pockets. “The ammo pouches on this thing have ammo pouches. I feel like a munitions factory.” Shepard resolves at that moment to get a suit of it for herself. It would figure, of course, that the Ajax was a Cerberus design, stripped in bits and pieces off a couple dead engineers after a raid and retrofitted to Alliance spec. (Of course it was for engineers- practical, elegant design with plenty of gear space, easily adapted to different loadouts, better-than-standard performance enhancement. Only an engineer could create such a thing.) She can’t help but tease Kaidan about it, if only a little. “So I guess not everything Cerberus worked on is so bad, hm?” She brushes off the engraving on the chestpiece- SHEPARD, in big block letters, unmistakeable as anyone’s but hers. “I guess not,” Kaidan says, inspecting his own suit with its matching engraving; he looks her up and down, and grins. “I can think of a few good things they’ve done.” “This armor is pretty great.” She doesn’t notice he’s still looking until she turns around. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”

***

III. Rest It’s a travel day, which means mission planning. There aren’t many travel days, now, with the Reapers in almost every system, but this outpost’s at the furthest edge of the cluster and they decide to play it safe. If the Reapers follow them, there won’t be enough time for a full evacuation before they lose the whole thing- or the planet it’s on. Like Bekenstein. Shepard closes her eyes and flops back onto the bed. “I need a nap.” “You need a vacation.” Kaidan snatches the datapad from beneath her just before she rolls over onto her stomach. “A long vacation.” “Hmph.” She turns her head to the side, keeps her eyes closed. “Didn’t they tell you in Spectre training? We don’t get vacations. We just keep working until our bodies give out, then get replaced with new models. Like machines.” His hands slide under the white cotton of her shirt, fingers working at the knots that run like parallel ropes along her spine. “You’re not a machine, Shepard. You get to be tired once in a while.” He digs into a particularly stubborn spot; she winces, then relaxes. “Besides, we’ve done as much planning as we can.” “I keep telling myself that, but it’s never enough.” She rests her head on her folded arms. Kaidan lets it go for a while, brushing her hair away to get at her neck, pulling up the elastic cuffs at her ankles to work along the backs of her legs. “It has to be.” “What if it isn’t?” He stops, then, and when she turns to look at him he lifts her hand in his, presses his lips against the tattoo on her little finger. “It will be. Get some sleep, okay? EDI can let you know when we’re getting close.” “I don’t want to sleep.” “I thought you said-“ Shepard sighs. “I did. I lied. I want to forget, I guess- when I sleep, I remember.” She rolls onto her back again, looking up at the passing stars through the skylight. “Can I help you forget, then?” Kaidan, still sitting cross-legged on the bed, looks down at her. “Not if it involves tequila like last time. I was hung over all day.” Her nose wrinkles at the memory. (She’s had to stay away from it ever since; she’d always thought he was a whiskey drinker, anyway.) He chuckles, and bends down to kiss her stomach, just at the gap where the hem of her shirt pulls away from her waistband. “I can probably think of other ways.” “Mm?” She smiles. “Mm.” He gets the drawstring between his teeth and pulls.

*** Communication lines were spotty after the war ended, and it took some time to repair enough of the damage to get the Normandy airborne again. He knew she wasn’t gone, though. The others called it wishful thinking, made a plaque with her name to put up on the memorial wall, but he wouldn’t do it. Not yet. When he gets the message he’s already back on Earth, helping clean up the wreckage that used to be Vancouver, but half an hour later he’s on the first transport to London. “They found her.” Liara meets him outside the hospital- she’d been the first to know, as she was so often. Her voice cracks. “She’s in rough shape, but she’s alive. I’ve spoken with Miranda, and she’s coming to help, but-“ “That bad?” He swallows. He’d seen the records. “No, no. Alive. Awake, now. Shepard’s a hard woman to kill.” “Let me see her.” She’s terribly pale and wrapped nearly head to toe in bandages and clean white sheets, but when he comes through the door she smiles. “Hey, you.” “Hey.” There aren’t words for this, for the moments between ‘I thought you were dead’ and ‘don’t ever do that again’ and ‘I love you,’ so he settles for the first thing that comes out. “You did it.” She laughs like it hurts her, but she nudges his hand where it rests on the bedrail. “Just doing my job.”

Title: Anyone But You, Pt 1

Author: mylittleACobsession

A/N: This is another one shot for @imakemyownblog who requested the following:

“Could I pretty please get a Jacob oneshot where the reader is a high-ranking member of the Blighters and one day they have to face down with each other, not realizing that they were childhood friends until the actual fight? To make it interesting, Jacob had a huge crush on them? XD Pretty please & thank you! <3”

Given the amount here that I want to play with, I’m actually breaking this one into multiple parts.

London: 1868

Breathe. Wrap the cloth between your fingers.

Breathe. Wrap it around your wrist.

Breathe. Wrap around the thumb.

You've done this a million times it seems, wrapping your hands in preparation for a fight. It's become second nature for you over the years, something you'd picked up from a semi-pro brawler named James who took pity on you after the first time you broke your middle finger throwing a punch. Considering it was HIS face you were trying to hit, you felt it was pretty good of him to take you under his wing. He'd constantly joked that he only offered to teach you how to fight because he was convinced he'd find you dead in a gutter otherwise but in the end, he'd acknowledged that there was a fire in you, a fighter born and bred, that he respected.

You were 10 at the time.

For those with wealth, a 10 year old learning to street fight might have seemed tragic, but this is Victoria's England and the streets are filled with the human detritus that gets cast aside when the smoke belching factories chew up lives and spit out orphans. You are not among the wealthy. You grew up poor, just another street rat whose parents were little more than echoes and hazy memories. The fact that you were a girl didn't help matters and you'd learned early that it would make you a target for those who wanted easy prey. You weren't about to give it to them.

So you learned to scrap, learned to steal, learned to survive with bared teeth and grubby hands. You became a little terror around the town of Crawley in your early days. Over the years you'd learned to fight. Now you're a terror in London. You're a high ranking member of the mighty Blighter's gang, the strongest gang in the whole city, and you've earned your place through blood, guts, and glory.

You stand and roll your shoulders, stretch and hop on your toes a few times to warm your calf muscles. Tonight is important. A new gang has come to your city, calling themselves the Rooks, and all over London Blighters members have been disappearing, ending up dead, or finding their ways into jail cells. A war is in full swing and two days ago, one of your men had come to you and told you that the leader of the Rooks was challenging you for control of the borough you currently rule. Slowly but surely, these newcomers have been prying the hands of the Blighters off of London and tonight you were drawing the line. It's not that you particularly care for the Blighters or their leader, Mr. Starrick, but in a city like London, you join a gang or you die at the hands of one and once you swear your loyalty to one group, you can never go back. If you break your loyalty to the gang you chose to serve with, no other group will trust you again.

So here you are, wrapping your hands for a fight. It won't be a simple beating, no this is to the death. You plan to break this man and send his little fledglings reeling. Maybe they heard you were a girl and figured you would be an easy target. They picked wrong.

You roll your head and crack your neck, then check the tight bun your hair is pulled into. You can't afford for it to fall out in the middle of the fight as that could block your vision. You've considered cutting it all off before but you've always hesitated just short of doing it. Maybe it's that some days it's the only reminder that you're still a beautiful woman under all that dirt and anger.

The sound of the other Blighters chanting your name reaches your ears from where they have gathered in the open courtyard just outside. It's not your birth name, you don't give that out anymore, but a nickname you've earned over the years.

“BELLE MORTE! BELLE MORTE! BELLE MORTE!”

Beautiful Death.

You got the name after a French fighter had come into town and insulted Mr. Starrick. Retribution had been swift and merciless. The blighters were to “handle” the situation for him, quietly and without much fuss. After all, per Mr. Starrick, the Frenchman had powerful friends back in his home country and it would be best to avoid starting an international incident. The other Blighters had chosen you for the job because they could dress you up all fancy and get you to seduce him away from crowds. You were never very good at seducing. Instead you got frustrated with all the skirts they'd shoved you in and you shed them as soon as possible. You followed the Frenchman from the inn he was staying at until you could approach him relatively alone and the sight of a mostly nude woman standing in an alleyway had been enough to get him to wander blindly into your arms. You'd slit his throat before he could even scream and dropped his body in the Thames.

You had delivered the news to Mr. Starrick while still standing there in your blood spattered underthings. Pride was in the kill, you didn't give a damn about the lack of proper clothing. Your boss had agreed and was impressed.

“Truly, a beautiful job. A 'belle morte'.”

That was the night Starrick granted you the borough you now control and the name you now bear. You're not about the lose the one so you'll live up to the other.

You step out into the courtyard and the chill in the early autumn air hits your cheeks. The Blighters erupt into cheers as you start heading toward the clearing in the center. You can't see your opponent yet but you catch glimpses of the Rook gang colors across the way. You glance up and see a figure silhouetted on the top of the building opposite you. It's a woman but her face is kept in darkness. She's not of concern to you though, only your target matters and you push your way past the mass of bodies between you and the center of the ring. As the last men step aside to let you through with enthusiastic pats on the back, you step into the clearing and your breath hitches in the back of your throat. It's like someone has just gut punched you before anyone has taken a swing and you freeze where you are, staring across the way at the man who has just turned to face you.

“Jacob?”

London: 1857

The night is cold and the rain catches you unprepared. You find your way to a tall brick house and barely manage to squeeze beneath the bushes in the back before the skies open up. You glance around and discover a cracked window leading to the basement. Doubtless the homeowners didn't think anyone could fit in there but you are a slip of a thing at only 8 years old and you manage to wriggle in without too much issue. Inside it's dark but at least it's warmer and you poke around for a few minutes in hope of finding a candle or something. Your wanderings are interrupted by someone coming down the steps from the main floor and you scuttle into the dark recess under the stairs before the person reaches the bottom.

“Who's there?”

The voice is young and male. You pull back farther but it's not much use as the face of a boy pops around the edge of the steps and peers at you. His cheeks still carry the roundness of youth and you can't imagine he's terribly much older than you are. You wait for him to call out for someone else but instead he walks over with his hands on his hips and stares at you with a tilt of his head.

“What're you doing under there? How'd you get into our house?”

You hold a finger up to your lips. “Shhh. Please don't tell. I won't take anything. I just needed to get out of the rain.”

He shrugs and turns to a table on the left side of the room. A moment later there's the warm orange flicker of candlelight and he turns back to glance at you. “Come on out. I'm not going to tell. My name's Jacob. Jacob Frye. What's yours?”

You eye him with suspicion for a long moment before finally crawling out, trailing cobwebs in your hair and dirt on your knees. You stand and brush yourself off a bit before making your way over toward him. You say your name softly, still uncertain about whether this is a trap of some kind.

“Do you live near by?” he asks as he rifles through some things in a trunk.

“Everywhere is nearby for me,” you say with a note of pride, “I don't live in a house. The streets are my home so you'd better watch yerself.”

He chuckles and you realize your attempt to be tough has failed. He tosses you some clothes.

“These were my sister's but she's outgrown them. You can have them if you want.”

You gather up the arm full of fine cloth and stare at him with narrowed eyes. “What'choo want in return? I don't have nothing to give.”

He shrugs and leans against a support beam. “Nothin'. I didn't ask for anything, did I?” He looks you over and seems to decide you're interesting enough to get to know. “So where's your parents?”

You stare him in the eye with an unspoken challenge. “Don't got any. Don't need any. I take care of myself.”

He nods and gestures to the house around you. “My mum is like that. She died a long time ago. It's just me, my sister Evie, and my papa. We don't need anyone else either.”

It's the start of a friendship that will last for the next 8 years though neither of you knew it then.

London: 1868

Large hazel eyes stare at you from a familiar face but your mind reels back and refuses to believe this. You've been preparing to kill a man today. Nothing had prepared you for it to be a childhood friend. His eyes search your face and he squints at you as he tries to place where he knows you from. The moments seem to stretch into eternity and the crowd around you quiets down, heads turning to look at each of you as confusion ripples through the Blighters. Finally recognition dawns and you see Jacob's eyes widen. Your name is silently mouthed, falling from his lips as he places you among his memories and his eyes soften. You can see emotions flicker across his face in rapid succession. Recognition. Joy. Sudden understanding. Fear and sorrow. The fight drains out of his body as stares across the way at you but the Rooks, sensing something has changed, start chanting his name and the Blighters follow suit.

This was not how you imagined your day would go.

Two friends who could have been so much more, finally reunited at last...and about to kill each other on the field of battle.

Solstice, Chapter 13 - A Final Fantasy XV Story

Pairing: Ignis x Female Original Character

AO3 | Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

A/N: Flexing my horror writer muscles a bit here... As you can probably tell by the tone of this chapter, I intend to do a pretty dark take on daemons and the World of Ruin.

Valeria knew what she was doing was dangerous - stupid, even - but Caligo’s beating had knocked something loose in her that left her teetering on the edge of rationality. She stuffed what little she had in a backpack, armed herself with a flashlight and spare batteries, and set out for the nearest subway station an hour before the Imperial-imposed curfew took effect (ever since the days had begun to inexplicably grow shorter, the Niffs kept pushing it back, earlier and earlier). Though it wasn’t a route she’d ever taken in her other, normal life, Valeria knew the Manufacturing District had its own subway stop if she followed the tracks westbound, and, since the trains still weren’t running, she didn’t think the Niffs bothered patrolling underground.

It was, predictably, dark inside the station, and she swung the flashlight around, illuminating the platform with its eerie blue-white beam. There were signs and posters for businesses still boasting their sales and deals, unaware that the world they belonged to no longer existed. The newsstand remained as well, abandoned by its clerk but appearing otherwise almost achingly familiar, plastered with headlines from months ago.

After a moment of hesitation, Valeria grabbed a handful of candy bars and shoved them in her bag; it felt a little wrong, like stealing, even though she knew nobody would mind. She hopped off the platform onto the tracks, tossing a rock first just to make sure nothing was somehow still electrified. It wasn’t. When she came to the end of the station, where the tracks narrowed into a tunnel, she stopped, her heart pounding far harder than necessary for a walk. It’s so dark...

This was what Ignis saw all the time, now - and without even the narrowest sliver of light from a flashlight. Rather than dwelling on just how damn sad that was, she set her jaw, told her legs to stop shaking and start moving. If he can do this for the rest of his life, I can do it for a few hours.

And like Ignis must have also been doing now, she found her other senses straining, on high alert. It was silent down here, almost impossibly so, the only noise being her footsteps echoing off the walls of the tunnel. The air was musty and stale, like an old tomb.

But as she progressed through the dark tunnel, the smell grew fetid and thick, like something rotten. Something dead. Buzzing swarms of flies, scattering and swirling around her flashlight, only served to confirm it. The realization caused her pulse to quicken, but she quickly chastised herself.

Of course there was something dead down here. Despite the city’s best efforts to keep things clean, all sorts of vermin made these dark tunnels their home, and without humans passing through and leaving behind scraps and garbage, most of - if not all - the creatures must have starved to death. She only hoped the same fate didn’t befall her after she left the city. Worth the risk, she thought. To be free of the Empire.

Valeria stepped on something soft and squishy, that simultaneously crunched under foot. Angling her light at the ground, she saw a banded tail at one end, whiskers and a small snout at the other. And in between was a mess of black fur and congealed blood, writhing with dozens of white, squirming maggots.

Valeria recoiled with a shriek, clapping a hand over her mouth to keep herself from retching. That rat hadn’t just died; it had been torn apart. Gods... She scraped her shoe against the train tracks and quickly scanned the rest of the area with her flashlight. There was more blood, more swirling clouds of flies, but no more rats - living or dead.

No turning back. As startling and disgusting as it was, it was just a dead rat. Valeria quickly pressed forward, this time taking more care to examine the the ground ahead. After rounding a bend, she finally came upon the stop for the Manufacturing District, pulling herself up onto the platform where thousands of workers used to wait every evening for the train. Sensing movement in her peripheral vision, Valeria spun, shining the flashlight all around, but there was nothing there. Damn, she thought. She needed to get this over with and get the hell out of the city before paranoia overtook her completely.

Dropping her bag at the base of the stairwell, Valeria switched off the flashlight and tucked it inside her coat pocket, crouching as she crept up the steps. The fresh, crisp air hitting her face felt every bit as refreshing as a cold glass of water on a hot day. The sun had already begun to set, but there was still enough light to see by as she poked her head out into the street. Empty.

Valeria darted out from the subway entrance to the corner of the nearest building, leaning to peer around it. Two blocks away she saw a pair of Imperial soldiers guarding the entrance to a four-story factory building. So it’s true. Loqi may have been lying about the human experiments (she hoped), but the Niffs were up to something here.

Though the guards appeared lax - one was sitting on a pail and smoking a cigarette, while the other traced lazy circles in the gravel with the toe of his boot - Valeria knew she’d never be able to get past them directly. So, she went around to the other side of the building, finding a row of street level windows. The glass was grimy with dirt and dust, but remained transparent enough to see through. She saw abandoned offices beyond, probably once occupied by managers or other administrative types, now host to empty desks and dusty bookshelves.

The third window she tried was unlocked. It whined a little on its hinges, causing Valeria to duck under the desk as soon as she was inside. This is insane. The rational part of her brain was screaming. But now curiosity had her in its steely grip, as much as any desire to find the missing Felix or to gather information for Ignis.

After waiting a few agonizing minutes, she was satisfied that no one had heard her and crept to the door, opening it just wide enough to get a view of the hallway. Aside from a single, old lightbulb glowing overhead, the coast was clear. The Niffs, it seemed, were not using this part of the building much at all. Valeria followed the hallway around on tip-toe, dropping to her knees when she saw that the door at the end of the corridor had a window built-in.

Slowly, cautiously, she raised her head to survey what had once been the factory floor. Now it was a maze of plastic sheeting, vaguely reminiscent of the relief camp, lit only with a dull, reddish light, similar to that of a photographer’s darkroom. Unlike the tents back at the camp, this material was not entirely opaque, and she saw black, vaguely humanoid shapes moving in the distance. Were those Niffs? People who had been taken? There was only one way to find out.

Valeria pushed the heavy door open just wide enough for her to slide inside, immediately gagging at the overwhelming stink of antiseptic, so strong it stung her eyes and nose. Crouching, she inched forward toward the shapes in the distance, ignoring the way the awkward position caused the muscles in her legs to burn.

“And I still haven’t heard from my sister,” a voice, male, said.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” a woman replied, her tone casual, almost flippant. “Gralea might be a mess, but I’m sure they’ve got Zegnautus locked down tight.” Both people sounded slightly muffled, like they were wearing masks or helmets.

Valeria turned a corner in the strange red, plastic maze, confronted with something that resembled an operating table - empty, fortunately, but the thick leather straps attached to the sides made her feel vaguely queasy.

“Still, I wish my transfer to the Keep had gone through,” the man was saying, his voice much nearer now.

“Might be for the best that it didn’t,” his companion replied.

“You’ve got to be joking,” the man said. “The chance to study the Crystal - that’s once in a lifetime stuff we’re talking about.”

“Like the Chancellor lets lab rats like us near the Crystal.” The woman scoffed. “Why do you think he locked it up in Zegnautus in the first place?”

The Crystal. Zegnautus Keep. Valeria had only begun to contemplate that very valuable information when something caught her eye, something that threatened to make her forget everything she’d heard and seen up until now.

Through a small gap in the plastic sheeting where two edges didn’t quite meet, she spied another gurney, only this time there was something strapped to it. It was human in shape - two arms, two legs, but at least eight feet tall, far too long to be a person. Spindly fingers, each longer than her entire hand, hung off the side, twitching and shaking spasmodically. The skin appeared stretched taut, gray and purple like a bruise. And, though the creature’s head was covered by some sort of sheet, it was most certainly still alive, emitting a gurgle as it inhaled, a rattle when it exhaled. It was still alive, even though its chest had been wrenched open, cracked, blackened ribs split in two and reaching up toward the sky.

Two people, clad head to toe in shapeless suits of black plastic, hunched over the monstrous, broken thing, continuing their idle prattle about their careers. Sheer horror and lack of comprehension kept Valeria glued to the spot, unable to turn away.

The smaller of the two people - the woman - pulled something resembling a black, sticky hunk of meat from the creature’s open chest cavity, filling the air with the stink of sulphur. She placed it on a small scale on the counter behind her.

“Liver weighs 8.3 kilograms,” she said, as her partner scribbled something down on a clipboard.

“That’s what? Five times the average human size?” the man asked.

The woman shrugged, placing the organ into a jar. “Something like that. Pancreas next?”

No. Valeria began to walk backwards, shaking her head. They were dissecting that thing - a daemon, it almost certainly had to be a daemon - while it was still alive. And regardless of how foul and allegedly dangerous daemons were supposed to be, there was something still inherently wrong, inhumane about it - the kind of crude savagery that passed for science in primitive societies, not the here and now. And, if they were doing this to daemons, how could she say they’d draw the line there? Why not animals? People?

Oh, Gods... Valeria turned and quickly tried to retrace her steps, getting turned around and disoriented in the eerie, red labyrinth. It all looked the same. She dashed out the first door she saw, ending up in a darkened room. This place, these people..., she thought, trying to quell the sick feeling mounting in her gut. Loqi was right about everything.

“...home...”

Valeria jerked to attention, flattening herself against the wall.

“I want...home...” The voice was a raspy hiss, its affect flat, almost robotic.

“W-who’s there?” Valeria whispered, trembling fingers reaching for the flashlight in her pocket.

“Home home I want to go home I want to go home I want to go...”

The way this person (thing?) spoke put her in the mind of a parrot, mindlessly repeating the same phrase without comprehension of its meaning.

Valeria switched on her light. The wall opposite her was lined with cages, each roughly the size of a kennel for a large dog. All were empty, except one.

A naked figure huddled against the bars, its skin sickly gray-white, large swaths of its body coated in some dark, oil-like goo. Spiky bones protruded from its emaciated back, longer and sharper than vertebrae should be. Tufts of long, blonde hair clung to its withered skull. The creature hissed and scurried away from the flashlight beam to the corner of its cell, and Valeria saw a single eye glowing bright in the darkness, reflecting the light like a cat.

“You...” This thing, it couldn’t be human. But it talked like one, still looked like one in spite of its ghastly exterior.

“The light...it burns. It burns it burns...”

There was a rattling gasp, and then the voice changed from its mindless repetition to one that was desperate, thick with emotion. “The light, please, please.”

Valeria’s heart clenched. That begging, that imploring tone - she could no longer deny it. This was a person. A person the Niffs had done something horrible to.

“I...I’ll turn it off,” Valeria said, flicking off the flashlight.

“NO!” Just as the room plunged back into darkness, the captive charged forward, colliding into the bars of its cage with a clang and a snarl. “No no no, the light, all the light, please, please...before I forget...”

“Are there...are there others like you?” Valeria was almost afraid to ask.

The prisoner ignored her. “Please, please, I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to...not again...”

Valeria swallowed, sinking against the wall. She aimed her flashlight directly at the cell, squeezed her eyes shut, and turned it back on.

There was a terrible, shrill scream, and, in spite of herself, Valeria’s eyes snapped open to see the figure doubled over on the floor, its skin burning black and crisp wherever the light touched it. It was shrieking in pain, revealing a mouth half-full of yellow, pointed teeth, but it clung to the cell bars to stay in the light, even as its fingers turned to char.

“I’m sorry,” was all Valeria could whisper to it. “I’m so sorry.”

A mass of black bile foamed from its lips, cutting off its cries. The viscous liquid spilled out onto the floor, stinking once again of sulphur, just like the daemon’s blood back on the factory floor. After what seemed like a gallon had spilled out, the unfortunate thing finally slumped forward against the bars, completely still.

Oh my Gods, was all Valeria could think. This isn’t real. This can’t be real. But the very real sound of shouts and pounding footsteps reminded her she wasn’t dreaming. Jumping over the black pool on the floor, she ran out a door located on the far side of the room, and straight into a guard.

The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, but his shock was greater than hers, and Valeria dodged to his side, running toward a larger set of double doors at the end of the hallway.

“Hey!” a gruff voice shouted at her as she tumbled down the stairs onto the outside street. Another set of hands tried to grab her arm, but she wrenched herself free.

“Stop! Stop, dammit!”

Valeria didn’t even hear them. She was solely focused on the subway entrance several blocks away, her salvation. She could lose them in the dark, lose them and get away from this horrible place. The guards in all their armor were no match for her sprinting down the street, which they must have realized, as they began to shoot at her instead.

The sound of machine gunfire only caused her adrenaline to spike further, layering another horrible night on top of this one, heightening her singular instinct to flee. The shots went wide, chipping away brick overhead, and she half-ran, half-fell down the steps to the subway station below, somehow managing to grab her bag at the base of the platform.

Valeria leaped onto the tracks and began to run, startled by the strange, skittering sounds all around her. Something was down here now, scurrying away from the beam of her flashlight, clutching at her ankles and shins.

She whirled around, trying to kick whatever it was off, just in time to see the guards coming down the stairs.

“Shit! Daem-” The guard’s voice was cut off as something long and sharp was shoved into his gut. His hand must have seized on the trigger of his rifle on instinct, its muzzle flashes briefly illuminating the horned, black carapace of the multi-legged monster impaling him.

She heard a scream and a crunch off to her right and spun around, her flashlight illuminating the twitching legs of the other guard protruding from the maw of a dark, gelatinous mass.

Run. It was her mother again, in her ear. Run. And don’t look back. So she did. She ran, clutching her flashlight, her only weapon against the darkness. She could hear the creatures behind her, beside her, swarming the tracks and subway walls. Valeria swung her light all around in an attempt to ward them off, briefly illuminating twisted limbs, claws, teeth. If the attack on Insomnia had been hell on Eos, then this was something far worse, something even the darkest recesses of her subconscious could not have conjured if it tried.

Finally, after an eternity, the monsters relented, but she still ran, ran until she came to the final subway stop and was back out on the street. It was still nighttime, and she stumbled over to a patch of moonlight, collapsing on her knees until she caught her breath.

I’m sorry, Felix, she thought. I’m sorry I’m such a coward.

But if she’d had any small, lingering doubts about leaving the city, they were most definitely gone now. Valeria picked herself up, her legs trembling like jelly with exhaustion, and made her way through abandoned backstreets and alleys to the Wall. She could see the floodlights from where the Niffs patrolled their blockades, but the King’s passing had left the structure crumbling, and it wasn’t long until she found a crack just wide enough for her to squeeze through.

And, without turning back, she left Insomnia, her city, her home, behind.

Ignis sat alone on the empty train car, crossing his arms to ward off the encroaching chill as they left the relative safety of Tenebrae and neared Ghorovas and the Glacian’s frozen corpse. He had insisted that Biggs and Wedge keep the heat running at a minimum; the last thing they needed was to run out of fuel before they reached Gralea.

Gladiolus had gone off to scavenge the dining car for supplies, brushing off Ignis’s concerns that it was tantamount to theft (“Who else is gonna use this stuff, Iggy?”), while Noctis had remained asleep in his bunk. Whatever information he’d received from the retainer of House Fleuret had left him in a depressive mood, and, while Ignis refrained from prying into his liege’s private affairs, he nonetheless hoped that some rest and solitude would suffice to ease his melancholy.

Without Prompto there to goad them into optimism, the bleak reality of their situation had descended upon the remaining trio like a dark cloud. Just a bit longer, Prompto, Ignis thought. If anyone could cling to hope of a rescue, it was him.

To Ignis’s surprise, his phone began to ring, the electronic chime echoing loudly throughout the vacant car. He extracted it from his pocket, thinking he really ought to get his caller ID sorted out (Prompto, the most tech-savvy of their group, had been assisting him with the various voice-operated features of the device prior to his abduction). There were only three people it could have been: Prompto, although he almost certainly would have called Noctis first; Valeria, whom Ignis hadn’t heard from in several days, causing him yet another worry; or Noctis himself - and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time the Prince had called Ignis from less than two hundred feet away.

“Hello?” Ignis said as he took the call.

“Zegnautus.” The voice belonged to Valeria, although he could barely understand what she was saying. She sounded shaky and out of breath, and that was compounded by bursts of static as one or both of their phones dropped the signal.

“Zegnautus Keep...Crystal...Zegnautus.”

“The Crystal’s in Zegnautus Keep?” Ignis asked. They’d deduced it was somewhere in Gralea, but this was incredible news, perfectly in line with Aranea’s suspicions on the matter, allowing them to narrow their search to a single (albeit large and likely extremely well-guarded) building.

“Yes! Listen, I....go, Iggy. I couldn’t...”

“Val, slow down,” Ignis implored. “I can barely hear you. Are you alright?”

“I couldn’t stay here.” That phrase came across loud and clear before her next sentence was swallowed by a buzz of static. Just what had she done to come by this information on the Crystal?

Ignis wanted to ask, but with their phone service being what it was, he reluctantly decided that it was a conversation for another time.

“Go to Cape Caem,” he said slowly, careful to enunciate every word. “Gladio’s sister, Iris, is there. You’ll be safe.”

“Caem? That’s...Hello, Iggy?”

“I’m still here.” Curse these bloody things. “Go to Cape Caem,” he said once more. The only word he could make out in Valeria’s reply was ‘car,’ and it occurred to him that Caem was much too far of a journey to undertake on foot, particularly for someone with absolutely zero survival or combat training outside the city.

“Hammerhead Garage,” Ignis said. “The mechanic is a friend. She’ll get you set up with a vehicle.” Hopefully not a particularly valuable one. Valeria was, well...Ignis didn’t want to say an awful driver, but he did sometimes wonder how she had managed to pass the practical portion of the test. Even so, she ought to be able to travel from Hammerhead to Caem without causing a major accident.

“Hammerhead...Caem. Okay.” For a moment, the static cleared, and Ignis heard her voice as plainly as if she were sitting beside him. “The Empire, they’re doing terrible things, Iggy. Whatever it takes, whatever you have to do - stop them.”

Where I Work: Windy Chien

You might not think of knots as being anything other than a way to tie something up or the annoying thing that happens to your necklaces when they get tangled up, but there’s an entire other world out there and it involves fiber artist Windy Chien. After stints at Apple and owning her own indie record shop in San Francisco, Windy found her calling bringing aesthetics to the middle of function, science, and history to highlight what’s most intriguing about knots, and that’s the journey of the line. You may recall she spent 2016 learning a new knot every day of the year for The Year of Knots, which she now displays on her studio walls mixed amongst a sea of works in various stages of progress and size. Today, we pop into her San Francisco studio located on the second floor of the Heath Ceramics tile factory to see her art and space in this Where I Work.

What’s your studio/work environment like?

Serene, cozy, and clean. I’m often playing music and podcasts, and my rescue greyhound, Shelley Duvall, comes with me to the studio each day.

How is your space organized/arranged?

My studio is a private 1000-square-foot space with its own street entrance. It’s a big open space. One wall is all huge windows, and I store my spools of rope and cordage in a long row beneath the windows. Another wall, made of four sheets of plywood suspended above the floor, holds The Year of Knots, which is the project I did in 2016 where I learned one new knot every day of the year. It’s an installation of 366 knots that functions as my palette and main resource, the same way a designer or painter might have a Pantone deck.

Scattered throughout the space are seven pairs of pulleys hanging from rafters off the 20’ pitched ceiling, where I suspend each piece while I’m making it. I raise and lower the works while working, and this is how I take care of my body while enacting the repetitive, physical motions of knotting.

The entire floor is covered in bright white, wall-to-wall, faux fur carpet. I’m a child of the 1970s, so wall-to-wall carpeting is my happy place, but there’s a practical reason for it too: my standard material is white cotton rope, which picks up dirt the second it hits a hardwood floor. With the white shag, I can throw my materials on the floor and know they’ll stay clean.

I’m often working on several commissions at once, along with experimenting on one-off pieces which is my way of thinking with my hands. With that much activity, everything must have a place. I can’t be productive in chaos.

How long have you been in this space? Where did you work before that?

I’ve been upstairs at Heath Ceramics since January 2020. Before that I spent three years in a mid-century police station. My studio there was the old police captain’s office! It was a cool space, but it didn’t have the strong, high ceilings necessary for me to easily make large works, which are all I do nowadays.

Being part of the Heath Ceramics community is a dream come true. Being around like-minded, creative people is incredibly motivating and positive. They have been beyond helpful with sharing resources such as their shipping & receiving department, security, communal kitchen, etc.

If you could change something about your workspace, what would it be?

It’s truly perfect here; the only thing I might eventually consider is a bit more space. I’m going to hire a studio manager this year to handle admin, and am having to think hard about how to have more than one person in this place that feels like my sanctuary.

Is there an office pet?

Yes, my greyhound Shelley Duvall comes with me to the studio every day.

Do you require music in the background? If so, who are some favorites?

I owned/operated an independent record store (Aquarius Records) for 14 years, so my tastes run far, wide, and obscure. Some of my favorite genres are Brazilian tropicalia, Ethiopian jazz, Jamaican rocksteady, Italian prog, outlaw country, German kosmiche krautrock, and more. It’s painful to choose only one, but for years my answer was Os Mutantes, the psychedelic pop trio from late 1960s Brazil, who sounded like Sgt Peppers but stunningly weird.

How do you record ideas?

I conduct my entire business on my iPad. For ideas and sketches, I use the apps Paper and ProCreate. For lists and text, I use Evernote.

What is your typical work style?

I arrive at my studio around 10am and try to work on a current piece immediately, or I open one of my dusty old sailors knotting tomes to learn a new knot. I believe in the concept of flow, which is the state of blissful productivity, where you are working at the edges of your abilities, happily, without any external reward; the reward is inherent in the doing of the thing. Being in flow is the best way to start a day because it makes me feel so good. I avoid email until the afternoon.

What is your creative process and/or creative workflow like? Does it change every project or do you keep it the same?

I work almost exclusively by commission and there is a waiting list. Clients choose amongst my several current bodies of work, each of which sprang from a single, exquisite knot and my desire to find its ultimate expressive potential, to blow it up and give it a greater aesthetic life. We think of knots as functional, and indeed I’d say the vast majority of the almost 4,000 documented knots are functional, but along with the culture, history, and science behind each perfectly-designed knot, I see them as aesthetic objects. My goal is to bring a greater awareness to the aesthetics of knots and, by extension, to explore the journey of the line.

With that said, while I enjoy making my existing bodies of work, I believe every knot is waiting for me to find its most expressive potential, so I’m always looking for periods of free time where I can experiment with new works. I will never run out of curiosity or things to explore. I don’t get creatively blocked.

What kind of art/design/objects might you have scattered about the space?

It’s all my own work, my sailors knotting books, my materials, whatever work is in progress, and all the experiments. I have a lovely collection of artworks made by others, but I keep all of that at home.

Are there tools and/or machinery in your space?

I was recently given a non-electric, rope-making ‘machine’ (by Schacht Spindle), and am looking forward to making my own rope. I have a glue gun, but try to avoid it as much as possible. I’m a purist, and using glue feels like taking the easy way out when surely a knot will do.

What tool(s) do you most enjoy using in the design process?

Sharp scissors and bent needle-nose pliers.

Let’s talk about how you’re wired. Tell us about your tech arsenal/devices.

I worked at Apple for many years, from the early years of iTunes, to the launch of iPhone and iPad and the App Store. So I’m super savvy with the entire Apple ecosystem. It’s just designed so beautifully, with the user in mind, and with an exquisite design logic. I use my iPad exclusively, with iPhone for Instagram and photo processing.

What design software do you use, if any, and for what?

My work needs only the sketching and drawing apps listed above. Occasionally, I will open my old MacBook to use SketchUp, which annoyingly has not made it to the App Store yet, for complicated projects that benefit from a 3D model.

What’s on your desk right now?

A dozen scissors, ancient knotting books, and various Doughnut and Star Knots.

Is there a favorite project/piece you’ve worked on?

I could never choose between all my babies, but a favorite recent project is the debut of a new body of work, the Hitching Posts. This is installed in Las Vegas.

Tell us about a current project you’re working on. What was the inspiration behind it?

I recently made a Linescape for Square, the payments company based in the Bay Area. They wanted something bridge-inspired, so I used a very curly knot that is rather counterintuitively good for creating sharp angles and straight lines. We did it in a color close to International Orange, the color of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Do you have anything in your home that you’ve designed/created?

I own a classic San Francisco-style Victorian, and I put the first Helix Light Chandelier in my bay window. I also designed the paint scheme in the attic, which is 1970s-style long lines running at angles along the pitched ceiling, and done using the Pendleton Glacier Park stripes. I designed the exterior paint scheme of the house – horizontal ombré stripes running yellow-orange-red on the front and yellow-green-blue in the backyard.

Photos by Windy Chien.

via http://design-milk.com/

from WordPress https://connorrenwickblog.wordpress.com/2020/06/09/where-i-work-windy-chien/

[MF] Sticks and Trains

November 28, 2063

You used to say, “If God has a voice, it’s in the laughter of children.” I would roll my eyes at the comment, disregarding it as a sleazy ideological advertisement. I should have known better.

She laughs the way you used to. A booming cackle bounces deep in her stomach, irradiating happiness, but happiness in this world is intimidating. The fleeting tranquility is uncomfortable, and I ask her to keep her voice down. The wind blows through the emptiness; not a soul to disturb. She’s right to ignore me.

She coughs, and I think of you. Exuberance pours from her as she shakes off the pain in her chest. Pretending not to notice the rattle in her breath, I ask her if she’s ok. I need to hear the words from her mouth. She says it must be a cold, but I know it’s not.

She falls from the monkey bars, scraping her perfect little knees, and cries. I help her up, dusting out the pebbles in her skin. I give her the fatherly speech about picking herself up, but I know she’ll never have the chance to fully understand. Running back to the playground, she ignores my lecture. Good; they aren’t words meant for her anyway. Let her be eternally young. I want to think that, but someday I’ll miss her.

My head snaps up when I hear the train whistle blow; 6:35 as always. How could I have been so careless and lose track of time? The government train is transporting human cargo to the work camp 10 miles west of here. Artists, activists, immigrants, and anyone else who dares to oppose the megalomaniac’s ruthless agenda on board.

The horn blares from over the tree line. The Aspen leaves shiver in the howl. Black smoke and human filth fowl the air. The stale aroma of hopelessness comforts me. I grab her hand. Afraid, she asks what’s wrong. I don’t answer. Just get to the bridge, and she won’t notice.

A rickety wooden bridge extends over the trickling creek; once a roaring river. We race rotting sticks on the shallow, yellow water under the splintered slats. It’s one of our newest past times. I tell her she wins, and she smiles. Faint wails from the train passengers intermingle with her laughter. I examine her eyes; she hears them. The trees block her view as she peers at the screams. I wonder what she’s capable of imagining.

Once the train is gone, I tell her we need to go home. As we walk, she chases painted ladies back and forth across the dirt path; whirling against the wind, hacking and laughing all the while. She approaches me with her hands carefully cupped around one of the butterflies. She still calls them fairies, but she knows better. I don’t bother correcting her. She asks if she can keep it. I hesitate, but I see the way she holds it as if she were protecting the last breath of a long-lost dream. I see myself in her. Impatiently, she waits for my response. Finally, I say yes, and she smiles again, burying her head in my stomach.

***

The barrel fires and she winces in the recoil. The beer cans sit, unscathed by the bullet. I tell her to keep her eyes open. She says the sound scares her. She asks why she has to learn to fire a weapon. I tell her bad men might come. I only tell her the necessary truth. She tries to hand me the gun, saying she doesn’t want it. I remind her that she has to hit the target before dinner. Her eyes tear up as she screams for me to take it. My throat flexes. She collapses to her knees, sobbing. I place my hand on her shoulder and tell her we can be done for the day; grandma’s waiting for us anyway.

***

She’s angry as we eat dinner. Your mother scolds me for teaching her to use a gun. A rehearsed argument she mimics from the television, hollow and insincere. She’s only saying what she thinks she has to, but they don’t know the bad men that are going to come. I apologize, telling them that I love them, and meant no harm. I just want her to be able to fight for herself. Your mother falls silent. The little one tells me she loves me too.

After dinner, she makes her way into the tub for her bath; she reminds me to do the bubbles for her as if I would forget. Singing rings through the halls as she splashes away with her toys. I fight off a smile, dutifully apprehensive to happiness. Dishes clack in the sink as I scrub off the leftover roast and gravy, muttering to myself what I should have said at dinner.

Your mother plants herself on the couch, and turns on the nightly news, nestling into her cozy little hole. She inattentively asks me if I need help. I’m not sure she knows she spoke, so I don’t respond. I ask her to mute the sound; no need to fill young ears with political drivel. She doesn’t hear me. The light from the television engulfs her, searing her skin and illuminating her frame, creating the white silhouette of a ghost. I’m surprised to see the number of folds and wrinkles that drape over her face. She reminds me of the first time I saw a dead body.

After I clean the dishes, I go to the bathroom to finish up her bath. She asks for my help drying off. I blot her skin and tell her it’s time to get ready for bed. She sulks, extending her bottom lip. She wants me to read her a story, how Mommy used to. I tell her I have to go to work soon and it’s not going to work tonight; I lie, just like every other night. We end up reading three stories.

By the end of the last book, my eyes lay shut. I don’t need to look. I remember every word and nuance; I even remember when to turn the page. She begs for one more story. I manage to resist as I switch off her bedside lamp. Shadows douse the ceiling like a black canvass, and we play her favorite game. I point towards the ceiling and ask her, “What do you see up there?”

She says that she sees Mommy dancing in a blue dress with a lily in her hair. A cough rattles in her chest. My stomach twists. Mommy looks like an angel, just like the ones Grandma talks about. She asks me if I see it too. I want to, so I lie and say yes.

I see the same thing I always do: you in a hospital bed, with a warm autumn sun beaming off your auburn hair. Too beautiful of a day for anything tragic to occur, but I’m wrong. Your face blurs through the constant stream of tears, and I hear your raspy voice whisper goodbye. You take your last deep breath, and the heart monitor flatlines. Doctors rush in, going through their rehearsed spectacle, but I can see in their eyes that they know as well as I do: you’re not coming back. I shake off the memory.

She says that she loves me.

I tell her that I love her too.

Goodnight, Daddy. She wraps her arms around my neck.

Goodnight, sweetheart. I kiss her on the forehead and a cough rattles from her chest. I run my thumb down the bridge of her nose, and her eyes flutter. I scour her face, memorizing every dimple, pore, blemish, and line. I can’t forget her.

She tells me not to worry, it’s just a cold. My eyes burn from the tears welling up behind them. I manage to smile as I gaze at her perfect face. She nuzzles her head against my palm, nearly falling asleep. Her hair is like a waterfall of amber cascading across her pillow. White moonlight weeps through the slit of the blackout curtains, and she rustles at the touch. Her skin glows pale in the dark, and my lip quivers. I struggle to peel myself from the foot of her bed, and I stand to walk out the door.

Goodnight, Mommy. She blows a kiss to the ceiling.

I stop at the doorway, waiting for you to respond. The silence twists at my stomach, then I walk out, leaving the memory for another day.

***

Your mother is asleep, and the TV is still blaring at her, fueling her dreams with trending fears and topical fodder. I wonder if she’ll ever use the bedroom she demanded. I doubt it.

The news says the next civil war – whatever they think is so civil about war - is imminent. I mute the sound and watch the reporter’s face. She blinks in bulk and smiles when delivering bad news. She knows she’s telling half-truths. I don’t trust her.

The loose nails in the floorboard pop out as I pry them with my fingernail. The weight of dust fills my lungs. The rattling of the tackle box wakes your mother, and she groans. Piles of bullets and gun clips hide in the shadows, under the removable shelf. Your mother warns me. I tell her, I know. She rolls her eyes and nods back off, unmuting the TV.

I pull out a pistol and secure it in my waistband, just in case they catch my scent. I count the remaining bullets. 236; not enough. I fasten the clasp on the box and snap the padlock shut. I place the slat back over the floor and drop the nails in their holes. I check the clock; time for work.

***

The road is dark. No streetlamps; the headlights fight off the shadows on their own. No crickets; just the whir of a cool breeze and the clunking of a tired engine. I’m afraid to relax, that’s when the monsters come.

I need to talk, so I pretend you’re here with me. I look to the seat next to me. A silhouette of a memory smiles and brushes its fingers across my leg. It says the things you would have said. It feels the way you would have felt.

I wish I could forget how to love. There seems to be no use if I’m always letting go. I can’t do it again, but I know I’ll have to. Maybe I’m not afraid enough. I've read that women can forget the pain of childbirth; is it possible to forget the pain of grief? Perhaps I didn’t forget; I’ve just grown used to it.

***

Security gates sprout through the trees at the end of the road. Barbed wire rings twist at the crest of a chain-linked palisade, and spotlights scour the parking lot for deviants. I'll be right under their nose. Red lights peer from the top of the building, erected on uneven scaffolds.

My truck spits black smoke as it putters towards the iron gate. I check my coat tail to make sure the weapon is concealed and hand the guard my identification badge. He scans the barcode, the gate pops open, and I drive through.

Everyone acts normal; no prying eyes or whispers. No one notices me, but why would they? We’re all ghosts at the munitions factory. All they see are the weapons and quota, which my shift meets without fail. I keep my head down and loot within the margin of error, which is razor-thin when weaponry is involved, but when war comes to my front porch, I’ll be ready.

One of our assembly line workers is out sick. I presume its slag lung; we’ll know for sure in a few weeks. I have to cover the shift; no one is answering the phone. Can I blame them? Who wants to work the third shift?

Protocol states I tuck my shirt in and remove my jacket, for safety reasons, which will leave the gun in my waistband exposed. I excuse myself to the restroom and stash it in my jacket’s chest pocket. I hang it up on a coat hook behind my station on the assembly floor, keeping it close.

Steady howls of thunder from the conveyer belt motors turn my thoughts into fragments of glass. I feel them expand into throbbing stabs above my eyebrows. The faded green fluorescent lights pull the shards through my corneas and fire ferments in my empty stomach.

After an hour of standing at the polishing line, the muscles around my knees tense up, and the callouses on the balls of my feet ache. I cup a bullet from the current load in the creases of my palm then excuse myself to scan the floor, keeping up my supervisor's obligations.

I kick my legs to loosen the knots as I wander the line, dropping the bullet into my pants pocket. 237. The worker’s faces are a collective sea of defeat; eyes sunken into sleep-deprived recesses where their dead dreams lie.

It’s illegal to dream here. One sniff of hope and the government will grind it out at the work camps, leaving a frail husk, incapable of feeling. I have dreams still, I think, but they’ll never know. I keep them protected with a bulletproof veil far from the grubby hands of authority; buried so deep they’re like whispers in the dark.

A cough freezes the steady pulse of machinery, simmering it to a gentle whir. Invigorated with fear, the dead eyes search for the source of the sound. Incomprehensible murmurs spread through the cloud of silence, then another cough kills the voices.

Commotion rises from the far side of the room and a man darts through the machines. The alarm sounds and red lights engulf the floor. The quarantine crew rushes in from the black corners of the warehouse dressed in hazmat suits and armed with tranquilizer guns. He runs. They chase.

Desperate pleas of mercy spill from the man as he collides with racks of supplies and factory workers standing in his way. He stumbles by my station and knocks my coat from the hanger on the wall. I hear the gun skittering across the floor. No one notices; everyone’s eyes glued to the pursuit.

I drift across the floor, back to my station as the pursuit reaches the entryway. As I scale the corner, I see the gun laying on the concrete floor, doused in red light, and my jacket sprawled by the wall nearby. A loud clank echoes through the warehouse, and I look to see the man twitching on the floor with a dart in his neck. I reach down to gather the gun and jacket into a pile. When I stand, I see a factory worker staring at me. The gun falls from the mound in my arms. Before I can explain, the man screams gun on the line. I run.

I check the clip and turn the safety off. No one stops me yet, but I feel the panic spreading around me. Acrimonious confusion rings through the insipid halls as I sprint past the hazmat crew, towards the security desk by the front door; my only way out.

A guard stands in front of me with one hand on his pistol, and the other stretched out towards me. He’s telling me to stop, but I raise the gun and shoot. 236. His head snaps back, and his body collapses onto the desk. I crash my shoulder into the door and the glass splinters as it swings open. Bullets nip at my heels as I run to my truck.

I start the engine and peel out towards the main gate. The officer is standing in front of my truck, waving his arms. I yell out the window for him to move, but he doesn’t. I ram the gate. My truck jerks and my head snaps foreword, hitting the steering wheel. My eyes struggle to focus through the spider web across my windshield. The hood of the truck is wrinkled like a sheet of paper and smoke billows from the engine. I fall out, crashing into the unforgiving asphalt. My bones snap as I stand and my feet stumble across the ground. I rest my hand on the hood and try to focus my eyes. The blurry figure squirms, trapped between my bumper and the metal gate. He’s screaming and begging, but the ringing in my ears jumbles the sound. I apologize then shoot him in the head. 235. I flash my badge under the scanner and dash through the gate.

I run through the trees, towards home. They’ll get there first. Grey sky; the sun’s rising. She’ll be awake soon. Will she see them coming? What are they going to do to her? Oh God, what have I done?

***

For an hour, I sprint. I vomit a few times but eventually, I just dry heave as my legs flail like rubber bands. Needles rasp in my lungs, and the corner of my stomach seizes in a lump of knots. I pass the playground and cross the rickety bridge. Almost there.

***

A black SUV parked in the dirt lot; the engine still running. The front door to the house hangs open. Your mother’s arm draped over the threshold, lifeless. They must have found the stash. I wheeze and rest on my hand on a tree trunk, trying to catch my breath before entering.

Our belongings scattered in chaos inside. Your mother lays dead in a puddle of blood collecting around her head. Her eyes stare with fear; more alive now that she’s dead. The floorboard is gone, and so is the tackle box. Guns are gone too. So is she. Good; they took her alive. They must be checking the fields behind the house, I don’t see—.

An arm wraps around my neck and pulls me to the ground. The gun skids across the floor to the door. I lash my head and kick my legs. I feel a nose break behind my skull, and a low voice curses as the arm grips tighter. I struggle to breathe. I dig my nails into the forearm across my neck. The arm grips tighter, and my lungs throb in panic. I reach over my head to grab the man’s hair, but it’s just sandpaper under my palm.

A man steps out of the hallway, drawn on me. I don’t beg, I barely breathe. He asks where she is. I stay silent. He shoves the gun in my forehead and asks again. My eyes tell him he’ll never know. He cocks the hammer and stands straight. I close my eyes and picture your face.

Warm liquid splatters across my cheeks. No pain. A weight falls on my chest, knocking the short supply of breath from my lungs. I open my eyes, and a head lying in my lap seeps warm blood into my clothes.

The man squirms free from under me and starts running towards the gun by the door. My lungs inhale a deep, metallic breath. A gunshot stops the man. He falls dead onto your mother. I look to my palm. No pistol. Did I shoot?

She appears through the kitchen, holding out a gun in her trembling hands. 233. She’s sobbing. I push the body off and grab her by the shoulders. I run my fingers over her face. I tell her she did the right thing. I tell her to put the gun down. She drops it and falls into my chest. I hold her and sway, caressing her head.

She pulls away and looks at me with brand new eyes; eyes I almost recognize but are grayer than I remember. Afraid, she tells me she kept her eyes open, but I wish she hadn’t.

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Hemi-Powered 1941 Willys Coupe Is Survivor of Gasser Wars

Survivor.

That word gets used, and misused, a lot in the car hobby. It seems just about any hulk that hasn’t completely returned to its elemental state gets called a survivor. To our way of thinking, though, this ’41 Willys has earned the title.

For one thing, you’re looking at all original sheetmetal. Even the tilt hood is made from the car’s factory front-end parts. There’s no fiberglass here. Some rust repair, sure, covered by fresh primer carefully blended with the 1950s-era red racing paint. The nice-looking trim? Original. Just needed some polish.

What makes the Willys’ condition even more remarkable is the fact that it was drag raced and sold off—not once, but twice—before sympathetic hands sought to preserve it.

After being in Randy Gribble’s hands for nearly 30 years, this veteran of the Midwest gasser wars has found a new home with Gil Muro and his cohorts at the Hot Rod Ranch. “Where I’m from, it’s hard to get California coolness,” says Randy, who’s based in South Dakota. “We don’t have a lot of drag racing out here. We build jalopies for dirt track racing. I’m having more fun knowing Gil is doing something with it.”

  The car’s guardian angel was Randy Gribble, who owns Lake City Rod & Custom in Watertown, South Dakota. He remembers the day, back in 1990, when he and a friend were driving home from a drag race in Omaha. He was leafing through the local Deals on Wheels ad paper while his buddy drove.

That’s where he saw an ad for a Willys. “I had Willys fever,” he says, ticking off several of the diminutive hot rods he’s owned over the years, many of which he had to sell to fund the purchase of land for his shop.

“I made my friend pull off the interstate and find a phone booth. It was a Sunday afternoon. I called this place in Greeley, Colorado, a car lot there, and left a message. On Monday they called back, and I made a deal over the phone.”

A couple weeks later the car showed up at Randy’s place. “My first thoughts were, had I seen the car in person I might have passed on it,” he admits. “But I didn’t have a lot of money. I still don’t. Some things never change. And I wanted one really bad.”

What’s known about the Willys’ racing history starts in the Denver area in the 1950s. Back then it was powered by a Pontiac engine, and after he bought the car Gil turned up an old photo of the Willys with just the Pontiac logos on the doors. Dave Mader and Jerry Morris added their names, and another Pontiac mill, when they raced it in the Kansas area in 1959-1964.

  The Willys “didn’t look as good as its picture,” Randy says. “The grille was busted out in the center. It had old painted silver wheels on back when the picture showed chrome wheels. The frame was chopped up and rusty, and someone had put an aluminum floor in with sheetmetal screws. But it was an all-steel Willys coupe, and I was in love.”

Randy had opened his business 10 years before and was going full-steam on customer projects. That meant relegating the Willys to after-hours status, worked on “a little at a time each winter.” Being in the business, and a collection of parts from his own race car projects, provided opportunities to add choice parts to the car.

The Willys wears 1950s-vintage red paint over what looks like factory white, but there are worn-through areas and places, like this, where all the paint is just gone. Look close at the door and you can see an eighth inch or more of what initially looked like filler under the paint. Closer examination revealed it to be lead.

The Willys’ chassis was so beat up that he “started over” using the frame from “another car I pulled out of the weeds,” a ’41 sedan that would also donate its steering column and dashboard. He and his son burned up two battery-powered screwdrivers getting all the sheetmetal screws out of the floor. Randy had a ’57 392 Hemi, left over from a blown-alcohol nostalgia dragster he sold, that he thought “would be perfect in the Willys.” He found a Don Long chromoly straight axle at a swap meet in Phoenix. “It came off an old gasser that they were mistakenly turning into a street rod,” he says, laughing. “It had Willys spindles and everything, and the perches were perfect for Willys springs.”

It would be years, though, before Randy learned about any of the car’s history. That journey began with a chance encounter, much like spotting the car’s ad in the first place.

“I wish those windows could talk,” Randy says of this odd wear pattern in the paint. His best guess: While the Willys was in storage, a dangling chain, maybe in the garage rafters, would blow around in the wind and hit the car as it was swinging.

“You Got My Old Car”

“I was on my way to the L.A. Roadsters show and was invited to Mike DeVriendt’s open house,” he remembers. “He used to have the So-Cal Speed Shop in Colorado, and that’s the area where this car came from. I was talking to Mike about buying the Willys through the ad, and we realized he sold that car to me. This was 20, 25 years later.”

Mike told Randy he had purchased the Willys from a salvage yard south of Wichita. That piece of the puzzle led Randy to contact his friend, Don Baxter, who ran Baxter Ford Parts in Lawrence, Kansas, to see if he knew anything about the car. Don recalled seeing a Willys with Indian-head emblems on the doors, and remembered a Pontiac engine with a chain-driven blower under the hood. That detail stood out, as “it was the first one with chain drive that he ever saw,” says Randy.

Also lettered on the car were two names, which Randy and a friend punched into an internet search engine four or five years ago. They found a number, dialed it, “and there’s Dave Mader on the phone,” Randy recalls. “I told him what I had, and he said, ‘You got my old car. Me and the sheriff will come get it. That car was stolen.’”

The engine in the Willys is a ’57 392 Hemi that Randy had as a spare for a blown alcohol nostalgia dragster. In the 0.030-over block are flattop forged Ansen blower pistons, Manley rods, and an Engle L153 roller cam. The headers are from Hedman; Gil “cleaned them up and put a good coat of VHT on them.”

It took a second for Randy to realize Mader was joking. Sort of.

Dave Mader and Jerry Morris were friends who bought the Willys in the late 1950s from an ad in a magazine. A drag race car from the Denver area, it had been powered by a Pontiac engine, which explained the logos on the doors. When Mader and Morris bought the car the Poncho mill was toast, so they put another Pontiac in the car, topped by the chain-driven supercharger Don Baxter remembered. They raced it from 1959 to 1964, when Mader was sent to Vietnam. He left the Willys in the care of his partner, but when he came back from the service he learned that Morris had taken the car to a junkyard. “It sounded like Morris was in bad health,” Randy says, “but he still had the original title to the car.”

Randy asked Mader if he had any photos from their racing days. “We could hardly afford gas for the car,” Mader told him. “We didn’t have a camera.”

Gil had the vintage Mickey Thompson valve covers from “another Hemi project,” under which are triple-nickel 354 heads that were ported by Lockerman Porting Service. The heads are from “Mark Williams’ last front-engine dragster,” Randy says. “It was a normally aspirated, nitro-injected, A/Fuel car back in the day.”

(We would love to hear from any Deluxe readers who may have seen the car race or have photos of it, from the Mader/Morris years or even before, when it was in Denver. It should be easy to spot in your scrapbook. How many Willys decorated with Indian heads can there be?)

Mader asked him if it still had its Pontiac engine and Olds rearend. “No,” Randy told him, “no motor. Just the Pontiac emblem on the doors, and a Tri-Five rearend to roll it around.” Randy said Mader “wasn’t all that happy” to learn Randy put a Hemi in the car. “He wanted a Pontiac back in it,” Randy says, admitting, “I should have done a Pontiac motor. And if Gil and I didn’t have all this Hemi stuff, that’s what he’d be doing now.”

Gil provided the parts for the Hemi’s induction system: Twin 750-cfm Holleys feeding a 6-71 supercharger on a Cragar blower intake. He’s still tinkering with the motor, so we weren’t able to hear it fire. Among the mods already planned are different pulleys “to overdrive it to get more power.”

Lightening the Load

That would be Gil Muro, who with his brothers and other family members operates Hot Rod Ranch in the central California town of Lompoc.

Randy knew Gil from the March Meet. “I used to race there when the Goodguys were doing it. Gil bought a few parts from me at the swap meet.” Over the years, the two stayed in touch, so Gil had Randy’s number handy when he saw on Instagram that the Willys was for sale.

“I put so many projects ahead of this thing, just worked on it when I had the time, when I felt like it,” Randy says. “Pretty soon, it had been 28 years. I’m 64 years old, and I’m thinking about lightening the load a bit. That’s one reason why I got rid of it.”

Randy fashioned the tilt front end when he realized “I had to have it flip to work on the motor. I couldn’t work on it if just the hood opened.” But he wanted to retain all the factory front-end parts rather than graft on a fiberglass nose. So he bolted the stock hood and fenders together and fabricated the aluminum brackets that join the front end to the frame. The frame, by the way, looks just as pretty under the car as it does here. Gil smoothed and painted the whole thing.

Plus, he explained, he had taken the car to the point where it was ready for bodywork. “I’m not a body man,” he admits. “I would have had to hire that done.” He also faced a decision about the paint. He had a lot of lengthy discussions with a friend, Craig “Spud” Godfrey, about whether to preserve the historic paint or re-paint the car. “Spud would have been the one to repaint it if I decided to go that way,” Randy says. In the end, he felt the body should stay in its as-raced condition. “But there’s so much bad there to be fixed, it would take someone like Gil to save the old paint.”

Gil immediately recognized the car’s potential. “It’s really rare to find a ’41 Willys that’s all steel and even has the original trim.” Like Randy, he wants to get the car running while keeping it as original as possible. “Really what we’re doing is helping Randy finish his dream.”

Randy found the Willys’ front suspension at a swap meet: a spindle-to-spindle setup using a Don Long chromoly straight axle. When Randy got the car it had “an original Willys axle in it that had a little drop to it,” he says, “but this axle has the gasser history that I wanted.” He re-arched the front springs to give the nose a little altitude (and attitude).

Wilwood front disc brakes are among the car’s few contemporary components (along with a fuel cell in the trunk), all there for safety, says Gil. “Old Airheart brakes would be cool, but I wanted some real stopping power considering how fast this thing will be.”

Randy removed the Tri-Five Chevy rearend that was under the Willys when he bought it and replaced it with this ’57 Pontiac rearend, filled with 4.88 gears, a spool, and 35-spline Old Henry’s axles.

When he took out the Chevy rearend, Randy found ladder-bar brackets and fabricated these “based on the look I wanted and where I thought they should come out. I studied a few old HOT ROD magazines and saw what they were doing.” The bars are made from 1 1/4-inch DOM with quarter-inch-wall tube. “I did step up to regular Art Morrison ladder bar ends, good solid rod ends,” Randy said.

The original floor had been cut out and replaced with a floor that was attached with sheetmetal screws. Plus, “the whole A-pillar structure was in pretty poor shape,” Randy recalls. “I had to put a lot of substructure back in there.” To offset that weight, he made new floor pans from 12-gauge aluminum, supported by “two c-channel frames, one inside the other. It should be pretty strong.”

More of Randy’s fabrication work: The steering column came from the donor sedan that provided the Willys’ frame, but he fashioned the pedal assembly to look like vintage Ansen parts. “The pads are real Ansen, but I made the pedals.” The bracket that supports the pedals ties into the column “where the Willys’ shifter post used to be for the three-on-the-tree shifter.”

They look like old racing buckets because they’re supposed to, but the seats are actually aftermarket high-back buckets Randy found at a swap meet. “I tried to make them look old-timey by cutting the headrests off.” Between the seats is a B&M Series 60 shifter controlling the car’s clutch Turbo 400.

A big Sun tach and Stewart-Warner gauges monitor the goings-on, but Randy also left room for this ’41 Willys dashboard, another transplant from the sedan parts car. “It’s an original dashboard, just not original to this car,” he explains. “My friend Spud detailed it for me.”

The fat 12-16 M&H Racemasters are reproductions, but inside them are gennie 16×11 Halibrand mags. The front rolling stock is all repro: Halibrand kidney-bean lookalikes from Summit Racing Equipment mounting 5.00-15 BFG Silvertowns from Coker.

Paragon Plastics cut the Plexiglas side and rear windows for Gil.

Randy radiused the wheelwells; Gil patched the rust around the lower edges, then sprayed the work with primer. One reason the original trim stayed in such good shape is because Randy took it off and stored it for the nearly 30 years he owned the car.

It’s still a work in progress, but probably by the time you read this the Willys will be back on the street— and maybe even the dragstrip. As the process nears completion, Gil wanted to acknowledge the people who helped him. “I want to thank my entire family, especially my wife Charryse and my kids, Bella and Cruz, for all their support. I’d also like to thank all the guys who helped on the car: Russell Smith, Jesse Alarcon, Dave Andrews, Chris Barker, Steve Gaboury, Harold Davis, and Dusty Albrecht.”

The post Hemi-Powered 1941 Willys Coupe Is Survivor of Gasser Wars appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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The Gas Monkey Holy Grail Firebirds to Be Auctioned off at Barrett-Jackson Scottsdale 2017

The two “Holy Grail Firebirds” the Gas Monkey Garage crew restored on a past episode of Fast N’ Loud will be auctioned off at no reserve this weekend at Barrett-Jackson Scottsdale by Richard Rawlings’ friend and auction regular, JD Pass. JD bought the cars from Richard once the Firebirds were restored to his liking. Both cars will be sold as a pair on Saturday January 21st lot #1377 and #1377.1. Richard, JD and Dennis Collins are fired up for this weekend and are confident the competition for these cars will be strong.

THE HOLY GRAIL FIREBIRDS

For a little refresher, Richard bought the cars from Chuck Aleksinas, a former basketball star from University of Kentucky, UCONN and the Golden State Warriors, for $70,000. Gas Monkey Garage completed a ground-up restoration, led by Jason Aker, who Richard hired due to his extensive experience completing concours-quality restorations. As stated in a prior article on GasMonkeyGarage.com, when Pontiac introduced the Firebird in ’67, they promoted five distinct models and called them the “Firebird Magnificent Five.” These two Firebirds are two original show cars that made up the Magnificent Five, serial numbers 100001 and 100002, built at the Pontiac Lordstown, OH, assembly plant in early 1967.

BUILD SHEETS

100001

100002

The first Firebird is the 326 Convertible, painted in its original Regimental Red with cruise control, deluxe interior package in red and a very rare floor-mounted clock. The second Firebird is a four-speed High Output Coupe in Silverglaze and is also the first HO car built with a factory-mounted tachometer, Rally II wheels and deluxe black interior. Both vehicles have also been certified by Jim Mattison of Pontiac Historic Services and according to PHS, these two cars are the most significant Firebirds ever produced and a huge piece of GM and automotive history.

  These Firebirds were supposed to sell at Barrett-Jackson Las Vegas last year, but a delay on the auction block caused a change in plans. Right before the Firebirds were due to cross the stage, the electronic transmission on the car in front of the Firebirds — a 1970 Chevelle Custom Coupe — locked up on the block causing a 20-minute delay. The delay not only took the excitement out of the room at Mandalay Bay, but also with online and phone bidders. Therefore, when the Firebirds hit the block, they didn’t meet reserve. JD and the team at Barrett-Jackson decided to give the cars their proper due by selling them at no reserve at the bigger event in Scottsdale this weekend.

JD PASS

In addition to being one of Richard’s closest friends, JD is a true renaissance man, boasting a resume that includes asset management, auctioneer, rodeo promoter, classic car collector and race car driver. JD races Super Late Models on the dirt track and holds a fastest lap record for that class at Whynot Motorsports Park in Whynot, Mississippi. Check out JD crashing and getting T-boned by another car 5 minutes into this video below.

JD also promotes and has competed in XETC, or Extreme Elapsed Time Championships, which is essentially a drag racing style calf-roping competition that pits two World Class cowboys side by side in the same arena for prize money upwards of $50K – $100K.

JD in red.

We’re looking forward to an exciting weekend and JD selling these two amazing Firebirds to a deserving classic car collector or museum.

PHOTO GALLERY

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Dont freak out, itss just writing

i grew up fast (so fast) (too quick nigga) (wish i went through when i was just a bit bigger) can you tell me who the parent is uh ya the first time i drove a whip i was a fuckin kid, (96 suburban nigga) (yo yo, did you tell em why) oh ya shit my fault my mom was bleeding from her chin i dont know what from or what about, scared to death i took that drive to the ER (Medical SHIIIT) (mom got too drunk again and feel out) (wheres dad? in his room his doors locked, figures i dont expect, as i try to knock (no answer nigga) i dont blame em he removes himself from the sitiation so he dont hit her) ya i fucking grew quick, ya i fucking tryed some shit, the first time i dropped out and took some shroomies i was age 6 plus 6, thats 12 for the illiterates, actually aas a matter a fact it was fuckin pleasant as fuck as i drew back the droe and took another hit. now that i think that was the day, older brother came and gave me cig i obliged no way to say nay, i was still trippin and it was a sensational feelin, it left me stumblin and dizzy a head rush like no other i was hooked for live to the day and i dont blame him, i dont think he knew what he had started, adding to the compilation of the monsxter inside that took refuge and started, poison in his mind, the drugs altered his brain activity but he was buckled up and commited to the ride.Shit i just said in third person let me apologize to yall sometimes the ideas flow together like two fortune five mergin, these feels of hate be strong ya im hurtin, i cant blame no one, i cant choose the family i was birthed in, started sniffin ups felt my blood surgin, gotta big head but my nemisis, the evil inside myself was bigger aboutt the size of a white sturgeon, like some northern ish that canadain shit like british columbia or somethin idk, alls i can say is that BC bud out that bitch is my fav to blow, the sour D, diesel to be exact for you niggas who waana try to nit pick or correct my personal facts, let me just speak at you,  all the hatin niggas tryin bring me down, bad news, i do drugs like steve from fuckin blues clues, but my rents always on time when that xshits due, any ways i side tracked speaking of tracks just lined some shit up did with speed did with need i did it with tact, im dextrous and shit i always have a unique train of thought oh shit trains again trains derailed at this point hhaaha i crack myself up sometimes with the wit in my words leh-let you in on the pun so you can join in my fun, about the lines the lines are no more you didn arrive in time i promise these raps have rhythm they have rhyme i aint spittin to waste your time, i aint spittin to catch a dime, bag or bitch, it really dont matter, niether last long but they are still my niche, come here bitch come hit this shit, this time dont have a fit, mind over matter just stick yuh nose in these rails sit down for a bit, drink some wata, go to your happy place we are gettin to old for me to have tote on yuh just from hitten lines but i put up wit it, you got that 50 thou boat on yuh, not to mention your ride, that shit is so sweet i cant decidddee which id rather seed, as in inseminate with my seaman as i play the part as a seaman workin for seimans on a marine voyage i aint like you im a higher being, i dont know whatchu talkin whatch your eyes be seein i am a divine heathan i really cant fucking believe a niggas still breathin im a florida boy born and raised, i sit the fuck back drink my beer in the shade, high as i usually am a rinny tin tin rinscotts tale \down the rintin like a shark fin poatched by commercial fisherman thrown in a bin, no regard for life the human race is so greedy, people just aint my type, say what you want i know me best and i know im right. my creative talents on the other hand be outta sight, im my own worst enemy to cross the bridge pay the fee, trollin in the hood for that g, withdrawin, shakin i drop to my knee look up to the sky ask god if he sees. hear the sound of humming, huh must be bees, or im trippin out maybe its a flash back i dont remmember. whats th-this street, tremblin think my heat skipped a bit, or a couple shakinso bad my knes begin to buckle, anxiety can be dibilatated held me back from so much in life thers no debating. unfamiliar route. made it to this bar ordered a stout got to thinking, you may ask what about, this is why i like solitude to be on my own to answer to noone to depend on myself and live it to the fullest while im yung, my mind will reel, replaying all i know every single memory, that im capable of bringing back, i compare my brain to a file cabinet, i keep it hidden like in an office towards the back. A photographic memory is a gift and a curse, ill tell you whatat, if you dont keep it in check you will end up in a herse, sure you can remember the happy shit the good things in your life but you cant fucking forget the huge hits the fucking bad bitch the one who broke your heart? dounno how to forget you but i think i know where to start, i thought it was drugs, i numbed my body with chemicals little did i know with every shot the metaphorical shovel scooped out some more dirt from the inconcievable whole i fuckin dug. my life has been weird kinda like an opriental from a flee market an awkward rug, with no real spot in the house, was always the black sheep in the fam i tryed to tip toe as quiet as a mouse, some tom and jerry shit my mistakes and regrets cbhasing me around like tom the cat from that shit, I hide in my hidey whole, disconeected from any social environmeent i often found myself cryin, but self loathin is kinda like being a a gay with some dicks hes blowin, givin a ski job pitty is the lube hatred is the tube the vessel to carry out a deed the fags not sure about, hes experimentin comparable to some situations in my life cept wont catch me with two dudes in a shower, that was just a metaphor. you feel me? im sure the haters will hop all over that verse but just fuckinh hear me. I got my shades on and these bitches special, haters they block, they keep you no fun, sticklers out of sight out of mind like spf 75 sun block, that industrial shit, factory born hear the lunch bell on the horn, an  hour passes the busy bees come back to the floor to join the others to join the masses; the hoard., here the hum of the worker bees at work as they sneek rum in there flasks stuck it in to the hive got it past the queen time to catch a buzz to make this pain stop while i avoid the fuzz the narks at work, cant control it even if they wanted to stop. i dont want to hurt. this was a metaphor for the endless rut of a reality ive become accustomed to; succomed too, the low of the low. comparable to a german trench on the frontlines., my life feels like a conveyer belt, makin the same product running the same direction never really goiong any where, now thats was an analagy, keeping up? yung unsensitive how many? 0 fucks, 0 fucks giveen, 0 blights forgiven, spiteful to death and mornful for noone, nothing left inside just another no-go, malfunctioning product family be like feeling “ i feel like they robbed us” of our brother our son and our friend , dont worry fam im still with you in your hearts up to the end. im tired of our society with all its malice and fallacy, thinking to my self how sad it must be, to be washed in the brain to be hypnotized, this shits so insane.you want that shit super sized? of course nigga watchu you sayin. A glutonous society obsessed with self indulgence people actually still believe good people are in abundance. Speaking of which, fuck the people for a tec, have you looked around lately, this earth is a wreck, mark my words we headin straight for destruction, We are not being good care takers, we fuckckin actin so careless what doesdo the opeople in power really expect?? just pass it on to the next generation “ohh, its not our life time we will leave it for you” Thats a big fuck you to the generations after you undeserving self entitled fucks finallyy croak. get the fuck outa here, tell me when you sold your sold, you heartlesxs bastards would give anything for xsome more of that paper thgat rules all, the pressure you have put on everyone, no one is an exception, to support ourselves and loved ones to provide for our own and multiple other peoples nees, the urge to make money looms over our heads like a pestiliant storm cloud of angst and uncertainty, boreing a fucking whole in our moral, making peoplpe desperaate rising crime rates because people get desperate, people need to survive and they will do dam near whatever it takess to make the money they need, for whatever purpose.  ill whipe my ass with it throw in your cards i will win you better fold. i have freeedom, you ask what? anominity you fuckers, i can moldd my own life i have the freedomm of choosing, i certainly dont have to wait for legislation to pass a bill which you bribed for votes to do so anyways, to do something something much worse than im capabloe of ever doing, intentionally ruining the environment and turning our planet to mars just for paper with and idea (with a “hey, take our word for it, its worth something “””WE PROMISE”””” fucks) behind it not even gold bars, fuck you niggas mark my words illl bring all you mother fuckers down, ill run you fucks out of town, you hear that sound? its a train. its my passion and my determination to take you out, maybe ill use a fuckin plane? i mean its o.k. for the CIA to do it, right? Create this ridiculously elaborote ruse this plot, thyat fucking fooled all the ignorant and brainwashed americans you have already sucked in with your cancerous propaganda, kids lost to your bullshit through social media and the fucking criteria you make teachers teach young minds, we are taught from a very young age that “ huraaahh america is number one! Terrorists bad! Environmental destruction of a planet good!” how about we help some of the third woorld countries (which you know we wouldnt have to be gunning down women and children in the streets) we could just like give them the water they need? help them gentrify there communities teach them how to develop better skills, teach them more efficient ways to take advantage of their land, maybe bring some seeds to food sources that can be grown creating a bit of self sustainability that may not be indigenous but would grow in their country?? you greedy fucks just want oil, when we have enough in our reserves in alaska/canada to last north america 500 years falsey blame others, create an imaginary war “the war on terrorism, which infact is a fucking cover a false entity, to entice patriotism to loosely keep this crumbling empire together the last attempt, the only thread left in the button holding up the pants we call america, you forgot to tell the word all that shit is just whack  [ simply a meticulously pplanned and executed ploy to spur interests in the middle east, control the oil and power will return back east, return to u, Cause god knows you tax the fuck out of us for EVERYTHING especially mnother fucking gas, so we can pay for wellfare and pay for fucking solar power for rich fucks who e==inherited wealth, people who hdont know what working a day means and never will be, never had a problem, never been broke “oh shit my fucking croket set is missingg a ball” lose the pretense fuckers, you cocksuckers, arrogant low lives.. Money makes you any better then the hard working man that cover your tax breaks pay like our fucking ppolice forces (who are a bunch of ROTC drop outs with a badge and sense of power nnow being unfair and crooked taking some kind of revenge on the idea of the kids who picked on them all through out school” Motherfucker its harder to become a plumber, the learning and process is longer/more rigorous then a 6 month police academy which is fucking my lil pony world ( ith ink there is a fantasy kids show for my lil pony with their own fantasy dimension/world)compared to a military bootcamp.  A doctrine instilled to stop the spread of communisim wherever and whenever it may presenet itsxelf? when is the fighting going to stop in that area of our dying earth, thjey have been fighting eachother since lifes initial birth, what whoever was in power or in charge of trading the petroleumn to us wanted to charge an extra dollar 4 dollars  aBARREL instead of 3??? whaa you fucking greedy cunts,? so we invade and take control put there people on dog collars?? for wshat a dollar difference in productionfreedom of speech as you mothers suck the livlyhood from our home like a blood sucking leech, so careless, you know exactly what your doing, you just dont care it aint your problem your headin towardcs the end your death is brewin, well im the reaper of death cloaked in black i always get my man like a cold inwe can hardly co-exist and efficiently function. We are on world one love bob marley shit im getting tired of going throught the motions im all fucked up inside and shit. Early development can be a lynch pin. to either set a strong first corner stone, ceremonial placement of the first corner stone, free mason shit, corn and vegetable oil, so many customs and traditions are goin down a fuckin hill catch em rollin. Early  life is so fucking critical for a young kid, childrens minds are like a sponge they are looking up to their elders they are developing mentally they consume everything around them and retain more than you know, give your kids a healthy and stimulating environment and they will let there talents grow let there talents show let there brilliance flow let there inhibitions go, gone like dust in the wind, never catch em in trouble nothing, not one sin. They will begin to get older, be super organized, super focused for school, every class haxs a folder. As you watch them grow you will feel it in your heart you will fuckin kno, atleast you did this at least you used your parental guidance for good. when you die you know youll be missed, your kid dont throw fits, not one bit, hes such a chip off the old block that was cliche as fuck haha tuck em inh for bed his forhead you kiss. I just might fucking shed a tear, I cant fight this urge to drink a beer. I cant deny this fucking fear, I must look like just like headlights shinin onm a deer, jock strap aroun d my ankles, dumbfounded, look in  my eyes, perplexed, look on my face as it hits, you get a certain taste in your mouth this race is coming to a close suddenly your filled with doubht, seriously you should be care free, yuou did your duty as a parent, im jealous wish that was me, chill the fuck out go drink some fucking relaxing tea or something, sobrietyy seems to be a good mixture along with love and rationality to make a family function like a well greased machine, like a mechanisim freshly whipped down with some white lithium grease. tuned and ready to go, temped to huff the fumes and left everything go, turn your car on shut the garage door, let death grip  you, dont seem to care anymore, I cant change the past and i have no regreats, will i make it to thirty? “right over here people!” “place your bets!”, ill take my tickets to my Life Show and just scalp em make some extra cash, im already absent, so detatched;incapable of feeling. even if im there aint nothing going on emotionally in there (guarantee you im smilin an nodding i really dont give 2 fucks no more”, take that money right to the plug i promote fucking drugs not hugs, or why not both? why does the saying have to be one or the other when sxometimes its both you desire the most. Take the scalpin’ money from the tickets to the play of my life, go on down to the hood, pick up some bags mis amigos habla “Drogas” los hermanos tambien, this urge is hard to fight. Its a romance [a ritual of being, so0mething un explainable i wish i was never a part of, im always metaphorically bleeding. My poker face is strong, fuck showing weakness i alwayxs thought it was to show emotuion. wrong....... but its not, it can save your life, can \get you through, throw you a life jacket, get you out of that tide you fought, that frigid water no warmer than dry eyes.. Ive always been a loose cannon, I go with the flow, not lookin back, been chillin with the old heads they were suprisxed i could hang and, back to the point haha literally or figuratively is the question... im not gonna keep you waitin or leave yall hangin, i hate cliff hangers, make me wait 45 five minutes leave me jonesin’ its slow goin like grindin that ‘crete in the hangers polishin’ that baby out and coatin with some apoxy, its a process, i just get my drugs, whate=vers around and hit bangersz til i pass out, thatsx how my life has been goingg, i feel like im in the chambers just waiting to be gassed out. Flip the fuuckin switch you fuckin pussy end all this malcontent and hate, make itt black, eternal reest at loast.. dress me up real nice maybe a sharp vest, go through the processions and go through the motions fucking burn my body bitches, i want to be in the ocean ive always felt drawn to it, like an unexplainable,, unatainable unfakeable feeling or notion. im happiest sippin a coctail right by the ocean,  thats where you put me to rest... ill be pissed as fuck dont treat me like a fucking ruck; i beenn aroound, age is but a number, my knowledge is  vast and profound, ya thats right bitch im fuckin educated, know more tthan you will learn in your life time and im 20 years, old get what im sayin? i dont got a big heaad im actually humble,  just at my  breaking point. if i was a volcanoe you would feel the rumble; the pre-emptive signs of an eruption pre-determineed in the creator’s mind he took his divine time to find a wayy to grin away the time it took to find the book i bind when al i want is to be stress free and unwind but im the opposite wound up liike the grandfather clock i wish i could stop , the wheels are in motion the gears are set to full speed the feels keep comin i got this itch; this notion, this inkling to stop minglin, stop wastin my time with u useless fuccks. i think its time, its not the end my journey, just started this epic tale of sorrow, my feelings have departed, im fuckingg frozen over colder than ice, dry ice. cant touch me im full of hate and vice, addictive personality on a suicide mission like a ffucking missionary willing to die for his faithh,. i wish man willing to be a martyr for his religion.. ya bitch i smoke stoges in the hotel room just send the  bill to him if it comes to me itll end up in the fucking rubbish bin with a looggie on top coughin up brown shit to young for that talk, to young for heart disease pack and a half a day to try to keep my miind at ease, the stress is buildin im like a tickin time bomb, im so wound up like a clock rigged to blow mount vesuvius, a test nuke... the alarm is soundinn off. A  bright flash like a million lightning strikes, bout to pop off.. but atleast with style got my limited eddition nikes, listen to me i soound like them, listen to me bitching like a fucking fem, bottle it up, thats what society saays, male suicide is at an all time high like two polar opposites due to wed, its never gonna work im always going to be sad im always going to hurt, no fuck it, im a lock it up and throw away the key, im gonna forget about all this shit and be a fuckin G, be hardcore like the brothhers, leave bitches cryin in the street like aall our fuckin mothers, 32 degrees ferenhiet tatted on my left pec it signifies the tempture of my heart no longer warm and red, its frozen over, it hardly beats, that shit is smaler than the grinches, i turned into what they want me to be, a danger to society, getthe fuck outa myface before i shoo,t b, I got nothing to lose, living for nothing, nada, goose eggs nigga dont give a fuck reckless, no regard for life i dont give two fucks a partridge in a ghetto street, aint no merry christmas song, i like my biches thick and dirty wearin'n some fesh tomy thongs, i use em abuse and enthuse them then ruse thm excusse them fuckin confusethem "why you so distaant all of the suden" keep the vow of silence, like a monk on a holy missio, a friar on a divine quest, sending telepathic messages look into my eyes and see, get the fuck out i was never real these feelings meant nothing to me manipulator, manipulationist making up woprds never been a relationist, the masster of his craft a ventrilliquist or a puppet master you were to blind to see, mama was right just a socio path, ya bitch tell your 7 year old child that; see how long his chipper attitude lasts, im lower than nothing, not even a worm maybe i could bbe a fucking tick suckin blood, noting left of the kid i used to be, no more self worth, i cant love you when i cant love myself, how you expect me to support you when all i do is grab a spoon andd melt all the money thaat comes my way, a junkie, bum destined for an early  death and you think yous my bride to be, sorry hun you reaad me wrong, i know its hard cause bitches never know whats goin on inside my head, as i lay in bea,d staring off to somewhere, anywhere but next toyou, staring off into space thinking about my drug abuse, asking myself why, but i know the answer ready to die, but i think ill get a lapper frm one more danceer, i wanna go out in style, not som lame shit maybe go up to a mountain and stand on a cliff, look down, see wher im destined to end up as i take the safety off, finger carressing the trigger, a cool wind blows as i prepare to leave my loved ones bitter, surprised they sstayed aound thislong only ever let em down ever since i was young, never good enough always disappointing this rap comes so easily writing it like noothing, to get this off my chest as theend comes near, i shaped my own destiny i chose to die, now i chose to die here, fuk your beliefs and your faith in gods plan i took my life intomy own fucking hands, i think we all know einstiens theory of insanity, i been doin the same shit fr so long now exspectin shit to change and, i guess im insane.. i took my brilliiant, my sharp mind and put it to waste. its time to pull the inevitable, the good die young idk in this case if thats viable, im scummy i did whatever it took to get my fix to kill that pitt  in my tummy. i hurt people close, i stole from my famil.y.. its time to end it, like i caqme into the world, by myself always alone, soemthing that my father toldme that really stuck, its cynical as fuck, but he was right. he said stay out of the bullshit the groggy muck. Only lookout for yourself son, ive been arounnd awhile, [people dont give a fuck about anyone else they care only for themselves, in the end at the most critical time they will always choose them instead of some one else. We are alone in this wrld and its the hard truth jut learn not to ddepend on others while you are still in your youth, ive been fucked over to many times by people i thought i was very close to. now im out to get mines me and only me you and only you, get that fucking look on ur face sorry for beeing real and telling the truth, im trying to prepare your for whats ahead, im tryig to prevent you from depending on a brutus who will fill you with lead, stab you in the back for their own personnal gain, being to trustworthy is a heroic flaw like being egotistical, wanting to help your friends to much, being aragont ect. kryptonite to super man pease dont be batman and let it be yourr bane, bane as in the villian to let you know. im back, here are my words again not my dads, ji really do miss all the relationships i had, havent spoken to my dad in years tookk one for theteam stayed with mama dukese inj the ssplit to save faace, foir my innocent younger brothers. you know what shes also my motheer, shes not capable of surviving alone i didnt think i would abandon her ever i thought id never do that, i stuck with her out of evveryone, a family oof six she looked out for me in times of strife wish i could give her one last kiss, just shot my last 20 and i fucin missed, absesses dont matte any more i bet this 45 shoots true time for the finale,  no way i can miss, as the curtains close on my young life one last thought people really took to me, like white on rice, women were drawn to me the mystery i had them enticced, June baby as a cancer i am hard to understand i met a chick once who had a spot in my liifes bnd, she knew me we had a connection so much love we were never disrespectin im glad i could atleast i could teach hersome shit before she ripped my beeating heart out of my chest and stepped on it. Loved hermore than life and i still do i promised her one day i would find her and marry her, walkher down that isle say the words ido, she felt what i felt i know its tru, wasnt ready fgor commitment baby i wil alwayslove yo never orget you if i can i connect with you, like a disease i infected you i aways broght you downi was just baggage extra wait holing you down dragging around im glad youo saw through my snake charming ways saw me for who i was a bumm who couldnt change noot in a short number of days, someone so crippled by pain and grief it was beyond belief, she was the only one i wore my heart on my sleeve for , she lef me sobbinig, crrying violently without end in the door the doorway to more pain. i know she had no choice she had to live her lifee i was just in he way, i was obscuring her focus. eye on the prize isthe only way to achieve your goals and tnt them fuckin boulders, in your way, today i die babe, long time comin bet yall thought i was here to stay. baby l dontshed a tear kno i died drinkin a beer haha but nah you were my last thoughts thinking about all the time we spent getting lost in eachothers eyes and gettin so close we read eachothers thougts, illl miss or idk if ill be concious or just nothjingness, i guess ill fnd out when i finally stop being a pussy and proced with this, see ya velma ill always be your shaggy thinka bout me and dont forget what i made you see, in your self im just another memory on our shelf but let it bbe one thaat sticks we had somethingthat made ssense just clicks somethin that felt so right im really gonn miss, everythinig abnout you im sorry you couldnt trust me but i dont doubt why. i know the truth ive never denied a thing in my life, dont getme wrong everybody tells a little white lie, but you know what its a sign of intelligence not to be afraid to say idk not to lie for the hll of it. Ill see you soon in the nxt life or two i hope reincarnatiuon has a possibility of being true, godbye cruel world th ride is over it was a hell of a whirl, i leave you with absolutely nohing conntributted i was just a part o the cancer people had to live with, butnever acknowledgedd, acted ignoant to ther surroundings as daddy paid for college, i burned bright and hot and had a lot of fun, i had alot of life experienc got alot of shit done, nothing productivee of course in ssocieties eyes but i did fullfill atleast some personal goals, important things in my eyes, the curtains are almost done descending as my pittiful life is ending, but keep your pitty mother  fuckers i dont want shit from any of you i dont give yoou nothin dont be so self righteous you look like a bunch of fools, greive for me or celebrate my life i guess its on you how you chhoose to rfemmeber a nobody that nobody knew, a couple feet before the curtains drop, is that? myy eyes decieving? me? no i do see that a single rose descends from the skies, i stare intently at the work of art, a rose is soo beautiful, a representation of love, from the heart, so delicate with its velvet petals, easily ruined a boket wouldve been nice, but who am i fooling, thats a beautiful thing, that was really nice. the product bubbles as i take my last hit of ice, cant takemy eyes off that rose.. its so beautiful... the gun on my forhead now, looking at each individual pedals.. dew from the early mornin forming a small puddle around that naturral phenom, that iconic organic, spectaacular symbol of sometthing real, somethin that matters, something sensual. 

As the bits of his brain splatter behid him, arms spread; with grace, almost angelic.he falls off the ciff a hundred feet now for falling, weird but there was a look of peace in his eyes; on his face, maybe he wll finally find happiness.. he fell with nobility and so much grace the floor he hit, his finall restingplace, what cuold be a better box then a natural setting, a  beaauty of nature, crawling all around and he will return to the earth, the mother wll  take him back just as she gave birth, i thinnk this shit is over now its not my story to tell, inside voices kids no reason to yell. shhhhhhhhhhh. 

dont depend dont believe the [enter here]

Unrestored Day-Two 1969 Chevrolet Camaro SS396 Is Perfectly Preserved In All Its 1970s Glory

Mike Chronister made his decision, and he was sticking to it. It was 1975, and the high school senior from York, Pennsylvania, decided to hop in his cherished 1969 Camaro and head off to school even though the weather wasn’t promising. The car had rarely seen rain or any inclement weather, but the young man decided to roll the dice and take it anyway. He had an insatiable urge to drive his immaculate ride that day.

This particular Olympic Gold Camaro SS was no slouch. The day-two 1970s street rod had it where it counted. With an L78 under the hood, a Muncie four-speed between the buckets, and a low-geared 12-bolt rearend, it was made for dominating the street. Young Mike knew the build sheet all too well and took advantage of it whenever possible.

Mike Chronister’s Camaro retains 100 percent of its original paint and its complete drivetrain, making it a truly original 1970’s street machine.

While at school the weather turned more threatening. Mike got uneasy about the situation. That’s when he made the call. He got on the school payphone and rang his dad, who was 6 miles away at the family farm. Dad heeded the call and drove to school in the farm’s pickup, complete with cattle racks out back, and left it for his son. He then hopped in the beefed-up Camaro and drove it back home to safety just as the storm hit.

That, in a nutshell, is how Mike has always treated his prized Camaro. It was certainly a gem, and Mike was determined to keep it that way. It had an interesting past. Since it was a local car and he knew the previous owners, Mike got the full scoop on his bitchin’ Camaro SS396.

This Camaro definitely has the 1970s look. The rake is achieved by a set of Gabriel Hijacker air shocks put on early in the car’s life. A set of Lakewood traction bars finishes off the rear suspension mods.

Big Plans The Camaro was sold new at Schultz Chevrolet in Hanover, Pennsylvania, on January 31, 1970, to local car guy Mike Vetter. Before it left the dealership Vetter had them spray on the black accent stripe on the cowl hood. He had big plans and started modifying the car with the goal of street-racing it as much as possible.

He installed several key components to make it ready to take on the competition. First, he hit the engine up with a big, dual-feed Holley 850 carburetor and an aftermarket air cleaner to supply the engine with as much fuel as it would take. A set of Hooker headers was added along the way, complete with a set of Corvette side pipes, to get rid of the spent gases in day-two sound and style.

Out back, a set of Lakewood traction bars was added along with big M&H Racemaster meats mounted on American Racing 15×8 brushed aluminum mags, the juicy L60-15 rubber helping Vetter get a grip on the pavement. Gabriel Hijacker air shocks gave this ride a mean rake, and 4.56 gears made for quick starts.

The Camaro’s born-with 396/375hp L78 motor has never been rebuilt, though Mike did pull it a few years back for some proactive maintenance, including replacing the cam gear and the timing chain. The engine also features such day-two add-ons as the flex fan, headers, fly-eye air cleaner, and PerTronix ignition.

Inside, a Corvette steering wheel was added, along with a T-handle Hurst shifter.

Discovery After two years in Vetter’s possession, the built-up Camaro was sold to another local, Mark Winters. Mike Chronister remembers quite well the first day he laid eyes on the Camaro. “I first saw the Camaro in the summer of 1973, when a couple of friends and I went to Mark’s house to play basketball. It was love at first sight.”

Winters’ mission was not to race the car, but rather to maintain it and enjoy it, driving it sparingly. In 1974, he put it up for sale, and Mike pounced on it. He was driving a sporty 350/two-barrel Firebird at the time, but it was no L78. He says, “The challenge was to convince my father to let me buy the Camaro. The pristine, original condition of the SS really impressed my father, and I soon had his blessing to buy the car of my dreams.”

He sold the Firebird to a friend, and in May 1974, he became the third owner of this custom Camaro.

The original owner installed the Hooker headers and the exhaust pipes that exit, Corvette-style, along the rocker panels. Mike had the headers coated in the 1980s.

Mike now needed a place where he could safely stash the striking gold ride. The farm had few outbuildings, so Mike picked the best it had to store his prize. The shed he chose had dirt floors and open rafters, so he decided it needed upgrades. He poured a concrete floor first to get the car off the dirt. He then closed in the roof and drywalled the interior to make sure the car would be safe and dry.

Mod Life The Camaro saw some light street racing over the years with Mike, but nothing major. In the early 1980s he freshened up the engine bay, painted the block, and had the headers aluminum coated. In 1985, he and his wife Kathy moved to their new home just a few miles away from the farm, where the Camaro got a new garage to call its own. The car continued to see use over the years, hitting some of the shows that abound in central Pennsylvania.

During his 44 years of ownership, Mike has also put some personal touches on the car. In the late 1970s, he added a stainless steel flex fan, a Super Sun tach, and a Pioneer eight-track player along with Jensen speakers. In 2009, the rearend gear ratio was changed from those 4.56 gears to more practical 3.73s, which made the car more street friendly.

The only things added to the interior were Mike’s graduation tassel hanging from the rearview mirror and his aftermarket stereo system under the dash. A Super Sun tach was added at some point, then removed. The original interior is still in amazing shape for a nearly 50-year-old ride.

In 2013, the Camaro got some needed attention. “I reached out to my friend Lonny Gordon, owner of East Coast Muscle Cars, for project advice,” says Mike. From there the engine was pulled and inspected, the cam gear and timing chain were replaced, and all stampings were photographed and logged. The transmission was serviced; a new clutch and pressure plate were added. Next, the flywheel was trued and balanced, the steering box refurbished, and the front suspension refreshed. Lastly, a PerTronix electronic ignition was installed to improve reliability. It took nine months, and with the help of friend and colleague Art Fahringer, every effort was made to preserve the car’s originality.

Today this 27,000-mile Camaro still wears its original paint and has its original interior and drivetrain. Besides the day-two mods, the car looks as fresh as the day it left the plant. Mike swears the car has seen rain only once since he has owned it, and that was on a pretty important day: the day he married Kathy. The car was an integral part of the nuptials.

We first saw this stunning Camaro in the Solid Lifter Showroom at the Carlisle Chevrolet Nationals. Mike’s present dream is to be invited to the 2019 Muscle Car and Corvette Nationals in Chicago for the 1969 Camaro’s 50th birthday. We certainly think it’s MCACN worthy.

An interesting note here: 1969 Camaros came stock with whiteface gauges on the console. However, Mike’s car was born with blackface gauges, similar to the Novas produced that year. This could be due to several reasons. Perhaps it was human error, or the factory crew ran out of the appropriate pieces.

At a Glance 1969 Camaro SS396 Owned by: Mike and Kathy Chronister Restored by: Unrestored original Engine: 396ci/375hp L78 V-8 Transmission: Muncie M21 4-speed manual Rearend: 12-bolt with 3.73 gears Interior: Black vinyl buckets Wheels: 15×8 American Racing brushed aluminum mags Tires: 215/60R15 front, 255/60R15 rear BFGoodrich Radial T/A Special parts: Corvette side pipes, Hooker headers, PerTronix electronic ignition, Gabriel air shocks, Lakewood traction bars, fly eye air cleaner

Under Mike’s care, the only day the Camaro was out in inclement weather was on his and Kathy’s wedding day.

Mike’s Camaro appeared in his high school yearbook, but he’s not in this picture!

The Camaro as it looked on the Chronister farm back in the 1970s, and as it looks there today. Timeless.

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Dodge Demon Unboxing: A First-Hand Customer Experience

In the music world, Kenny Wayne Shepherd is known as one of the most dynamic recording and performance artists in the blues rock arena. You’ve likely heard his music (even if you can’t place the name), and you may even count yourself as a fan. What you may not know is that Shepherd is also a bona fide gearhead and a hardcore Mopar nut who spends all his free waking hours (when not performing!) working on and driving his Dodge and Plymouth machinery. We were lucky to tag along with Shepherd as he navigated the special-order procedure and took delivery of his personalized 2018 Dodge Demon. What follows is his account of that very special experience—a process that was the clever vision of Dodge’s Tim Kuniskis (previously president and CEO of the Dodge and SRT brands), and which has had the very intended effect of creating a legion of dedicated über fanatics. Down the line, we hope to bring you more from Kenny as he gears up to hit the drag strip later this year! – Johnny Hunkins

Three hundred and eighty days. That’s how long the journey was from the first viral video of the Dodge Demon to having one in my garage. It’s been a fascinating experience and the wait has been more than worth it. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know the highlights of the new Dodge Demon: 840 HP, the quickest production car ever made, 0-60 in 2.3 seconds, a quarter-mile of 9.65, and banned by the NHRA.

Over a year after jumping in line for a 2018 Dodge Demon, it arrived at Dependable Dodge on a Reliable Carrier truck. The dealership thoughtfully stored it in the showroom for two days before we could pick it up.

After watching every video Dodge spoon fed us leading up to the unveiling of the Demon at the 2017 New York International Auto Show, I became more convinced this car was for me. The day after the debut, I secured an allocation for an SRT Demon—number “18” in the sequence, and significant for denoting the 2018 model year. When order banks opened on June 21, 2017, many placed their orders at that very moment, hoping that being an early submitter would help them be one of the first to take delivery, but that’s not exactly how the process works. The build sequence considers many factors when deciding which Demons get built in what order. I don’t claim to know the secrets of how that all works out, so my resolve was to be as patient as possible and my car would get here when it gets here.

Passenger-side ac vent is serialized and matches the VIN as car number “18.” The number is significant as the model year is 2018. Once the “Demon crate” arrives, the surround will be replaced with the updated one with Kenny’s name.

Once I was 100-percent sure of the options, I formally placed the order on what would be Demon number 18:

White Knuckle paint: Some will slam me for not choosing a high-impact color for a car like this. One of my best friends was dogging me as soon as he found out I was considering it. I love a Challenger in white. It reminds me of the movie Vanishing Point. I’ve had a couple of black Challengers and the struggle to keep them clean is real. Half of my driveway is dirt and gravel, so just imagine what that’s like if you keep your car clean like I do. White just looks cleaner longer. All the available colors look great on the Demon, but my short list was White Knuckle, Octane Red, F8 Green, and B5 Blue. White won out for both looks and practicality.

Comfort Audio group ($2,495): This includes the passenger seat, adds leather instead of the base cloth material, an 18-speaker Harmon Kardon stereo system (as opposed to the standard two-speaker system), heated and cooled front seats, heated steering wheel, power tilt column, floor mats, and bright pedals.

Rear seat ($1): This is the practical thing to do since one can always remove the passenger and rear seats, but buying them after the fact would most certainly cost more than a dollar.

Demonic Red Laguna Leather interior ($295): This provides a rich two-toned red and black interior that gives the car a splash of color, which looks perfect.

Power Sunroof: Some refer to it as the “golden sunroof.” Dodge priced it at $4,995 to discourage people from buying it. All my previous Challengers had sunroofs and I used them frequently on nice days. That extra 35 pounds isn’t going to slow the car down enough for anyone to notice.

Trunk carpet ($1): This can easily be removed in a matter of moments. Why wouldn’t you get it for a buck?

Demon Storage Package: Includes a custom Demon car cover and Mopar-branded battery tender for $495.

Mopar-branded battery tender was part of the Demon Storage Package, which also included a custom Demon car cover.

The only three options I didn’t opt for were the Satin Black hood ($1,995), full graphics package ($3,495), and the engine block heater ($95). Once I placed my order, the real waiting began. I passed the next few months by joining www.hellcat.org, which has a Demon section full of other soon-to-be Demon owners sharing excitement, knowledge about the car, order details, and the constant refreshing of the Demon Concierge page to get updates on production status—which is a whole lingo unto itself. There’s even an anonymous insider who gave everyone loads more detailed information as the factory got things moving. As production slowly ramped up, we all watched a saga unfold via the forum.

Only time will tell what all these scribbles and initials mean on the Demon’s UPC-code windshield sticker, but we’re documenting this one for posterity.

There were lots of people who wanted their cars yesterday and seemed to have little patience for the process. Many compared notes as to what date and exactly what time their orders were placed to try and make sense of why someone else’s car is moving along the queue before theirs. Once the cars are built, they have to go to an up-fitter for the 18×11 wheels (with drag radials) to be installed. The wheels and tires are too big for the factory assembly line to accommodate. Also, if you choose the full graphics package (satin black hood, roof, and trunk lid) an up-fitter does that paint work as well. At some point there’s a secondary QC inspection that takes place and the car is cleared for shipment. Reliable Carriers then has to schedule an empty truck to come pick up five or six Demons at a time that are being delivered along a route that makes logistical sense.

Kenny points out this clear blue plastic protective sheet placed over the Demon’s supercharger, presumably to protect the engine while it was being installed at the factory. It was tagged with a white marker: “30 OKF.”

There are many steps in the process of making a Demon that are new to the SRT program. Tim Kuniskis (now head of Maserati and Alfa Romeo) stated that production would be a slow ramp-up, most likely to ensure they figure out the best way to get these cars built right and to a high standard. Finally, on Halloween of 2017, we caught wind that the first truckload of Demons was making its way down the road when tragedy struck. Three of the cars caught fire and were reported a total loss.

We don’t have an exact report as to the cause, but it’s been clearly stated that the cars were not the culprit. An unfortunate event? Yes, but in my opinion this only adds to the mystique and urban legend for what could be a once-in-a-lifetime vehicle. (Demons experiencing spontaneous combustion on Halloween?! You just can’t make that up.)  Day after day, it was exciting watching the reports of VONs (vehicle order numbers) being turned into VINs as the cars rolled through various stages of production.

All Dodge Demons arrive at dealerships in enclosed Reliable Carrier trucks. This paper floor mat was left by the Reliable crew to safeguard the carpet while being moved.

It turns out there’s a whole new alphabet of secret code to decipher. If you want to know what’s happening to your Demon build, you can translate the order status code into real information. Here’s a list of those posted on the Hellcat.org message forum:

Demon Order Status Codes

BA new order that hasn’t been checked BB review by fleet department BD special equipment processing BE edit error BG passed edit n/a for schedule BGL edit ok, parts unavailable BX passed edit, available for schedule C sub firm, tentative schedule D firm schedule, dealer has allocation and all parts available D1 gateline schedule, scheduled to be built E frame F paint G trim I built not ok’d J built ok’d JB shipped to upfit center (for stripe) JE emission check JS shipped to storage KZ released by plant, invoiced KZL released, not shipped KZM first rail departure KZN first rail arrival KZO delayed/received KZOA plant holds KZOB zone/distribution holds KZOC carrier delays KZOD carrier holds KZOE mis-shipped vehicle KZOF show/test vehicle KZOG damaged vehicle KZOH all other reasons KZT second rail departure KZU second rail arrival KZX delivered to dealer ZA canceled

As the weeks went by, we saw production begin to ramp up, just as Tim K said it would. Once the factory really got into their groove, my car hit the queue. The condensed timeline of events for my car unfolded like this:

August 12, 2017 order submitted October 26, 2017 VIN assigned December 6, 2017 car enters the build process December 11, 2017 detailed inspection January 25, 2018 Demon arrives at the dealership via enclosed carrier January 27, 2018 I take delivery

Once the car hit the line, it didn’t take long for it to be built. Considering it had to go to the up-fitter for wheel installation, it needed to be inspected, it had been stored for shipment, and the plant was closed from December 23 to January 15 for holidays and an inventory adjustment, it was built and delivered in a reasonable amount of time, especially for the quality of the product.

A technician at Dependable Dodge in Canoga Park, CA performs the pre-delivery check while we look on. We asked the dealership to wait on this until we could be there, and they happily obliged us.

Having waited for this moment just over a year, we wanted to document every detail of the car in its as-delivered condition. I asked the dealer not to do any prep work and keep the car “as is” so we could see the little details of what a car looks like fresh off the truck. There were a number of interesting little signatures, decals, and protective plastics on various parts of the car that we documented and saved. Aware of the new secondary QC inspection process Dodge was implementing, I crawled over the car searching for a flaw and couldn’t find one. I’m impressed, and would say the hard-working people at the Brampton assembly plant should be proud of the product they’re turning out.

What will certainly be a sought-after piece years down the road is this protective yellow spoiler guard. It’s different than the Hellcat��s protective corner pieces (which are already collectibles). It’s used only during shipping, but it’s actually pretty attractive.

Ordering a Demon has been an unforgettable experience. The passion and talent that come together to make a car like this could be a once-in-a-lifetime event. Thanks to everyone at Dodge who made this car a reality for all of us enthusiasts. Now another wait begins for me: the Demon Performance Crate. It’s time to go drag racing!

Standard Demon trunk goodies include floor mats, license plate bracket (we’ll bet these never get used!), and a pair of Demon supplemental booklets.

Besides the standard stuff, Kenny got the Demon Storage Package (car cover and battery tender) which are the two white boxes. The brown box is the pedal kit, which is a customer-installed item.

The happy new owner sits behind the wheel of his new Dodge Demon for the first time. Note the “caution” hang tag warning delivery personnel of the scraping hazard from the front spoiler.

Ahh! That new-Demon interior smell will be long remembered.

The Dodge Demon pedal kit is an owner-installed item, and strangely does not come with parking brake and dead-pedal covers as similar aftermarket kits do.

Demon pre-delivery inspection at Dependable Dodge’s service department, Canoga Park, CA

Heat-shrink wrapped Dodge Demon owner’s manual supplement.

Dodge Demon number 18 awaits its new owner in Dependable Dodge’s showroom.

Hieroglyphics on the plastic sheet protecting the Demon’s supercharger read “30 OKF.”

Part of the Demon Storage Package is this boxed car cover, labeled as Mopar part number 82215727.

Also located in the trunk was the 2018 Dodge Demon Driver Supplement booklet.

Dodge Demon fender flares house extra-wide 315/40R18 NT05R Nitto Drag Radials. Kenny says those will be replaced for street driving by a set of 20-inch Widebody Hellcat wheels and tires for better tread life.

Window sticker claims 22 mpg on the highway. Who has that kind of self control? According to the graph on the window sticker, the Demon does NOT have the worst fuel economy in its class.

This box in the trunk contained the stainless steel accelerator and brake pedal covers, and was labeled with part number 05181565AB. They appear to have been sourced from Sequoia Tool in Clinton Township, MI.

This pick ticket was found in the trunk, and is a list of items to put in the Demon’s trunk prior to leaving the Brampton, Ontario assembly plant.

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