not people actually saying ‘guel would be a better protagonist’, i hope you all choke, just say that you all are misogynists

More Than Letters

(Jamie x Claire / Outlander Fic)

CHAPTER ONE:

“I knew it!  I knew it was the blonde wife,” Claire triumphantly chants from the couch, pointing her finger at the television of the latest progamme that her and Jamie have decided to binge watch.

“I dinna ken how you do that,” he scoffs, slowly removing her legs from his lap, placing them gently onto the couch, shaking his head in disbelief as he gets up.

“It was obvious,” Claire states, folding her legs up underneath her.  “I’d suspected her from the first series,” she touts with a raise of her brow.

“I like to give the benefit of the doubt to people,” he says with a grin, and she shakes her head.  

“No, the ones who appear nice are always the guiltiest,” she says with a mischievous quirk of her mouth.

Jamie makes his way to the kitchen, and Claire’s eyes track his every move, the way the muscles of his legs contract with every step, his sweatpants showing the outline of his physique, as her eyes track upward, the red curls he’d cut short nearly bouncing with each step.  He turns to wink at her before grabbing a glass and filling it with water.

“So cynical,” he says, taking a drink, and she swears her heart drops with his Adam’s apple every gulp he takes.

“Trust no one, my friend,” she warns, biting her lip and hoping that he doesn’t notice the way she holds her breath as she waits for his reply.

His brow rises, and he seems to be thinking, before walking back to her, the blue of his eyes settling onto her own, as if violet colliding in the wind.  She can feel the heat rise in her as Jamie nears closer until he’s practically hovering over her.

“Even you?” He asks, the question coming out like petals tickling her skin, familiar yet strangely fleeting, sending a shiver down her spine, until she finds her long leg sticking out, resting her foot on his stomach, the trace of his muscle evident against her toes, even through his shirt.

He leans in further, despite her foot keeping their distance, yet simultaneously allowing her to touch him.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” she says with a bite of her lip, her blue eyes begging for him to get a clue and confess his feelings for her.

He squints at her, her hand resisting the urge to trace the crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

“I can always count on ye, Sassenach,” he says with a light hearted air to his tone.  “Yer my best mate,” his rationale not exactly what she wanted to hear, and he teasingly twists her toes until she pulls them back, a slight nod at the thought of never being able to break from the friend zone.

“You’re bloody right you can,” she shoots back, trying to break the awkward tension she feels, but she’s pretty sure it’s just one sided, like everything else with them, her hopes plummeting to the bottom of her stomach, while he puts on his shoes, seemingly ignoring the disheartened look painting her face.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says, heading for the door, and she follows behind him, discarding the blanket they’d been resting beneath, her thigh having rubbed against his sweatpants during the episode, and the slight jump she swore she felt against him, resting in the recess of her mind, jumpstarting her heart against the electric current that seems to run between them whenever they’re together.

“I’ll see you later this week?” She asks, and hopes that she sounds casual enough, like two friends, not like one was desperately in love with the other, while he had absolutely no idea she even existed in that capacity.

“Aye, as soon as ye have a day off, let me know,” he says with a quick kiss to her cheek, and she stills her head, urging herself not to turn her head and plant her lips on the soft, somehow always pink, lips that have rested upon her skin.

“Mhmm,” she mumbles, unable to get a coherent thought out otherwise, collapsing against the door as she shuts it, feeling like every time they parted she was saying goodbye to the possibility of greatness, instead relishing herself to the inevitable.

That she was nothing more than a friend.  

A great one, she argues with herself.  But albeit, still a friend.  She was the book someone casually picked up from time and time, and although the plot was good, the writing exceptional, you never quite got around to finishing the story.  It was just left discarded on the nightstand, an old stand by that you assumed would always be around to finish, so you felt no rush, no need to claim its importance.

She’s barely made it back to the couch when she hears her phone ring.  Plopping down with a huff, her shirt twisting against the back of the pillow, pulling tightly against her.

“Hello?”

“He just left didn’t he?” She hears, and her head automatically looks around, as if she’s being watched.

“How do you know?”  The skepticism heard in her timbre of her voice.

“Ye always have this dejected tone when he’s just been around,” her friend Gillian throws out, and as much as she wants to deny her statement, she knows it’s true.

“I like hanging out with him, so…” She tries to reason, but she knows her friend hears right through the lie.

“Just tell the guy ye love him already, and please get some,” she practically begs through the phone.

“I do not—“ but she can’t even finish swallowing the lie, its taste so acerbic on her tongue she refuses to admit as much.  “He doesn’t like me like that,” she argues.  “He can do better,” she finally admits with a whisper.  “Like Laoghaire…” she throws out.  The blonde was a coworker of Jamie’s.  Claire had met her a handful of times when she’d been invited to the pub or at a work event when Jamie had brought Claire along.  She seemed nice enough, although there was always a watchful eye whenever she interacted with Jamie, as the blonde was also very much in love with him, that much Claire knew.  As apparently, they all were.

“Bitch, I wish ye could see the way that man looks at ye, it’s unhealthy,” and Claire can feel her rolling her eyes through the phone.  “Any guy would be lucky to have ye, including Jamie, and if he prefers that wh—

“Gillian…” Claire warns.

“If he prefers…that, over you, then ye’ve dodged a bullet,” the sincere comments only coming out when Claire was particularly down on herself.  But taking into account how her previous boyfriend, Frank, had largely ignored for the entirety of their relationship, it was difficult to see herself as anything but invisible when her best friend refused to see her as nothing but the woman who’d tripped her way into his existence.

“I don’t want just any guy,” she murmurs, and she can hear Gillian’s laugh echoing through the phone into her living space.

“I ken just fine, you want Mr. Tie-Me-Up-Now,” she giggles.

“Is there a reason you’re calling me?” Claire interrupts, her finger coming to her mouth, bitting at the skin of her thumb.

“All I’m saying is that ye should tell him.”

The room goes silent, Claire unsure how she should answer, the weight of the statement sitting on her chest.

“What if he doesn’t want me?”  Her voice nearly disappearing by the end of the question.  

Her friendship with Jamie had begun a few years before.  She’d stumbled into him, literally, in the outside nursery, tripping on a hose, and landing squarely on his chest.  He’d steadied her with his hands, as she looked up to get lost in the depth of blue that threatened to drown her right there and then in the soil of her clumsiness.

“Sorry, sorry,” she profusely made her apologies, only to find him grinning down at her, a smudge of dirt having made its way to her face in her haste to try to catch herself, the various plants she’d been holding splattering to the floor.

“Are ye alright?” He’d asked, and she’s stared helplessly up at the man that had caught her.

“Mhmm,” she mumbled, and he’d laughed.

That was the moment she knew she was a goner.

They’d chatted for a bit, quickly finding out that they lived on the same block, Jamie having recalled the display of flowers she had in her garden, often stopping to admire the bloom.

“I try,” she’d modestly admitted, and he’d sheepishly confessed with a hand to the back of his neck that he had something of a curse upon him when it came to getting plants to grow, in the sense that all of them seemed to die under his supervision.

She’d tried not to laugh, but a blush formed on his neck as a giggle escaped her mouth.

“Ye laugh, but it’s true, I canna seem to get anything to grow,” his grin climbed his face in a way that turned the heat up on that humid spiring day.

“So what are you doing here?” She’d found herself asking, her hand digging into the pockets of shorts, the curls on her neck turning into spirals at the heat of the day.

“Succulents,” he’d proudly confessed holding up the plant he’d been assured was unlikely to die under his care.

“Cute,” she’d chided, pushing the curls from her face, smudging more dirt on her forehead.

He’d leaned in closer, and she could feel the warmth from his body reaching out to her, begging to engulf her in its flame.  His hand had reached out, pushing the tendril of hair away from her skin, and with his thumb, he’d softly brushed the stray soil off of her.

“Uhh, thanks,” she’d choked out, her hands buried so deeply in her pockets, her skin tingled with the feel of his hands having whispered against her.

“See ye around,” he’d said, leaving her standing there among the flowers, mess of a person, with no chance of seeing this man again.

Until she did.  

What she had thought was a chance encounter with an unfortunate hose had ended up turning into a friendship, in which she’d found him cuddled into her couch most nights after work, binge watching television, ordering take out, with updates on his poor suffering succulent that she’d teasingly started referring to as “Stubby.”

“He’s thriving,” Jamie would claim, but she had a feeling he was floundering, much like she felt she was whenever he was in her presence.

“Claire.  Claire!” Her phone calling her back to reality.

“I’m here,” she says, shaking herself from reverie.

“I said, maybe ye should text him how you feel if you canna say it to his face, coward,” she teases.

“And say what?  Hey, I’m in love with you?  I don’t think so,” Her head shakes at the idea, as well as her nerves.  

“If we’re a fan of brevity,” she chirps.  “Or did ye not tell me once that yer parents used to write each other love letters…maybe put that flowery writing to use…”

She can hear the words echo in her mind as she sits down with a glass of whisky, Jamie’s influence, abandoning her usual gin and soda for something a bit stronger.

Opening up her laptop, the glow hits her face, casting a light on the stack of letters she holds.  They’re twined together with string, a pressed forget-me-not lays a top the words her parents had written to each other when they were separated at different universities.  She’d read them countless times, tracing over the ink of her mother’s curly script, and the slanted lines of her father’s letters.  They’d spilled their hearts on those pages, keeping every last one of them, until they were reunited, vowing to never leave the other again, keeping that promise even in leaving this earth together.

Her eyes well up at the thought, and she wipes away the tears that threaten to fall.

She quickly checks her work email, her thumbnail making its way to her mouth.  Gillian’s words ruminate in her head, contemplating actually admitting her feelings to Jamie.  The idea seems insane to her.  She knows he has no interest, he would’ve made a move otherwise, but then she feels his fingers against her skin, the gentle way they’d danced across her temple, steadied her in his arms, the way he’d show up with the exact food she’d been craving all week, or how he’d text her good morning, or the habitual way his arm would come around her shoulders, pulling her in closer when they walked, or the jump she felt at the contact of her leg against his own…

her hand coming out to touch the petal of a wildflower, one of many that sit upon her table in various glasses, appearing as if by magic, just when one has died, each and every one of them pressed into the books that line her shelves, her new companions and their vibrant hues brightening her day almost as much as when she thought of the man who put them there…

and she creates a new, anonymous account.

With a sigh, her fingers fly across the keyboard, words seeming to sprout from her thoughts, blossoming into everything she’d ever wanted to say.  The minutes tick by, until she feels that she must surrender to the exhaustion casting its shadow over her in the wake of adrenaline draining.

Claire laughs at the absurdity, the idea of actually confessing her feelings however anonymously was a good exercise, but certainly not something that she would intentionally send off to be judged, ultimately met with rejection and the loss of a friend.  She had way too much to lose.  They weren’t like her parents, their souls weren’t intwined, it was just her, her wildflower heart, reaching for the sun, and finding the rain.

Clicking out of the email, she shuts her laptop, dragging her feet into bed, the sheets enveloping her in crisp coolness, longing for the warmth of the man she had been yearning for, but never felt quite in reach of.

xxxxxx

-Pizza.

She’d gotten his text just as she was leaving the nursey.  It had been long a day of fulfilling orders, and if she’d had any energy left, she’d have sprinted out the doors, but instead she slowly made her way to the car, her phone lighting up with Jamie’s name and his weekly guess that was always accurate.

-You think you know me sooooo well.

She teases, wondering if he was capable of knowing what she really wanted or if the mere suggestion of him willing to eat whatever she wanted each and every week was enough to have her agreeing because she didn’t want him to stop in his quest to please her.

-I live rent free in that head of yours.

And fuck if that wasn’t accurate.

-What if I said I was craving chips?

-I guess we’ll be putting chips on our pizza.

The snort that comes from her nose has her blushing alone in her vehicle, a smile plastered to her face all the way home.

Jamie’s already inside by the time she gets home, sprawled out on the couch, having exchanged keys some time ago.  He’s made himself at home, pizza box resting on the coffee table, two beers just waiting for her to join him.

Tossing her shoes off, she’s sure some soil still clings to hers as she plops down next to him, her head resting on the back of the couch, sinking into the down.

“Rough day?” She hears, a stray curl being tucked behind her ear.

“Eh,” she mutters with a sigh, sitting up and reaching for the pizza box.  “You?” She asks, opening the box to find a pile of chips resting in the middle.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?” She says with a smile, grabbing a chip and shoving it into her mouth, looking over to find her smile mirrored back to her, reaching for his beer.

“My day was pretty wild, actually,” he says with a drink.

“Oh yeah?  What exactly does a ‘wild’ day in the whisky business look like?”  Claire asks with a smirk, going in for a slice of pineapple pizza, and she can’t help but read way too much into the fact that he orders it that way even though she knows he thinks it’s sacrilege to put the yellow fruit on pizza.

“It wasna so much work that was wild, but I received this email…” Claire nods as she chews.  “Apparently, I have a secret admirer.”

The sound of Claire’s choking cough the only reaction she can muster.

Suspension of Disbelief | solo

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Nichols’ Funeral Home SUMMARY:  With the weeks drawing closer to the funeral home’s grand reopening, Erin reconciles with her past and reaches her limit. CONTENT WARNINGS: none

While Erin had floated in and out of the funeral home during reconstruction, this was the first time she stood alone in the house in nearly six months. No hammers, no drills, no chatter of the crew off in the distance. They were done, nearly. Some coats of paint still needed to go up in the living quarters and there were a few doors ready to be installed sitting in the hallways, but outside of small finishing touches--it was done. Her entire morning had been spent in her office, organizing the files that had been salvaged from the fire and preparing for what she still needed to replace. It was the most finished room in the large home outside of the basement and for the first time in months, she recognized a glimpse of a life that had been long out of her grasp. Even the mountain of paperwork overtaking her desk garnered a small, wispy smile. This was normal. This was hers.

Her hands touched over a large vanilla envelope and she perked up even further at the sender. The Maine Board of Funeral Services had finally sent over a new copy of her license. She jumped up, grabbing the empty picture frame she’d set aside. The office’s final touch. Her grin grew as she tore the envelope open. The paper inside wasn’t what she was expecting. Flimsy, thin, and much unlike the higher weighted paper that a certificate typically bore.

It wasn’t a certificate. It was a letter.

The words were there. She read them clearly. She read them again. And again.

...Until a proper investigation regarding the alleged organ trafficking operation within the Nichols’ Funeral Home has taken place, the board has agreed to suspend the license of the funeral director until further notice. All funeral services are to cease immediately...

And again. Each time, it said the same thing. Her gaze became lost in the black shapes of each letter, then to the sea of white surrounding them. She couldn’t understand the words. Black ate at the edge of her vision. Everything was loud. Even the light was loud. It buzzed in her ear and grew more intense the longer she stood, frozen to her spot, the letter in one hand and the frame in the other. All she could focus on was the impossibly loud buzzing in her ear but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

All at once, it stopped.

“Oh, isn’t that just perfect?”

Erin closed her eyes and shook her head, dropping the frame and letter back onto her desk. If she didn’t acknowledge the voice or the low laughter that followed, it wasn’t real.

“I know you can hear me, Nichols.”

The smell of cigar smoke hit her nose and she tensed, squeezing her eyes shut. No. No. This wasn’t happening. None of this was happening. Quiet settled around her once more and she took a deep breath in and back out again. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. She’d open her eyes and--

“I’m still here,” the voice chimed in smugly.

Erin’s eyes snapped open.

Roy Chamber’s sharp smile greeted her with all the malice it’d bore in life. He was leaning in the doorway to her office, a cigar dangling from his lips. “Atta girl. There were go,” he exclaimed excitedly between puffs. “Miss me?”

This wasn’t real. He wasn’t real. Roy was dead. Just a husk of bone and long-rotten flesh that had been tossed into the bay months ago. The knife had slipped into the softness of his temple with some effort but no--it’d done the trick. Roy Chambers, in no uncertain terms, was dead.

“No. No,” she managed between grit teeth. She closed her eyes once more, shaking her head furiously, almost laughing at the absurdity of this moment. “You are not here. You’re--no. No.”

“Oh, yes,” Roy corrected her, boisterous and sure. But he was right. He was here, stepping into her office like none of the events of the warehouse ever happened. Like it’d been a bad dream, a nightmare, one she was about to relive. Was she dead? Was there a hell after all?

He reached for the letter on her desk and all she could do was watch. She wasn’t afraid, she realized. She should have been, she knew that too, but it wasn’t fear that gripped her. It was anger. That hard, dark anger she had been working so hard to quiet. It wasn’t quiet now. He chuckled as he looked over the words on the paper and it flared brightly within her like an angry star. “Nice to see you too, toots. Long time coming, don’t you think?” He mused, glancing around the desk for an ashtray, then up at her when he found none. “Not a smoker? I don’t know why I thought you might be. It’s because you’re always so stressed, I think. Stressed people have the worst vices. But good for you--this stuff’ll kill you.”

He leaned forward and upended it in her coffee mug before turning his attention to the frame. “Anyway--won’t take up much of your time. I know you’re busy with getting things ready for the reopening.” He nodded at the letter with a knowing grin, clearly tickled. “Told you this wasn’t going to end well for you. Remember? Because I do. Very clearly. Maybe you didn’t want to believe me or just didn’t want to hear it, but either way it’s pretty clearly you forgot. And I get that. I was dead, you won, I lost.” He dragged his finger from one end of his throat to another and flashed a grimace at her. “Point made. A dead man can admit defeat when it gets pierced through his cranium. I gotta ask though...” he paused for a long moment, unhooking the metal backings of the frame one by one, the side of his mouth turning upward into a punchable grin. She balled her fists instead.

Even now, this guy droned on. Couldn’t even stay dead without making a grand gesture. There wasn’t an ounce of patience left in her for this. “What?” She shot back.

“Was it worth it?”

The question struck Erin like a bullet between the eyes. Left her stunned, silent, wholly unprepared for the blow. He slipped the suspension notice into the frame and began closing the back up and raised a brow a her. “Really? Nothing? Not one quitty retort? Not even a ‘Fuck you’? Disappointing.” He grimaced and stepped back from the desk, framed letter in hand. “Let’s review. Maybe it’ll jog your memory, get your blood flowing, wake up that fighting spirit that got you here. We’ll circle back to that and see how you feel then, hm?”

Erin followed his gaze to the wall beside them. Small, framed portraits hung where empty wall space had been moments before. Her eyes grew and her throat tightened.

“Exhibit A!” Dale’s shit eating grin stared at her, a trail of dried blood trickling from the top of his head, down his neck, soaking into his shirt. Like a screenshot of a memory that was still burned into her memory. “Always hated that guy. Can’t say I was too upset to see him and his Hawaiian shirts say Aloha. Pretty creative with that kill though, getting that mara to do the dirty work for you.” He nodded at her. “I meant it when I said I was impressed.”

He took another step back, moving onto the next photo like he was at the beginning of a presentation. He tapped the glass of the next one. A news article. “Multiple victims were found dead following the explosion that destroyed an abandoned manufacturing warehouse at the docks on Amity Road early Friday morning.” Roy raised his eyebrows at her excitedly. “That was you.” He let out a bellowing laugh and shook his head and quickly pointed to the photo directly beside it. Another article. “Three more dead at Pat’s and dozens hospitalized. That was you too! Say, didn’t you have some friends there that day?”

Erin’s fingernails dug into the palm of her hand. “That was you,” she snapped back.

Roy raised a hand, shaking a finger at her. “Uh-uh. This,” he pointed to the Pat’s article, “Only happened because of this.” His finger jabbed at the Ring article once more before bouncing back and forth between the two. “Cause and effect. Makes the world go round. Try and keep up, Nichols. Am I losing you already here?”

Maybe if she closed her eyes and counted to ten he’d disappear and leave her alone. Had she fallen asleep? She didn’t remember laying down but it was possible. Wouldn’t have been the first time her body had given up on her the second she found a comfortable couch. He laughed again, loud and joyfully, and her entire body sagged when she opened her eyes. Still here. This time he stood in front of her mugshot, giggling like an idiot. “I’m sorry--well, no. I’m not. Not at all. This is beautiful.”

He gathered himself and took a deep breath before moving on, moving faster now as he gestured towards the next few photos: Detective Wu’s car being pulled from Dark Score Lake, a snapshot of the fire from the funeral home lighting up the night sky, Sgt. Roland Hill’s obituary, the memory of Marley lying motionless on that warehouse floor. Erin couldn’t look anymore. Roy noticed. He pressed on, loud and clear. “Death, after death, after death. Strangers and friends alike.” A photo of her and Alain doting over Betty came next. “No wonder that little French friend of yours hightailed it out of the country without even a word after you got his leg lobbed off.”

“Stop it,” she hissed. It felt like she was being crushed. Like every picture, every word, added another ton of pressure directly on top of her. Her breaths quickened and her heart pounded dangerously fast between her ribs. “Stop it.”

“Not until you answer the question, Erin.” He barked back, harsh edges replacing the humor from before. The next photo shook on the wall when he pressed a finger against the glass. “Remember them? The witches of the coven you failed to inform about a fext in town? The ones I sucked dry? Because of you. Cause and effect, actions and consequences, Erin. It all comes back around. These people suffered and died because you couldn’t leave well enough alone. Because your freedom was worth more than any of their lives.”

Roy’s smile was gone. Dark eyes stared back at her. The last spot on the wall was empty, a single nail marking the spot. He set the framed letter in place, making sure it was perfectly straight. “There,” he said calmly, stepping back to admire the small gallery before them. That sick smile returned and he craned his neck to look at Erin again. “Can’t ignore this forever, Nichols. This is your handiwork. A trail of accomplishments that brought you back home and to this place you built on their blood, sweat and tears. All for them to--” Laughter spilled from his throat, his sheer glee interrupting his own words. “All for them to suspend your license. You can’t even work.”

It took more than a few moments for his laughter to settle into a humored chuckle. Erin’s cheeks flushed with shame. Tears burned at the back of her eyes. He didn’t notice and didn’t care, pulling another cigar from his suit pocket. “Indulge a dead guy and bask in it with me for a few minutes, will you?”

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t look. Not at him and not at the wall in front of her. Her hands shook furiously and she couldn’t breathe. “Get out,” she managed, but it wasn’t more than a harsh, choked whisper and she tried it again with more vigor. “Get. Out.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

She was going to be sick. This was a nightmare. This had to be a nightmare. Her hands rushed up to cover her face, rubbing her eyes, pulling at tufts of hair her hair as her fingers glided through them.

“Please. Please. Stop. Just stop.” Erin was nearly begging now. She could feel his gaze boring a hole into her but he wasn’t letting this go. Not until she answered. Not until she looked at the wall.

“Was it worth it?”

CRASH!

Across the room, a vase of fresh flowers lay shattered on the ground where Roy had been seconds ago. She wasn’t at her desk. She was standing in front of the framed letter on the wall. The room was starkly silent outside of that. Roy was gone and the frames on the wall with him. Minutes passed before she realized she hadn’t thrown the vase across the room but knocked it off the stand near the framed letter. Did she do that?

Roy was dead. Roy wasn’t here. She’d imagined it. It’d been his voice, his image, but her words playing back at her. Her hands shook. Was it worth it? The question cycled on an endless loop, tormenting her more than the ‘No’ that screamed for attention at the back of her mind.

She ripped the letter from the wall, locking onto the words again. One word. Suspended. She gave in to the despair and rage that filled every pocket of her soul and didn’t stop until the frame was just a shattered afterthought on the ground. Didn’t stop until every book, every trinket, every photo was thrown onto the floor with it. Her screams tore through her and tears poured down her face like a monsoon that’d finally ripped through and shattered the ceiling of the safe house she’d been hiding in. What did it matter anymore? It didn’t. She’d been beaten. Roy’s last move came late and without warning, destroying the last shred of stability she had left. She couldn’t hold it together anymore. Six months of tightly wound emotions exploded without any sign of stopping. Her neatly piled paperwork filled the floor around her. Coffee covered the walls. Glass crunched under her feet.

It wasn’t worth it.

Sweet Coffee

WARNING: Content is about suicide and loss of loved ones, also swearing. 

Isn't it lovely? Being here alone, in the dark? Doesn't the fresh air make you feel alive? I used to come here with you, in the middle of the winter when the owners had left to retreat to  somewhere warmer. If you knew where to turn, you could find the property and the side of the hill that it sits on.  If you knew where to look you could find a place that looks over the whole city.

 It smells like our life together, and for a brief moment it seems so real I could look over to the driver's seat and see you. But then the wind picks up and the smell of soft sweaters, lavender and fresh herbs is taken from me. It tastes like iced coffees, the only thing worth ordering from the drive through we always hit before coming here. And the freedom it brings is so real I can reach out and touch it. 

Sitting in a small car and staring into the depths of a city that didn't care about us was so satisfying. Like we could see all the lives that were milling about unknowing we watched over the tops of their heads in our secret special place. It's not the same without you. 

“I don’t want to say goodbye. I want to say thank you.” Was what the letter said. “I want you all to know that without everyone in my life I would’ve been dead long before this moment.” it was as eloquently written as you were spoken. All the right words in the right places to tell us what we had to hear. And I can't help but think how bad a job I would have done if it had been me writing it. Like an automated response generator, repeating the same things I'd been  told over and over. 

“Call the helpline. Dial 911 if it is a life threatening emergency. Ask a trusted person to hide away your pills so you’re not tempted by them.” All the words people told  us in order to make use of someone else's problem. “Don't call me. Call the authorities.” Don’t ask the doctors to find medications that help, just hide the ones that should be working so you don’t overdose before they can adjust you to the correct dosage. Yes, I do know that my final message would've been much more angry than yours.  

I can't remember the exact words, I ripped the thing to shreds the second I was out of sight when we got back from the hospital. No one could know I had planned my own downfall just days before your own. The guilt I feel for being so self absorbed in my own demise that I didn't notice the signs is immense, even though you specifically said not to feel at fault. Our last night together is burned into my memory. But after all, everyone around us was taught to recognize destructive behavior, our families were trained to know when we went over the edge. You and I were never given that luxury. 

“Coffee.” was all the text said at 7:34 that night. I  know because I checked the time stamp, as if I could recreate every element of the last time I saw you. It wasn't a question, it never had to be. When did either of us say no to a drive around the city at night with an iced coffee and what felt like not a care in the world? If I had known what that night meant for you, maybe I would have said no. Maybe I would have taken away your ability to say goodbye to me because I wasn't extended the same courtesy. 

“If you had to do it all again, would you?” you asked when we had settled into our spot. We didn't talk while driving, looking out the window was too much fun for conversation. But after we had parked on the edge of the hill on February the tenth, at what I guess was about ten to eight in the evening, the conversation started to pour out of us. Words spurting out, as emotional and as spirodic as a bullet wound. 

“Probably not.” I admitted, sipping the iced coffee that was just sweet enough for such a cold night. 

“I would.” you said staring at the train that was passing in the distance. “I would change everything. I’d work with every intention on changing who I've turned out to be.”Then it went quiet. 

“I think i'm hardwired this way.” I whispered. “I think even if I did it all over. I’d still end up where I am.” Brown eyes met mine before turning back to the scenery. “I think whatever created me, the universe, god, whatever it was,” I paused, releasing the implication of what was saying, a breath, a beat went by before I continued. Knowing that whatever I said, you’d still be there after. “I think whatever designed my DNA chiseled in that I wasn't meant to be happy. If my life is ended ‘prematurely’.”  I added bouncing finger air quotes. “It's only that way because that's what fate wanted.” 

“Fuck fate then.” You replied. And we both shared a chuckle as I leaned my head on the rest behind me, closing my eyes with a smile. 

“Yeah, fuck fate.” 

It takes one beer to get me buzzed, it’s enough to feel calm but not enough to make me loopy, so I can keep my indulgences to myself.  I like to think  you’d approve, me having a beer before your funeral. It’s rebellious, and it tastes bitter with that little fizz. Just like you. 

As a person who only ever wears black, I can say that the colour didn't seem comforting today. My mother squeezes my shoulder, pushing me forward into the church. It angers me,  you weren't religious, you were baptized as a courtesy to your grandparents. You would not want to be buried here. If I had my way I'd take your ashes and spread them across the world. Leaving a part of you in the depths of each corner of the planet. A representation of how ingrained you were into my world. But that's selfish. And I was raised not to be selfish. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.”  People say as I pass them, pulling me into their arms, touching my hair, arms, face and anywhere else they think is appropriate. When in fact every touch makes me want to scream and every time someone says “I can't imagine what you’re going through.” I can't help but agree.

Everyone else fades away when I see  your mother. The likeness so obvious now, it's like a punch to the gut. The times we spent together flash before my eyes, driving with the music too loud, her making us the special breakfast that's only allowed on sleepover days. And I can tell she feels the same because when our eyes meet she stops talking. I know I am the last living embodiment of her daughter, and the similarities between us are clearer now than ever. 

I throw myself into her arms because she's the only one who makes me feel whole again. 

“It should've been me.” I whisper to her, my head and mind buried into  her shoulder, hiding my emotions. “It should've been me, I deserved it, I should have been me.” I repeat it over and over again, my mantra breathed aloud as if it's the last thing i'll ever say. 

“Oh honey” she cries, brushing my hair soothingly.  “It shouldn't have been either of you.”

“I-I-I” I sob out, forgetting how many people can see me meltdown  “Feel, I feel, so, so, g-g-ultiy.” I feel someone's arm around me, I can tell from the smell it is my dad, he always wears the same cologne. He's gently leading me outside into the fresh air. The wind is making me chilly, enhancing the feeling of emptiness inside me. 

“I found your note.” he whispers, somehow we find a bench, one that overlooks the entire cemetery. I look at him, and his eyes give away how I look. Red eyes, mascara in streams down my face, covered by foundation. I look like a doll, ceramic perfection, save for the giveaway of black streaks and puffy eyes. 

“I ripped it up.”  I stutter out. As if that is an excuse, what I really want to say is ‘don't be mad dad, I threw it away, so that means I’m fine now, right?’

“I know, I found the pieces. I just” he pauses,  he’s always so concrete with his words. Now is no different. “I wanted to say how proud I am of you, for having the strength to do that, for sticking around.” 

“I can't promise anything.” I say, my family knows all too well how often my strength fails. 

“You don't need to.” He murmurs with soft eyes. “I can't explain how much I love you, and I can't explain what it's like seeing you in pain. I can see you burning up like a supernova before it collapses. And everytime you choose to stay you amaze me, and you just lost the person who was most important to you. People who have been through less have taken things much worse than you are.” He takes a breath, “I knew this guy at school, we were like 23 at the time. Partying, skipping classes, the usual. His dad passed away during the second semester. Heart attack.” I notice the tears in his eyes, welling up steadily as the memory becomes more and more clear. 

“That's so sad” I say to fill the silence.

“Gets worse. My buddy, he took his own life after the event. Just couldn't cope, never got his degree, never graduated. His girlfriend was a mess for so long, his mum even more so.” he wipes away the wetness with a sniff. 

“Dad, I'm so sorry.'' I say with my whole heart. 

“What I mean is, you always stay because you ignore your pain for fear of hurting others. And that makes me so damn proud of you.” I lean into him for a hug, and I wonder why he's kept that story hidden for so long. I don't question it, we all have our secrets after all. But this moment, right here on an old bench with my dad. This, I will treasure. 

The rest of the funeral was largely uneventful. Everyone had stories to share. Many tissues were used and even more hugs ensued. My best friend's life is recounted in the space of a few hours. Every memorable detail shared to the fullest extent, and then she is laid to rest in the ground, surrounded by people she didn't know. The only thing that isn't present is her letter. It’s mentioned, but not read. There are words and phrases that I recognize. “Don’t lose yourself  to my loss”  or  “ I give myself to the earth, the wind and the heavens, because there is no pain in the deepest of forests and the warmest of oceans.” But at the end of the letter, the gut-wrenching final goodbye is left out. Not that it matters, no one needed to hear those words, except maybe me. On the car ride home I close my eyes and picture the papers in my head. Page after page of apologies, memories, and everything in between. 

“To my best friend, sister and lifeline,” I could hear your voice as my eyes drifted across the paper. “You will feel the most guilty, I know this. But I need you to push those feelings away, there is not anything you should have or could have done. I know it is going to be hard, maybe impossible even. And I write this for you because I know as I jot down my farewell, you’re in your bed, underneath a pile of blankets whispering over and over, ‘Death is permanent, this feeling isn't.’ I know this may be a mistake, and I know you’re depressed, anxious and obsessive. But you need to stop apologizing to everyone for being that way. I mean, it's hardwired into you right? Or at least I know that's what you think. But even those who are made to be a certain way, it doesn't stop them from living the best they can. Don’t follow me, don't give up your life for one person. If you don't want to stick around for them, stick around for me. Because you’re going to have to live for two from now on. I know it’s shitty to put that burden on you, but I know you need it. Living wasn't your plan, living for two people was even supposed to happen. But fuck fate right?” 

unstoppable bullet, unstoppable loop

Summary: The thing that the stories never told anyone was how every night Booster woke up from his nightmares, screaming until his throat was hoarse.

AO3

The thing that the stories never told anyone was how every night Booster woke up from his nightmares, screaming until his throat was hoarse.

He had a coping system though. He'd sit up, drink a big glass of water he always had beside his bed, change out his sweat soaked t-shirt and then shuffle into the living room and lie down on the couch, eventually fall into a light doze until his coffee maker woke him up in the morning with the smell of coffee that he didn't even drink because he only liked the smell and not the taste. It was a pretty terrible system. He knew it wasn't the best way of handling his problems, because he wasn't really handling them at all, but it was good enough for now.

The nightmares cycled, sometimes nonsense but more often than not it was reliving something that he had done, or hadn’t done with embarrassingly bad results. The one that was most common was one of his own creation. The one event that he had experienced again and again when Rip was trying to teach him that some things were unchangeable; fixed points in time that would always happen no matter what he tried to do to change things. Night after night Booster found himself being beaten to death by the Joker in an attempt to stop him from shooting Barbara Gordon. They said that the definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Booster didn't know about that, but what he did know that is was slowly driving him crazy now, either due to guilt or sleep deprivation and he didn't know which was worse.

Didn’t really matter. Crazy was crazy.

When he first heard about the Joker, reading about him in the Justice League museum as a kid, he thought he was silly. A dumb guy in a lame costume who shouldn't have been any threat to a hero as legendary as Batman. He had no powers or crazy gadgets at his disposal so there had to be more to the story for him to keep winning.

And then stole some tech, travelled back in time and, amongst other things, learned the hard way that the Joker was just a sadistic bastard who thrived on chaos and destruction, fueled by the sound of his own maniacal laughter.

He was beaten up. Electrocuted. Shot. Drowned. More than fifty times, seventy times, a hundred times he had gone back, trying to stop the mad man before her shot Barbara Gordon - Batgirl, Oracle - through the spine and he just kept getting killed over and over for his efforts, Skeets and Rip pulling him out just in time before he insisted on throwing himself back in time and trying again. And again. And again.

Fixed point. Always. Destiny.

He hated all of those words. they were so static and frustrating. He could travel through time. He should be able to make a difference instead of just failing over and over.

"Michael?" A deep voice startled him awake. "Is everything alright?"

Booster looked around groggily, trying to remember what he had been doing. Lights. Windows. Space. Oh, fantastic. He had fallen asleep in a Justice League meeting because of course a screw up like him out do that. Everyone else had left and he was alone at the table with Batman, lights in the room dimmed to a light blue ambient settling. "Yeah. No." A loud yawn escaped his mouth as he sat up and stretched. "I'm just tired. I'm not sleeping. I'm alright."

The biggest problem that he had was that the nightmares weren’t just dreams that spiralled out of control into the fantastical and weird. Instead, his were all real, vivid and accurate memories of what he had done, showcasing all the ways that he had failed to save the day, not exaggerated in the least. If anything he remembered more the more he experienced them.

The first time he tried, the first time Rip sent him back, he was too late. Caught up in the Joker’s trap at the fairgrounds, he had burst into the Gordon's living room just seconds after the gun was fired, Barbara lying on the ground, Joker and his goons standing above her, laughing and joking and just watching as the bled helplessly on the ground. Booster lost it, flying at the Joker and attacked, fists flying. He was too late to stop her from getting hurt, but he could take out the Joker now, stopping so many other future events. The Robin from being killed. The countless numbers of people killed or worse by his sick games. He couldn’t save Batgirl, but he could stop this sicko now and for good.

And then Joker beat him to the brink of consciousness with Skeets and pulled out a gun.

Booster woke up in the bed, gasping with pained breathes, Rip looking down at him, worried expression on his face as he examined at Booster’s beaten body.

“Send me back. Now, dammit!” Booster had demanded it. He could do better. He could save her in a second attempt.

He didn’t. He may have actually done worse.

Adrenaline pumping, he returned a second time but again he was too slow, held up fighting some of Joker's men outside the building, and Barbara was shot just outside the door and then Joker electrocuted him in the face.

He woke up with Rip again, blood dripping from his mouth and a trembling feeling running through her skin, gritted his teeth and got back to his feet. “Back… back again.”

Smash, through a wall in the House of Mirrors this time, shattering shards of glasses impaling his body as he fell, one stabbing through his liver, causing him to break out. That time he had been taken out before Joker ever left the fairgrounds, no way of stopping him that time. He didn’t even get close.

“Again.”

Shot through the chest. Hung from the rafters. Shot out of a cannon.

“A… again.”

Rip told him it was a training lesson, that things couldn't be changed. That in every scenario, in every outcome and in every universe, Barbara Gordon gets shot by the Joker and becomes paralyzed. Some things could not be changed. There were rules and order to the universe. But if there was one thing the Booster Gold paid no attention to, it was rules that someone told him couldn't be broken. If he did, he wouldn't be Booster Gold in the first place.

So he ignored Rip and kept going back. Sometimes he got closer. Sometimes he almost won. There was one instance where his fingers brushed her just enough to push her out of the bullets path, but that only made things worse and she didn’t get paralyzed and instead she died.

The world spun out of control after that attempt and he just made it back in time to try again because he was eaten by a dragon.

Butterfly effect was a bitch.

He had only gone back one more time after that one, and he hadn’t been able to stop anything. He never was able to stop anything, not when it mattered.

"Batman? Can I ask a favour?" Batman said nothing but turned to face him and Booster faltered a bit under the scrutiny and looked away. Batman had said that he could come and talk to him about things, that he was there for him, that he was willing to be his friend, but they hadn’t talked about it since. "Can I talk to Oracle?" He stared at the table in front of him, not able to will himself to look up and face the man.

"Is that a good idea?"

"Probably not,” Booster conceded, finally looking up to face Batman, who was sitting back in his chair with unblinking eyes, giving nothing away in his expression. He sighed and rested his head on his hands, trying to hold himself together and put his thoughts into some sort of logical order. "I think I need to though. My nightmares, I keep failing to save her. I'm hoping that if I know she's alright the dreams will stop." He doubted that they would. He knew that she was alive and was thriving as Oracle. She was touted as one of the great heroes of the age even though hardly anyone knew anything about her in the official records of time. It took a special amount of security to even know the whispered truth about who Oracle was and the power that she had wielded. Maybe seeing her would be the difference though, casting aside of the haunted memory that he had of her dying in front of him, with him unable to stop it no matter how many attempts he made. "Did you tell her?"

"It's not my story to tell," said Batman in a matter of fact tone, which was very similar to the rest of his tones as far as Booster could tell. “I’ll see if I can arrange something. I’ll be in touch.”

A week later Booster found himself in the Batman’s secret lair,, standing at the foot of the giant penny with a fleet of batmobiles nearby, and despite his nervousness he was having a hard time resisting the urge to spin around in circles, arms wide as if he were in a musical. “I love the Bat Cave!” he called out, laughing as he heard his voice echo through the emptiness, bouncing off the walls. “It’s just so cool in here.”

“You aren’t wrong. It is pretty cool down here.” The voice came from out of nowhere and made him yelp in surprise, spinning around to find a very familiar looking red haired woman. Barbara Gordon. Batgirl. Oracle. It was a face that haunted his dreams every night, but it looked different. She was a little older, but everything else was different too. Hair was shorter and a little darker red, glasses frames were different, her biceps were in incredible shape, but the thing that stood out was that she was in a wheelchair. He had done that. He hadn’t stopped that. Countless times that he had tried and he had been unable to stop that one thing. She grinned at him, genuine and bright, unaware of his internal battles. "The infamous Booster Gold. We meet at last." She held out her hand and he stared at it for a moment, embarrassed that he was caught in his moment of fanboyishness in the cave, before his brain kick started again and he grabbed her hand to shake it way too enthusiastically, covering up his nerves of terror with nerves of nervousness.

He had no idea what was going to happen here.

"Hi Babs." His eyes widened, realising that he didn’t know this woman. Not personally, not in the way that she knew. Not in a way that he can call her by a nickname on first meeting. "Sorry. Barbara,” he stammered until he thought about it more. He hadn’t asked to meet with Barbara. Was he supposed to know her name? She called him Booster and not Michael. Were they supposed to use their codenames? "I mean Oracle." That felt weird. She wasn’t in a costume. Did she have a costume? She was just a lady in a cave. One of the smartest people alive maybe, but just a human. “Ma’am.” He turned beet red and his own stupidity. Why was he not able to function like a regular human and know how to have a conversation. He wasn’t usually this bad at it, or if he was, he wasn’t aware of it. "This was stupid. I'm just going to go."

"Stop. Stay. Explain." she said calmly, eyeing him with scrutiny, like she was trying to figure him out like a puzzle. It reminded him of Batman. And Nightwing. And the rest of the Bats. Did they practice that look in Bat school? Could he learn that look?

He noticed that he was still shaking her hand and it was way past the point of awkward. He dropped it abruptly, and then struggled to figure out what do to with his hands before settling on running one through his hand and giving her his patented Booster Gold smile. "Explain what?" Yeah. Nailed it.

She settled back in her chair, resting her elbows on the armrests and tented her fingers together as she considered him. "You are from the future with the ability to time travel. You already knew my identity and Batman arranged for this meet up at your request, in the Bat Cave, instead of just having me contact you remotely like I would typically do in this scenario." He nodded, because what else could he do? Everything she said was true. "Whatever you wanted, it's clearly important."

He had tried to think about what he would say to her. How he would try and explain what he had tried to do, the lesson that Rip was trying to teach him, and everything that had happened, but in the moment, he just couldn’t do it. He froze again. She didn’t need to relive it and know all the messy details. He wasn’t sure if anything could help his problem and now that he was here he wondered if this would just be bad for her to know.

"I'm sorry," he finally blurted out, unable to think of any other way to try and explain why they were there. "I’m sorry that I couldn't save you."

Barbara stared at him, trying to sort out what they were talking about. They had never met from her perspective. "What are you talking about?"

He couldn’t hold back now that he had jumped in. He curled his hands into tight balls, trying to keep them from shaking out of some unnameable emotion. "I was there the night you were shot. Over and over again. I went back almost a hundred times. Maybe even more. I lost count. I couldn't stop it." Now that he was started, he was having a hard time rambling. He sat down next to the penny and rested his head against it with his eyes closed. He was just so tired, not only about this, but about everything. He missed Ted. He missed Michelle. He missed Rip. He even missed his old crappy life in the future before all this because at least then things were simple and easy. "I'm so sorry I couldn't stop him. I'm sorry you're in that chair. I'm sorry I took your legs." He curled up against the penny and let out a deep breath that he hadn’t known that he was holding, shuddering as it left his body, and tears running down his cheeks. It felt so good to say the words to say them to the one person that he needed to the most. No matter what happened next, he just felt so relieved. That he had told her. That it was finally off his chest.

He was going to sleep for a week. She could punch and scream and hate him and it would still be better than bottling it up inside for all of eternity. He probably shouldn’t have told her. He probably was breaking all the rules of time travel that he never seemed to know about until after he had broken them, but it was out there now and he couldn’t take it back.

He didn’t know how long he sat there until he realized that Barbara hadn’t responded. When he opened his eyes, she was still there, looking at him with an odd expression. "Batman knew about this?" she finally asked, voice flat and low, like she was angry but trying to pretend that she wasn't. Yeah, he had expected some anger.

"Yes?" he said slowly, wondering once again if it was a mistake to make this connection. “He knows that I was there and that I tried to stop it, but that’s it. He doesn't know any details."

"And I'm guessing he didn't prep you about what to say to me?"

"No? Why would he?"

Barbara lips tightened and shook her head at him, red hair falling over her shoulders. "Because he definitely would have told you to never say any of the things that you just said to me." Booster’s stomach plummeted. He did suffer from foot in mouth disease, even when he was desperately trying to say the right thing. Perhaps even more so then. “Never in my life have I wanted someone to swoop in and save me. I made myself into a hero then, and I’m the same way now. I’m not broken, Booster, and I hate it when people think of me that way. Yes, I can’t walk, but everyone has their own challenges, and that is all it is to me. I can still fight. I can still work. I can still help people. I regret nothing that led me to this point." Barbara stopped and took in his expression and something that she saw made her soften a bit in her features. “I don’t know what happened or whatever you think you did or didn’t do, but I do know one thing. You didn’t take my legs. The only person that we can blame for that is the Joker, because he is the one who pulled the trigger. You did nothing to cause this.”

Booster nodded at her words. He understood what she was trying to say. She had come to terms with what had happened. This new information didn't change anything for her, but she recognized that it meant a lot to him. “Thank you. I just needed to let you know that I tried. I tried so hard. No matter what I did, I just couldn’t change anything. Not to make it any better anyway.” In that moment though, sitting on the floor in the dark Bat Cave, something occurred to him. He didn't know if it was important but on that last try, he had done something. The only thing he had thought of in the moment that he hadn’t tried before in any of his other attempts. "I called 911," he whispered. "The last time. I had finally given up on trying to stop him. I was out of ideas, but I called 911."

There was a hand on his shoulder, light and warm, rubbing gently back and forth. "Then you did save me. Maybe not in the way you wanted, but I'm alive." Booster looked up at Barbara and there was something there now. Something soft and kind and it pushed a little bit of hope into his gut. “Only one call went in reporting the gun shot. If no one had called for an ambulance, I would have died on the floor all alone.” Her words sank in. He had called 911. He had called for help. The loop was closed, so that meant that he had always been there, not just randomly interloping through time, learning a painful lesson about set things and fate. He was always meant to be there. He was always meant to fail again and again in order to reach that last point. He had been able to make a difference. Barbara had kept talking, and he turned his focus back. “The Joker may have shot me, but without Booster Gold, Oracle would have never have had the chance to be born. I like who I am, who I got the chance to become. I’m glad you were there.”

Without thinking he rushed up to his knees, leaning way too close and invading her personal space but he couldn't stop himself from curling his arms tight around her and he choked out something that was between a sob and a laugh when felt her return the embrace. It was warm and caring in the cold dark cave and it was more than he had imagined, relief flooding his body, shaking with the effort.

The nightmares didn’t stop.

Of course they didn’t. He still was regularly beaten by the Joker. He still watched Barbara Gordon get shot. He still failed time and time again to stop the unstoppable bullet.

The only difference was that he could drink his water, change his shirt, and then scroll through his phone and look at the now saved contact name. He didn’t need to text or call it. Seeing that it was there, knowing that he could contact if he needed to and she would pick up, it was enough to try again.

Stitch Me Back Together- 1

A/N: This is the fourteenth spooky season story! I apologize for the delay in the continuation of the spooky season short stories, however, I believe it was imperative to take time for my mental well-being. I would like to clarify that everything written in this story is complete fiction and isn’t to be taken as a true portrayal of reality. This is written in 1st POV, the character’s name is Fleur, and this will become a series. I am still working on it, the end date isn’t set as of yet, however, I will try to update it when I can. Every member of Vixx will be featured in this piece, though for this first part the only one of them in it is Ken/Jaehwan.

Excerpt: Currently I was seated in front of my tv, a hot cup of coffee sitting on the table in front of me- being completely ignored. Some reruns of an older show were playing but I couldn’t focus on the scenes of characters bickering about some insignificant problem they had. My mind was too busy running through the events of last night for the millionth time.

Word Count: 3,412

Genre: Supernatural/Fantasy/Mythical AU, Angst

Prologue | Chapter 2 | Chapter 2.5  | Chapter 3

****WARNING: Mentions of blood and death****

     “Fleur.” My sister whined into the phone.

      “What?” I dragged the word out in an identical fashion. Though it wasn't an important question, I knew what she wanted. Sometimes it's just fun to mess with her. Lucille, whom I commonly refer to as Cillie, wanted me to bring her food once I get off my 16-hour shift at the hospital- which ends at midnight. That means not a lot of places are going to be open, plus she works around thirty minutes from where I am. And my apartment is five minutes from where I work, so I'll have to drive all the way back.

     “Pretty please, Fleur? Nothing will be open when I get my break, and I forgot to bring food.”

     “Cillie,” I sighed into the phone. “Fine, I'll bring you food, but only if you promise to set a daily reminder to take food with you to work from now on. This is, what? The sixth time in the past two weeks, you can't keep doing this!”

     “I promise! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're the best, Fleur! I love you.” She sang into the phone at the end of her excitement.

     “Yeah, yeah, love you too. I have to get back to work now.” I murmur, a smile tugging at my lips.

     “Bye! See you after your shift!”

     I rolled my eyes as I hung up. Lucille can be such a bother, especially since we have a similar work ethic, which is basically to work our asses off. Neither of us has much free time since we spend most of our time at work, which leads to her frequent requests for food. Every time I bring her food, I end up staying while she eats, and we catch up. It's difficult for us to go more than a day without talking and even harder if we go too long without seeing each other. That's what happens when you grow up with parents who don't care about you.

     Our parents were pretty absent, and every promise they ever made fell through, the only thing they were good for was stocking the fridge and keeping a roof over our heads. The only person we had to rely on was each other, and that's how it has remained. Which is probably why it isn't shocking that we ended up in related fields. I became a doctor, just out of my residency stage, and Lucille became a coroner. Even though our jobs tend to dominate our time, I know that neither of us would change it.

     Now, I can't precisely say what Lucille thinks, but for me, this is something I know I'm good at. It's a job where I know I'm making a difference in every life that I save. And it's not necessarily that I only find validation or meaning in saving lives; instead, it's that I don't feel I'm meant to do anything else. If I were to be born again or wake up with amnesia one day, I know that I would always find my way back to this field.

     Despite my shift ending twenty minutes ago, I couldn't bring myself to move. Maybe my brain froze and wasn't capable of rationalizing what had happened. Or, the more likely reason was that I was in shock. My pale-yellow scrubs were stained a dark red from an amount of blood that no person could lose and still live. I couldn't keep him alive. Why couldn't I save him? Did I move too slow? Did I crack under pressure? Would I get fired? There was just so much blood everywhere, it covered all of the wounds to the point I couldn't find where the most blood loss was coming from. There were so many bullets. How was I supposed to staunch the bleeding from nine bullet wounds?

     A hand clapped down on my shoulder, a sore attempt at a comforting gesture. “Hey, you did the best you could. Don't hate on yourself because of this, okay?”

     I swallow roughly as I look up. “How am I not supposed to hate myself? That guy was practically a kid! He couldn't have been older than nineteen, and now he's lying dead because I couldn't do my job right and save him!”

     “Fleur,” Carson sighed, dropping into the seat next to me. “This is the first time you've had someone die on you, isn't it?”

     I nod, averting my gaze from the older doctor.

     “Well, I'm sorry to break it to you this way, but this won't be the last time someone dies on you. The only way to move past it is to know you did everything you could, and you did, Fleur. You didn't make a mistake; you did everything right. The guy came into our ER like someone used him as a practice dummy,” He said, getting to his feet. “Don't blame yourself, you weren't the one who shot him.” Carson paused at the door, turning to say one more thing. “And actually, I'm surprised he wasn't DOA.”

     Logically I knew he was right; it wasn't my fault the patient died. It's just that maybe I could have done something more. And if I had, he might not be dead right now. Which, yes, I'm aware that it's stupid since I did everything I could. If my vision was better or my hands faster, he might have survived. But all the maybe's or what if's in the world can't change the outcome. Shaking my head, I finally stand up and grab my coat. I couldn't find the energy, nor did I care enough, to change from my scrubs. Lifelessly I pulled on my coat, zipping it to hide the bloodstains.

     The drive over to the lab where Lucille worked went by in a blur after I grabbed food. I honestly couldn't remember the details of how I arrived. Maybe I should've called a taxi. Cillie's workplace was always cold. It makes sense; it is a morgue. I've never liked walking through the hallways to get to her office, the lighting is frequently dim, and it typically leaves me feeling uneasy. Like there's something off about the whole building, kind of dark and creepy. It could be from all the death this place has seen. I don't understand how she can work here without a problem; I'd probably become paranoid in a matter of days if I worked at this place.

     Whenever I come, Cillie tends to be in the main area of the building, where the dead bodies are kept. I've never gone inside that area, and this time was no exception. Knocking thrice on the door was enough to signal to her that I was waiting for her.

     And she responded with a quick shout. “Give me a sec, I'll be right out!”

     Cillie raved excitedly about the autopsy she'd performed earlier on the walk to her office. Something about malformed organs and how amazed she was that the lady had managed to live for so long. Her chattering was nonstop, even when we reached our destination, and she plopped into her chair. She only went quiet after digging into the bag of food, munching happily on the chips within.

     “That sounds exciting, Cillie,” I say quietly.

     “It was, Fleur,” She breathed out, bouncing lightly in her seat. “You should've seen it!”

     “I'm glad I didn't.”

     Lucille's eyebrows furrowed as she looked at me, the chip in her hand quickly forgotten. “Why do you seem off? Did something ha—” She froze mid-question, eyes locked onto the small portion of my scrubs peeking out from my coat. “Why is there blood on your scrubs?”

     “I work at a hospital.”

     “Now is not the time to be smart with me,” She snapped. “You don't usually wear your scrubs out of the hospital on a normal day, and the one time you do, there's blood on them. Something's up, tell me what happened. Now.”

     “I lost someone.” Tears stung at my eyes as I stared at the ground. I was afraid that if I looked at her, and saw the sympathy on her face, that I would break apart. It's hard for me to stop crying once I start, so it's best not to start in the first place. I would've been fine, really, I would have. But then she hugged me, and the floodgates opened.

     Her hands smoothed down my back. “It's okay. Fleur, it's okay.”

     “I'm sorry.” I sobbed into her shoulder.

     “Don't you dare apologize! Losing a patient is hard, but I know you. And you always put a hundred and ten percent effort into everything. Do you know what that means?” I shook my head as she pulled back from the hug. “It means that I know you did everything you could to save that person.”

     My lower lip quivered. “I did.”

     “I know,” Lucille murmured. “Now, do you feel comfortable alone at home, or should I ask for the rest of the night off?”

     “No, no, you don't need to ask off the rest of the night. I… I'll be fine by myself.” My voice broke at the end, and I thought for a second that Cillie might try to ask off anyways.

     She eyed me in disbelief but nodded nonetheless after a moment's consideration. “Fine, but you call me in the morning. And I want you calling out for your next shift, you'll be of no use to anyone until you can move past this.”

     “Okay.”

     I did just as Lucille ordered when I woke up the next morning. My supervisor expressed her concern and mentioned that there was a policy in place for just this situation. That being required therapy and a week away from the hospital before being permitted back. At that moment, I felt both relieved and anxious. Time off meant having nothing to do, and that meant being left alone with my mind. How was that supposed to help? I could avoid such thoughts during the day when distractions are plentiful, but at night there's nothing to keep the darkness from creeping in. I guess that's what the therapy's for. Hopefully, it would be able to help rid me of the lingering doubt and guilt I held. I called Lucille after speaking with my supervisor, but as expected, she was asleep. A message left on her voicemail was sure to suffice, seeing as Lucille could probably sleep through the apocalypse.

     The television sat on its stand, playing old reruns and being completely ignored by me. It wasn't alone, though, as a cup of coffee sat on the table in front of me, forgotten. My mind was so far off, in a place where the incessant bickering of some sitcom characters couldn't reach. I was too busy running through the events from the night prior for what seemed to be the millionth time. Granted by this point, I had lost count; I just knew that the times I had replayed the events were numerous. Each time something was nagging at the back of my mind, something wasn't right. The guy shouldn't have still been alive when he got to the hospital. The whole situation felt off.

     Even Carson said that the patient should've been dead on arrival. And this is the statement of someone who has been a doctor much longer than I. This begs the question, why wasn't he? From the moment I set my hands on him, he maintained a steady pulse, and I thought there was a chance. It was small, but there was still a sliver of me that thought I could save him. That hope was short-lived, though, only lasting a scant minute. After that, it was just like his body short-circuited, and everything stopped. There was nothing I could do at that point. 

     The number of bullets in his body seemed too high. Either there were multiple shooters, or someone really hated that guy. Except if it was just someone who hated him, why would they use a gun? Most murders that involve an intense emotion occur with whatever weapon is closest to the attacker, which, more often than not, is a knife or an object that could be used to hit or bash. A gun would allow the attacker to become distanced from the victim, and it could potentially remove the emotional aspect entirely. That means whoever shot my patient wasn't particularly close to him, they might not have even known him at all. Unless the shooting was premeditated, which could mean that hatred had been building for a while. Or he could've just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. All of this is just pure speculation though, I'm no cop after all.

     A loud rapping on my door had me springing up from my couch. It couldn't be Lucille. Who is at my door at, what is it, ten a.m.? I made my way over to the door quickly, hoping to prevent the person from knocking again. As I opened the door, I noticed the person's hand was raised to knock once more before it dropped hastily.

     “Is there something I can help you with?” I questioned softly.

     The man standing in front of me appeared very well put together. Dressed in a light gray button-up with a navy tie, black dress pants, and matching shoes. His was dark hair swept to the side, and he had eyes that simmered with a hidden secret. To top it all off, his coat resembled a trench coat, albeit slightly more modern and fashionable.

     “Fleur Boudreaux?”

     I hesitated, slightly confused as to how he knew my name. “Yes?”

     “I'm Detective Lee, and I have a few questions about the death of a Remi Juarez. The patient you had in the ER last night.” He stated, producing a badge from one of his pockets.

     “Oh, um, of course, detective.” I stepped aside to let him into my apartment.

     Two steaming cups of coffee sat on my kitchen table, one untouched and the other half empty. Of course, it was the cup sitting in front of me that was still full; exactly how am I supposed to calmly drink coffee while being questioned about a patient's death? The air felt thick, quite suffocating as the silence stretched on. Had he asked a question? I couldn't recall him asking anything yet. All I remember is that I asked if he wanted a cup of coffee, and he nodded, thus the coffee. Is he waiting for me to say something?

     “Did you ask something?” I murmur, looking up from the dark liquid swirling in the cup in front of me.

     He nodded, a smile playing at his lips. “Yes, I asked if you were okay. You seem a bit, well, a bit unsettled.”

     “Sorry, sorry. Actually, I'm not okay, but that's none of your concern. You had questions about the guy I treated in the ER?”

     “That's correct. Did you notice anything odd about him?”

     My eyebrows scrunched together. “What do you mean, odd?”

     The detective shrugged. “Just anything out of the ordinary.”

     “No. No, I didn't. What I noticed,” I continued, my voice beginning to rise. “Was that he was shot nine times and that he was bleeding out under my care because I couldn't get the bullets out and stop his bleeding quickly enough.”

     “Did you manage to recover any of the bullets?” Detective Lee asked, tilting his head, fingers tapping an odd rhythm on the table.

     “No,” I muttered, crossing my arms and looking away from him. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes.

     The questions continued until he'd gotten every ounce of information I knew about the patient, who I'd learned was named Remi Juarez. Though I didn't know much to begin with, what information I had was given to him. It was difficult to tell what he was expecting from me, but it seemed like he was relieved that I didn't know much. But I wasn't sure why he'd be relieved about that unless there's something fishy going on. Briefly, the urge to ask why I was being questioned instead of the detective using the coroner's report for information flashed through my mind. Thankfully, I managed to keep that question to myself.

     The detective stood up, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a card. “Well, if you think of anything that seemed out of the ordinary, please call.”

     “I will, sir,” I replied softly.

     When I stood, I went to take the card from him, and as I did, our fingers brushed for a fraction of a second. And it was in that seemingly insignificant contact that shifted something inside me. The anguish I'd been feeling about losing my patient disappeared, replaced by a feeling of complete serenity. My chest felt lighter, almost more comfortable to breathe. I couldn't remember ever feeling such peace in my life. Wide-eyed, I looked from the card to him. It was the glimmer in his eyes and the tilt of his smile that hinted he was hiding something. Surely… Surely, he couldn't have anything to do with the sudden peace I was feeling. Could he? No, that's impossible. How could someone change another person's emotions with a single touch?

     With the rate at which my thoughts were spinning, I barely remembered that he was on his way out until I saw him walk towards the entrance of my apartment. “Let me get the door for you.”

     Before I could reach the door, it swung open, revealing Lucille balancing a tray of coffee while simultaneously unlocking my door and clutching a bag in her hand. As she stepped fully inside the apartment with a satisfied smile after yanking her keys free, she looked up and froze, eyes widening considerably. “I didn't know you had company, Fleur.”

     “Lucille,” I shot her a look, indicating she shouldn't overreact. “This is Detective Lee, he had questions about the patient that died last night.”

     At the mention of him questioning me, a fiery blaze grew in her eyes. Lucille hastily placed the coffee tray on the table, which was quickly joined by the bag of food. Then she spun to face the detective, hands placed heavily on her hips the way she does right before she goes to reprimand someone. Which is precisely what she proceeded to do before I could stop her.

     “You listen here, I understand that you have a case to solve and all that crap, but you should have some sensitivity! Or at the very least some human decency.” She took a step closer to him, finger poking harshly into his chest. “I don't know if you consider questioning a doctor who is an emotional wreck an okay thing to do, but in my book, it isn't! Maybe you should've thought harder about whether or not you should question her once you saw she wasn't in the best state of mind. Did you even think of that? No, I bet you didn't. Solving the case comes first, not someone else's mental well-being!” Lucille ranted.

     “I—” He started only to get cut off, his mouth opening and closing in a similar manner of that of a fish.

     “Nope, I don't care to hear ‘how important this case is.’ What I want,” Lucille snarked, shepherding him to the door. “Is for you to leave, so that I can make sure my sister is okay. Oh, and for you to learn some human decency, okay?” She quickly shooed him out, opening the door and all but pushed him out. Then for good measure, she slammed it shut in his face and locked it.

     Lucille turned to me, moving swiftly to embrace me. “Are you okay? I can't believe he questioned you right now, he should have at least waited a day.”

     “I'm fine, actually.” My words got muffled by her shoulder, which I tapped lightly to get her to release me. To an outsider, Lucille might appear like the older sister, but it's just in her nature to mother everyone. I still have the upper hand in age, though, a whopping two years I have on her.

     She pulled away, stepping back only to give me a skeptical look. “Uh-huh. Well, I brought coffee and food, and I took the day off to be here with you. We can binge whatever movies or shows you want, and I will supply you with all the food you crave today.”

     “Alright.”

Top 5 Games Of The Year #4

Yakuza 0 is a pretty special game both individually and as a part of its franchise. It’s the first time Yakuza has taken a step backwards chronologically, in order to better explore already established characters and what led them to the events of the first game. It gets a lot of praise already and I’m just here to heap a little more onto the pile because it well deserves it. Although the series at this point is no stranger to having multiple protagonists and Majima has technically been playable before the special feeling Yakuza 0 elicits by having two protagonists wasn’t really lost for it. Compared to the four in Yakuza 4, or the frankly over padded five protagonists in Yakuza 5, taking a step down to just two and placing an almost equal emphasis on each really does the game’s narrative and pacing wonders. Yakuza 0′s story is really good it is an excellent crime drama and among the best main plots the series has to offer. While some might argue other entries, usually 2 or 4, can stand up alongside it I feel 0′s has an edge in some areas. Largely in terms of pace, ambition, and intrigue. For instance, 2 doesn’t really mess around with plot twists, the entire game basically waves a giant flag over Ryuji saying he’s the final boss and the whole plot exists basically just to get to his and Kiryu’s legendary fight. And that’s fine, it doesn’t try to be more than it needs to be and that’s okay. 4 meanwhile has more intrigue and some good twists in there but its pace is much poorer in my opinion. Your mileage may vary on the bullets plot twist, too. 0 has some legitimate plot twists and it does a great job getting players engaged and interested in what’s going to happen next. To get back to 0 though, it doesn’t sacrifice characterization to achieve the quality of its plot either, far from it. It’s the first time we’ve seen a young, hot blooded, and frankly really stupid Kiryu. Kiryu’s never a smart guy but getting to see how he handles situations and behaves before 10 years in prison and subsequent stories smooth his edges and temper his personality is really a treat for fans of the character and newcomers alike. He’s fun, relatable, serious when he needs to be, and most importantly he’s still perfectly recognizable as Kiryu. He is still absolutely that amazing protagonist that you know and love, he’s just young, dumb, and full of.....well you know. On the other hand Majima is almost unrecognizable in this game, being calm, well dressed, a charismatic and professional showman, dissuading others from fighting, all while being openly depressed to boot. This take on Majima still feels fitting because the way he phrases himself is familiar, his gut reactions feel right for the characters, and ultimately this game contextualizes not just his transformation into the Mad Dog of Shimano fans know him as later but many of his actions through the rest of the series. Just ignore how his story here and how he’s written in Yakuza 5 violently contradict one another. We can all just pretend Y5′s Majima writing isn’t canon. The strength of characterization extends to the game’s side characters too, including ones who alongside Majima and Kiryu return from the main series. Nishiki, Kashiwagi, the Lieutenants, Tachibana, Lee, and more are all memorable and great characters. Just, uhh, don’t expect many women in the main plot is all. I don’t want to talk too in depth about the game’s story so as to avoid spoiling anything but it really is a treat. The script takes advantage of player’s expectations in a meta sense, that ultimately this will be Kiryu’s game because, well, Yakuza 4 and 5 were Kiryu’s games in spite of the other protagonists. Those guys all got good, moving stories too and they are all well worth experiencing and having around but ultimately Kiryu is still the most important guy on the block. Not so, here, as by the halfway point of the game players might notice that Majima’s ‘half’ of the game, his half of the game’s chapters, are quite a bit longer than Kiryu’s. Majima has a lot more legwork to do in the story because it is his story, and while Kiryu gets the true final boss fight and is very important to the events at hand as well it’s really Majima who’s the star here. This game is an excuse to explore his character and it does not beat around the bush on that intention. If you are a fan of this franchise you really do have to experience this story. All too often prequel games just end up softening or weakening the existing narratives they’re trying to pay homage to or trying to strengthen but Yakuza 0 expertly dodges that bullet by never missing a beat in terms of quality relative to standard Yakuza entires. My only real issue with the story, honestly, is that Makoto is about as much of a McGuffin as she is a person. The game does take time to develop her both directly and indirectly but ultimately she spends about as much time just being a plot device to be ferried around by one man or another as she does getting to talk and do things.  The gameplay is very refined compared to other games in the seires, I would argue it’s tighter and more fun than Yakuza 6′s, even, if only due to the sheer variety of Heat Actions (effectively super moves; ranging from the silly to the bombastic to the brutal to a handful that made me shout ‘HOLY SHIT HE DIDN’T DESERVE THAT!!!’ at my TV) present in 0. If you like beat ‘em ups you’ll like Yakuza’s playstyle; each character gets 4 fighting styles earning three through the story and a fourth through side content. The fourth fighting style for each one is essentially a bonus, letting them fight in their ‘iconic’ styles, Dragon and Mad Dog respectively. To be honest they’re both underwhelming, Mad Dog is maybe Majima’s weakest fighting style and Dragon, while strong, requires a lot more heat than what it naturally builds to stay competent. The fighting styles are still fun though, they add plenty of new and unique options to each character to justify getting them, they’re just not going to win you the game for free or anything. Of the character’s main fighting styles the only real issue I have is the disparity in strength between them, both internally and between each other. No mincing words here, Majima is obscenely overpowered compared to Kiryu. Breaker Style annihilates every challenge in the game with next to no effort besides Mr. Shakedown fights, which aren’t really fun anyway. That said Slugger easily bashes in Mr. Shakedown and even Jo Amon. Majima will breeze through all of his content even on higher difficulties. Comparatively Kiryu can have a pretty rough time in some fights. This is due in part by his fighting styles being really well balanced internally, they’re all useful and thus the player may actually feel like swapping between them mid battle or between encounters. Kiryu not really having an overwhelming option generally means he can be very expressive, my fiancé and I played him very differently for instance on our runs. Whether you most enjoy his fast, invulnerability frame heavy, dash cancelling Rush style which takes a very high amount of investment to become good but I would argue is maybe his best style once you get it there, his brutish item swinging, semi-grappler Beast style which absolutely decimates indoors fights, or the more well rounded, heat action heavy Brawler Kiryu’s got something for everyone. Each of his styles also get a great variety of unique heat actions, all three to environmental cues, and Beast and Brawler to equip-able and overworld items. While Majima’s fighting style are also expressive and a ton of fun to use they just feel too safe and too easy compared to Kiryu. He gets absolutely stellar results and gets them quickly for extremely little effort in the ridiculously fast, low profile attacks of Breaker. Not to say Breaker isn’t fun, because it is, breakdancing to beat people up is hilarious and fun and its heat actions are flavorful to boot, it’s just really overpowered is all. After some investment his Ballerina With A Baseball Bat fighting style, Slugger, also becomes nigh impossible to challenge for the AI thanks to it losing its primary weakness of the bat bouncing off of walls it hits after you put only moderate investment into it. While the least varied of Majima’s styles in terms of heat actions, Slugger is great fun if you ever wanted a proper weapon based fighting style in Yakuza. It feels like what Shinada should have played like. Majima’s starting style, Thug, is a fun grappling and street brawling style that requires a lot of precision to use well and is very well suited to one on one fights should the player be so inclined to not opt for his better options. It makes use of baroque kicks, eye pokes, strangles, and back turns. It’s also Majima’s only style that can make use of non-baseball bat items for heat actions as well as most of his environmental heat actions, and Majima has some GREAT heat actions under these conditions, helping Thug keep a niche compared to the other styles. Honestly, if you like Tekken you’ll probably like Thug. These great fighting styles would be pointless if the game didn’t have fun enemies and situations to pit you against and thankfully it does. Its ‘dungeons’ are a lot of fun and some of the boss fights really stand out. Thanks to the sheer myriad of context based Heat Actions even just fighting the random mooks in the street stays fun for dozens of hours as you experiment to see how you can fuck up some chumps today. It’s deeply gratifying and a lot of fun. While the optional Mr. Shakedown fights are a chore, they are all optional besides the first one so there’s no real reason to bother with them unless you’re doing a 100% substory completion run or REALLY need to grind money in a game where money is already free. Some of the boss fights are a bit mediocre, too, but overall they’re good fun. I do think Yakuza 0 is at its strongest though when it’s making the player fight room after room of enemies, dozens at a time, and just letting them feel like an absolute champion while doing so, really letting them revel in just how strong and cool Majima and Kiryu are. Yakuza 0′s side content is both one of its greatest strengths and in my opinion an area where it shows the most weakness. While Pocket Circuit, Karaoke, Cabaret Club, and the Sub-Stories are absolutely excellent and I truly cannot stress enough how fun they are the game also has a myriad of seemingly half baked minigames based off of real life activities for you to do, a lot of which have unnecessary RNG. Even Bowling has RNG...BOWLING, come on! The Pool, Darts, Bowling, Catfight Club, and other such minigames feel very rushed in execution and for all but the last of those feel like poor simulations compared to other games I have played. Catfight Club is just a really, really, shameless and sexist ‘Watch almost naked women ‘’’’wrestle’’’’’. Also, opposite Majima’s deeply flavorful, engaging, well written, and fun club management minigame Club Sunshine, the aforementioned cabaret club, Kiryu gets Real Estate Royale. Which is about as fun as you think. It’s literally standing around waiting for money to grind for you and then going out and investing it into properties. While the storyline attached to it is decent enough and has some good moments for Kiryu the minigame itself is just dreadful and grossly slow paced. Which is funny to say, because I think it takes less time to complete than Cabaret Club, but it feels like A Lot Longer because it just isn’t fun. There’s the Telephone Club, which uhhh, you can have Kiryu do to get laid. It’s funny in a tongue in cheek way but it’s also not my cup of tea besides laughing at Kiryu’s great dialogue and body language during the interactions. Basically, play Karaoke to hear Kiryu’s beautiful singing voice and also THE ONLY GAME IN THE SERIES WHERE MAJIMA’S SINGING ISN’T JUST AWFUL SCREECHING! 24 Hour Cinderella is a gift to the world and you need to play it. Cabaret Club is also where the vast majority of this game’s female characters exist, as hostesses. While the game could take this opportunity to be sexist (and one could argue it is, for sure) the writing present in Cabaret Club for the platinum hostesses and their story lines is just as good as anything else from the game. They’re worth talking to, learning about, and seeing their development. In all honesty they can almost fittingly serve as a nice break from the game’s intense story, giving the player a breather with some whole and comedic interactions. The Sub-Stories which make up this game’s version of side quests (because yes, this is a Beat ‘Em Up Japanese Crime Drama RPG) are also basically all amazing. The writing is heartfelt, funny, and just really good. They all have strong opening hooks without forcing the player to immediately get involved and despite being 100 of them they’re basically all really memorable. This is also where the game pays Kiryu back a bit for his lost story content relative to Majima, giving him 60 of the 100 sub stories. They’re all great ways to get to see more aspects of these characters and the citizens of Kamurocho, please give a bunch of them a try if you play this game. I also briefly want to talk about the settings of the game, Kamurocho and Sotenbori. They’re literally just the real life Japanese districts, Kabukicho and Dotenbori by SLIGHLY different names. If you play this game enough you’ll know some real life actual locations in actual real life Japan like you’ve been there. You’ll be able to navigate at least a few square blocks of Japan without a map, it’s amazing, and it’s really something special compared to other games. Also, I’m not exaggerating, the overworld(s) of this game are only a few square blocks large but the game plays that to its advantage. Navigating from one side to another of either one takes a minute or two at most and the streets are always PACKED with content. It’s impossible to wander around playing naturally without falling ass backwards into a dozen or more of the game’s sidestories and inevitably getting sucked into playing a few of them and seeing how good they are. I love this game’s map, it’s so brilliant in its design by simply being true to a real life location. Yakuza 0 also sports stellar sound design. The sound effects are BEEFY, hitting things feels amazing and nothing sounds out of place or off beat. The bombastic, over the top hit sounds really sell Majima and Kiryu’s overwhelming power and it just makes every fight satisfying. The soundtrack similarly is good, and while much of the soundtrack isn’t what I would call listening music, the Karaoke selections, specifically Bake Mitai, sure are. I’m not really the kind of guy who can tell you why the sound design is good, it just is, trust me.

All in all, Yakuza 0 is a stellar game and is exemplary of both what a modern beat ‘em up AND a modern RPG should strive to be like. It is a masterpiece in its own right and I’m glad that its success in the western market has secured this unique, beautiful series a future. Please play Yakuza 0, it’s regularly on sale on both PS4 and Steam and it deserves your attention. If you’re ever alone on a Friday night, just remember these Yakuza, and you’ll have a great time.

Devil’s own Luck pt17

Warning : Mobstyling warlords, strong language

Masterlist

---

Chapter 17 – The Penny Drops

– Bang –

The shot echoed over the outside space. Every man moved on instinct to take cover, not giving any thought to who or where they would end up. Using the Azuki groups cars as shields the men tried to take stock of the situation.

Taking in turns to glance up or around the vehicles, like human meerkats, to try to figure out where the bullets were coming from.  

“What the Hell?” Yukimura ducked his head just in time to avoid a bullet as it bounced off the metal of the car above him.

“You can say that again.” Mitsunari had sunk to the ground next to him covering his ears.

“Was this you’re doing?” Yukimura shot an angry glare towards the Azuki cartel in general.

“Does it look like we are any less of a God damn target than you?” Ieyasu had already slipped the safety off his gun and was blindly shooting a covering fire back in the general direction of where he thought the bullets were coming from as he tried to keep his head raised enough to gain some perspective on the situation.

“Of course, it wasn’t us.” Hideyoshi was doing the same whilst also trying to make sure that no one got injured as they attempted to figure out where they were being targeted from.

“It isn’t us either.” Sasuke had laid out a couple of clips on the ground by his leg ready to reload as fast as possible and was shooting towards the tree line that had enough cover to hide someone in it without drawing attention.

“So, who?” Yukimura said almost under his breath as he avoided more ricocheting bullets and chipped paint.

“Kennyo.” Nobunaga stated full of certainty.

“He wouldn’t he’s…” Shingen began to try to defend his old friend. The air in his lungs was squeezing and his breathing was more laboured than it should have been. The cacophony of gun fire around him should have been loud and clear but seemed duller somehow in his current state.

“A friend? Someone you trust?” Nobunaga had a cold smile on his face as he replied. He was using two guns at once firing like Sasuke at the tree line but also further towards another set of trees a little past a flowerbed to the east.

“What are you talking about? What does the ex-chief inspector have to do with this?” Yukimura grumbled hopelessly lost.

“Your Boss has been in contact with him.” Masamune piped up as he moved alongside Kenshin and Sasuke.

“Huh?” Yukimura’s eyes turned to Shingen searching him, wanting to be told it wasn’t true. He had never liked Kennyo he tolerated him because his boss was ‘friends’ with him but after the whole firing thing the man had lost it and Yuki had warned Shingen not to trust him he had hoped he would listen to him, obviously he was wrong.

“We found out from the guy at the charity event that tried to assassinate Nobunaga. Kennyo has been working with Shingen.” Mitsunari shifted to one knee and was bent around the rear bumper of one of the cars trying to read the terrain more.

“Yes, working with not trying to fucking kill me.” Shingen said as he was firing back towards something that caught his eye. A flare from a gun in the dark. There you are.

“Can you be sure of that?... would you bet your life?” Nobunaga leaned back on the panel of the car as he reloaded. “Shingen we all came here for talks, peaceful talks. I am a man of my word I had no intention of opening fire on you.”

“We were the same.” Shingen bent low again pushing against the car with his back as his face contorted slightly trying to suppress the pain coursing through his body. Willing his lungs to keep breathing, and not showing a weakness to anyone. Clenching his teeth, he rose again and took aim.

“So that only leaves one other person and clearly he has lost the ability to discern between friend and enemy… maybe he never saw the difference to start with.” Nobunaga’s words caused Shingen to momentarily loose focus.

– Bang, Bang –

“Argh!” Shingen’s pained cry as he fell backwards made them all pause and take notice. He had been hit twice once in his shoulder and arm. Thick dark blood was seeping out of the holes and he dropped his gun on the ground as he clamped his other hand over his injured arm.

“Shingen!” Yukimura moved fast to his side and was already ripping off his jacket trying to push it to Shingen’s shoulder to stem the flow of blood.

“It’s ok Yuki.” Shingen tried to smile but it was a grimace. The colour of his skin was already pale trying to fight off the pain in his chest but now with two holes in him he looked grey.

“Ok? OK? You’ve just been bloody shot!” Yukimura was frantic as he looked at the man who had been like a second father to him prone on the floor next to him.

“It does rather appear we are at a disadvantage.” Sasuke had spotted where some of the bullets were coming from just like the others had by now. It wasn’t exactly their first rodeo they all had experience in picking out gunmen.  

“Disadvantage? Who do you think you’re talking about?” Masamune laughed happily.

“Exactly Sasuke don’t do making assumptions.” Kenshin was shoulder to shoulder with Masamune both seemed to be taking turns in making bullets arch and trying to score points in some unspoken game.

“So, what’s the plan?” Ieyasu turned to look at the others.

“Take the others guys out ASAP, not get shot and return to base as fast as possible before the officials turn up.” Masamune quickly replied.

“That sounds good any idea how?” Sasuke looked at the one-eyed man with a hint of admiration at his ability to stay so calm in this situation.

“Not a damn clue but it’s gonna be fun working it out.” Masamune dropped back down and took more clips from his jacket pushing one into his gun with a click.

“Oh great… just great… why do I always get stuck covering your stupid reckless bloody ass?” Ieyasu was momentarily wide eyed at Masa but quickly hid it and rolled his eyes.

“Just lucky I guess. Come on Yasu.” Masa shouted over his shoulder as he broke cover and slid over the bonnet of the car and went running towards the trees.

“Sasuke we’re going too.” Kenshin who had paused after reloading to look towards Shingen now turned towards his right-hand man.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Sasuke pushed his glasses back on his face as he looked at his trigger-happy boss. Who was clearly enjoying himself despite the circumstances.

“Would you rather sit here like a fish in a barrel?” Kenshin said as he darted towards the tree line in the opposite direction to Masamune.

“Point taken.” Shoving his clips into his pockets Sasuke tightened his grip on his weapon.

“We’ll stay here until you can get the fire drawn away and then get one of the cars out so we can get back to base and treat Shingen’s wounds.” Nobunaga said to Sasuke as the man nodded in understanding before he took off in hot pursuit of Kenshin.

“What? Like I’m going to trust you to do that. I’m staying too.” Yukimura angrily glared at Nobunaga giving all the orders.

“I wouldn’t expect any different from a loyal dog like you Yukimura.” Hideyoshi moved to the opposite side of Shingen and took off his own jacket to put over the man who was now shaking in mild shock.

“One more comment like that Monkey boy and you won’t have to worry about Kennyo I’ll shoot you myself.” Yukimura couldn’t help lashing out he was falling apart with worry.

“Yuki calm down. We have an accord don’t go getting all hot headed and blowing it.” Shingen was struggling to speak it felt like a boulder had been put on top of him weight of it dragging him down into darkness. The colours around him were fading and all he could do was look at the young man and see the pain in his eyes. Oh, Yuki I never wanted to see that look on your face… forgive me.

“Mitsunari quickest route back to base that avoids maximum number of cameras.” Nobunaga shot the question to Mitsunari after glancing at the weakening Shingen.

“On it Sir.” Mitsunari closed his eyes and was mentally running streets and numbers through his head.

“Where is Mitsuhide? He’s never around when you damn well need him.” Hideyoshi spat out the question he had wanted to say since the whole thing started.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that Hideyoshi.” Nobunaga looked towards his friend before returning to firing.

---

Her head was pounding like someone had put a jack hammer inside it when she woke up. At least she thought she was awake, her eyes couldn’t quite focus and the lighting was so bright she had to blink hard to see anything.

There wasn’t really anything to see it looked like she had been left somewhere and was surrounded by… were they shipping containers? Where am I? She tried to sit up but that was a struggle in itself her hands and ankles were bound tight and as soon as she realised that she had already slumped back on her side. She felt detached from her own body her head was all fogged up.

Dejected at her own lack of ability she resigned herself to lay there and wait for whatever was going to happen to start because right now her hands were literally tied. In her hazy consciousness she heard footsteps and a clink of something moving towards her. A pair of men’s shoes stopped in front of her face and the shiny metal tip of what she imagined to be a cane came into view.

“It appears you have finally woken up.”

---

As soon as the first shot was fired he had moved from his hiding place and was edging his way slowly to where he had seen the reflection from the scope. His feet picking out the ground beneath them with barely a noise. If I can just get close enough then I can put an end to this poorly instigated plan.

The park had clusters of trees left from when it was once a small wooded area. They were old and dense in places perfect for a sniper to lay hidden and undisturbed. Mitsuhide slid his hand into his jacket and took out two weapons. One was his gun it already had the safety off and the other was his dart gun. He strapped the latter to his wrist so that he didn’t have to worry about it not being accessible as he held his gun drawn in towards his chest and moved like a creeping shadow from tree to tree.

The sound of gunfire and the smell of the gun powder was getting stronger he was close. Mitsuhide took a deep long breath and filled his lungs with the smell, the slightly rotting decay of the damp earth under his feet, the fresh over tones of the metallic weapon working its way like an incontrollable elixir drugging his system making his pulse race.

With dilated pupils he finally set eyes on the lone gunman he had been hunting for.

– Hiss, crackle, hiss –

The out of place electronic sound came from a police radio near the man’s shoulder. He paused in his assault to fiddle with it and after a few seconds a hushed voice came from the black box.

“Confirmed target is acquired, the main branch will be moving soon so when you can get yourself out of there. Repeat we have the girl.”

Girl? A dreadful shudder ran up his spine as he let the voice on the radio go silent. A burning rage started build in his gut as he fixed his eyes on the man who was starting to dismantle his rifle. Mitsuhide pushed himself hard back into the shadow of the closet tree and waited patiently. He wanted to take his time he wanted to draw out the suffering, if anyone hurt her he wanted them to suffer for it an he wanted to be the one to cause the pain of retribution to course through their very bones before his eyes.

His mouth was watering as the gunman passed just close enough to him and Mitsuhide shot out one hand covered the man’s mouth and push his free hand hard into the unsuspecting victim’s neck. A small dart that was loaded released and remained planted in the muscles twitching as the blood flow pulsed under the man’s skin.

The Gunman went limp but his eyes were alert and wide as Mitsuhide held him in place. Mitsuhide released his hand from the man’s mouth and turned him to face him he wanted to see the terror in his eyes. A maniacal feral grin spread across Mitsuhide’s face his Yellow eyes appeared to be nearly black.

“Just what I was looking for… I needed a new toy.”

---

I Rewrote my Overwatch Fanfic, What Even

You’re Somebody’s Hero (though you may not want to be)

Summary: On his way to foil a Deadlock scheme, McCree runs into trouble and receives help from an unlikely source. Is it a good thing that a maniac with an explosives fetish idolizes him? Probably not.

Content warnings: Language, injury.

Characters: Junkrat, Roadhog, McCree, Deadlock (mentioned).

Featuring: No beta-reader! Junkrat as a McCree fanboy! The princess carry (I am ALL ABOUT the princess carry), and Not Enough Booze to Deal with This!

Note: I thought this up one night when I was trying to go to bed, spent the better part of a day writing it, edited it, put it online, decided it sucked, redid it several times, and then posted it again. Personally, I blame the fact that I watched this comic dub compilation.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WneYr-VAVhY&t=60s

I went through all the canon info on these guys that I could find, but there’s precious little of it, so I wasn’t left with much in the way of characterization to work with. Apologies if I get anything wrong. It’s not really shipping, so if High Boom isn’t your thing, you can still enjoy it.

Back in the days that almost no one was old enough to remember, Route 66 had been the go to path for anyone on a road trip. Nowadays, it had such a bad reputation that all 2,451 miles of it was given a wide berth by civilized society. Rather than enticing people to see America, it was a hotbed for smugglers, criminals, and those looking for trouble. Jesse McCree tended to fall into the last category more often than not. Despite this, he wanted to believe that he wasn’t quite as lawless as he’d been the last time he traveled that road. Years could change a man, even it wasn’t entirely for the better.

Popular opinion was that he should be rotting in a cell somewhere, and he’d long since accepted that. Just because the world thought you were up to no good didn’t mean you had to be. Maybe his methods of making his way to the no man’s land running along either side of the road weren’t entirely legal, but he had good intentions. He’d gotten word a few weeks ago that the Deadlock gang was trying to make a comeback. Scuttlebutt around the criminal underworld was that they were convening along the route somewhere in Kansas. That was bad news for anyone in their way. They were up to something, and damned if he didn’t feel obligated to at least try and stop them.

He’d hitched a ride atop a ritzy train (and the events of that trip were a story for another time), but it’d only gotten him so far. He’d kept going on foot, intermittently getting lifts from weather beaten vehicles with dubious alibis as to why they were there. He’d known he was close when he started seeing buildings older than he was. He was making his way through a dilapidated town when things got complicated.

They were new recruits, too young to have heard of him and too green to put up much of a fight. But what they lacked in skill, they made up for in home turf advantage. They’d been stationed in the ghost town to keep an eye out for anyone trying to interfere. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been there before he scared them off, but it was long enough to wire the crumbling buildings with C-4.

He was relatively lucky. The switch had only set off one of the charges and it’d been set up so sloppily that it’d only taken out half the building. Too bad he was in it at the time. He’d only had a second to jump clear of the falling ceiling. As the dust settled, he knew the gang members were gone. No matter. They weren’t what he was after. McCree dusted off his Sarape and started to get his bearings.

Glancing around, he assessed the damage. His right ankle was hurting; he’d landed on it funny during the dive. He wasn’t complaining, though. It was better than being buried. The room itself was scattered with chunks of plaster, his view partially obscured by an exceptionally large chunk. What was left of the place hinted that the building had been a bar at some point. There were overturned or broken tables and an assortment of smashed bottles scattered across the floor. You were more likely to get tetanus than a hangover. Too bad. He wouldn’t have minded a drink. He frowned, placing a hand to his bare head.

If he’d lost his hat, Texas itself wouldn’t be big enough to hide those bastards.

Their lives were spared another day as he spotted his Stetson a few feet from where he was sitting. Right, time to keep moving. The explosion would have attracted attention, which was one thing he didn’t want. Checking to make sure Peacekeeper was still in its holster, he got to his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his ankle. That was a mistake. As soon as he put weight on it, hurt lanced through his leg, buckling it beneath him. He hit the ground, catching himself only inches from the rotten hardwood. He swallowed the forthcoming cry of pain and spat out a curse instead. Well, wasn’t this just perfect?

Propping himself against the wall, McCree considered his options. Injured prey didn’t last very long around here, and unless Mercy was somehow within shouting distance, it wasn’t looking good. He was just at the point where using a chunk of support beam as a crutch sounded like a good idea when he heard it. The roar of a bike engine rapidly approaching. Dammit, were the Deadlock groupies back already?

Peacekeeper flashed in the sunlight as he drew it. He still had enough ammo to deal with one bike load of interlopers. Maybe if he was really lucky, he’d get a new ride out of the deal. As the engine cut off, he held his breath. There were two people, judging by the footsteps, and they were getting closer.

“Bloody Amateurs! Is that what they call an explosion?! There wasn’t even a shockwave!”

Australians.

Shit.

“Well, whatever. If there’s a stash of those party poppers around here, I can still make something decent.”

McCree crouched in a defensive position, mindful of his bad ankle. They were practically on the front step…

“Come on ya big lug! Let’s see what they left!”

With a bang, the door fell off its rusted hinges and crashed to the floor. The culprit was a scrawny man, missing a shirt and most of his hair. He was followed closely by one of the most enormous people McCree had even seen. More surprising was the gas mask that covered his face. Obscured by a large chunk of ceiling, McCree watched them suspiciously. The first man’s head swiveled around the room, apparently fixated on his supply search. As he looked to the far wall, he snorted derisively.

“Look at this mess! Who rigged this?! I crossed better wires when I was in nappies!”

Taken aback, McCree took his attention from the giant long enough to notice his friend in more detail. Now that he was really looking, he could see the man’s height, obvious despite his slouch. There was a tire strapped to his back and his hair was very slightly on fire. He realized immediately who they were.

He’d caught a glimpse of their mugshots on a screen a while back. The news report had said their aliases were Junkrat and Roadhog, two runaways from the Outback who were on a worldwide crime spree. They’d broken into every place from the tower of London to a Japanese arcade. No one was quite sure what the end goal was, but by all accounts, they weren’t easily subdued. And now they were standing only a few feet from him. It would probably take more bullets than he had to take down the both of them. They’d only be preoccupied for so long.

The bigger one-Roadhog- was more interested in the rest of the room than the C-4. McCree’s heart sank as he realized the giant had noticed his fallen hat. He placed a hand on Junkrat’s head, turning it so he faced McCree’s hiding spot and pointed a thick finger directly at it. Junkrat sighed and hobbled over. He was just about to make a break for it, ankle be damned, when Junkrat leapt over the rubble and landed in front of him, blocking his way out.

They stared at each other for a very long second. McCree’s grip on his gun tightened. He tensed as Junkrat’s eyes went wide, waiting for him to lunge for his jugular.

“JESSE MCFREAKING MCCREE!”

When wanted criminals yelled his name, it was usually filled with malice and laced with the promise of retribution. This reminded him more of those girls who used to get weak-kneed over Jack. Junkrat’s dirt covered face lit up like a Christmas tree. He knelt down, face only inches from McCree.

“Hooley Dooley, it’s actually YOU! All the blokes back home talked about how you were the baddest guy stateside! Is it true you used to be in Blackwatch? Holy shit, your arm’s like mine! Can I-?”

Junkrat’s ramble was cut off as he found himself nose to barrel with Peacekeeper. Seeing this, Roadhog lumbered over, moving the obstruction like it was a pile of pillows. He loomed over them warningly. McCree looked past Junkrat’s blond spikes to shoot him a return glare. Junkrat, however, smiled, raising his hands in surrender.

“Ok, ok, not a touchy-feely guy. I get it.” He sat back on his haunches, affording the cowboy some personal space. He only lowered his gun an inch. Roadhog was still giving off an aura of protectiveness. Junkrat was oblivious to the tension, bouncing in place as he took in McCree.

“What’re you doing out here, anyway?” He asked. “Getting the old gang back together? Planning the heist of the century?! BLOWING UP SOME SUITS?!”

McCree watched his gesticulations grow wilder with every question. Did this guy ever stay still? Well, he wasn’t about to let him in on his plans. The whole world would know them by noon. When his silence didn’t dissuade Junkrat’s expectant stare, he decided to go the vague route.

“I’m crashing a party.”

Junkrat snorted. “Sounds boring. You want to hang out with us instead? We’re going to see what they’re hiding in Area 51!”

“Why?”

“Just curious. My money’s on aliens, but ‘Hog’s sure they’re making some sort of super-omnic.”

McCree took in the canisters of explosives draped over Junkrat’s shoulders and Roadhog’s heavily detailed bike/pig tattoo.

“I think y’all are going to have a hard time getting past security.”

Junkrat waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, we know how to be inconspicuous.”

He was pretty sure he heard Roadhog snort.

“Sooo,” Junkrat drawled, leaning forward. “If you don’t want to come to Roswell, how ‘bout we just drop you off at your party? We’ve got a pretty sweet ride, so we can give a lift, right mate?”

Junkrat looked up at Roadhog.

McCree looked up at Roadhog.

Roadhog nodded.

McCree wondered how hard it would be to hop all the way to Kansas. Junkrat must have seen the doubt on his face, because he redoubled his efforts.

“Aw, come on, when you see the bike you’ll change your mind! It’s a classic!” He grabbed McCree’s wrists and yanked him up. As soon as his foot met the floor, McCree gasped sharply, latching on to the taller male to keep himself upright. Junkrat braced the cowboy against his side, enthusiasm replaced with concern.

“You alright? Got a snake in your boot?”

“He’s hurt.” Roadhog rumbled.

“I’m fine.”

Junkrat was unconvinced. He slung McCree’s arm over his shoulders and helped him over to the sturdiest looking table. McCree found himself plunked down on top of it, leg stretched out straight. Junkrat patted his shoulder.

“No worries, we’ll get ya fixed up! I’ve practically got a Ph.D. in DIY doctoring!”

He wasn’t reassured. But Junkrat was already easing off his boot and sock. He ran his organic fingers down the cowboy’s ankle with surprising gentleness. His unruly eyebrows furrowed as his saw the swelling and he shot a glance at Roadhog. Roadhog didn’t move, at least as far as McCree could see, but an understanding still appeared to pass between the two.

“Yeah, good call.” Junkrat said before turning back to McCree.

“Good news, it’s just a helluva sprain! Used’ta get them all the time when I had both my legs! Nothing that’ll keep someone like you down for very long. I’ll get it wrapped up good as new!”

Junkrat reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out a roll of surprisingly clean bandages. He worked quickly and precisely. McCree was almost surprised someone so chaotic could be that exact. Probably, he realized with an unpleasant lurch, because he wouldn’t have survived long otherwise.

True to Junkrat’s word, the bandages did the trick. But the time he was done, the ache was already starting to subside, making it easy to slip his shoe back on. He readily accepted the hip flask offered, but upon sniffing the contents, he had to hide a grimace. Was there coffee mixed in with the whiskey? Lowering the flask, he looked back to the Junkers.

“Much obliged.” He said, genuinely thankful. The smile he got in return could have powered an amusement park.

“Anytime! So, doesn’t this mean you’ll tag along with us? We don’t have crutches, but Roadie gives great piggyback rides!” He looked up at his friend hopefully.

Roadhog looked at McCree.

Roadhog looked at Junkrat.

Roadhog nodded.

McCree considered everything, and took a long swig from the flask.

“Sure.” He said, once the urge to gag had passed. “Only as far as Kansas, though.”

Junkrat pumped both fists in the air.

“Yes!” He exclaimed, leaping to his feet and heading for the door. “Let’s load up on boomsticks and hit the road!”

McCree found himself alone with Roadhog. They had a staring contest for a few seconds, before Roadhog held out a peace offering.

“Thanks.” McCree put his Stetson back on and swung one leg off the table. Before he could move the other one, he was lifted up and cradled in a pair of very large arms. To his embarrassment, he realized the Junker intended to carry him bridal style. Hopefully his ankle healed up soon. This wasn’t exactly going to strike fear into the hearts of Deadlock. Upon seeing the look on his face, Roadhog shrugged.

“Already got a passenger.” McCree leaned over Roadhog’s shoulder to see an oversized pachimari plush strapped to his back by netting.

He emptied the flask in one gulp.

Has anyone heard of the Left/Right Game? (Part 8) by NeonTempo

Hi Guys,

Apologies for the removal of this log a second ago, not sure why that happened, and I should also apologise for the delay in posting recently. If I could dedicate all my time to finding Alice, then I would. Sadly, I need to work as many Christmas shifts as I can get my hands on, especially now I’ve decided that I can’t continue the investigation effectively from my flat in North London.

I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I’ve decided that, after Christmas, I’m going to be flying out stateside to follow up on the leads you guys have provided. Hopefully once I’m there I might be able to make some real headway.

In the meantime, please keep any and all insights coming, however small. I really do read all of them.

Ok, here’s the next log:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

The Left/Right Game [DRAFT 1] 14/02/2017

In the brief interlude before I hit the ground, I find myself alone with the stars.

As I fall backward towards the slope, my gaze rising to meet the night sky, I feel a sudden weightlessness take hold, as if I’m being granted an audience with the heavens. The rich and endless firmament shines down through the canopy, with no earthly light to dull its glow. Despite everything that’s happened, I’m unable to ignore how magnificent it all is, how gracefully detached from the ugliness below. Though the moment lasts no more than a second, it feels longer, like I’ve been gifted some fleeting respite, a transient sliver of time in which to appreciate the calm and quiet cosmos. A moment to escape, however briefly, from the events that are to come.

I don’t know how much longer the moment might have lasted. I suppose I never will. It’s with a sense of genuine sadness that I turn myself away, twisting my body around in mid-air. The stars disappear from view, and I am left staring down the slope into the valley’s dark, uncompromising depths. My commune with the heavens has ended, and I’m returned to the cold, unforgiving earth.

It doesn’t welcome me back.

I hit the slope, immediately bouncing off one shoulder and landing on the other, barrelling forcefully and unstoppably downhill. My entire body is thrown into chaos, tossed into a frenetic, uncontrollable dance, swept along by the rushing earth towards the impatient valley floor.

The back of my ankle flails against a hard, jagged rock. My face rolls into a small bloom of stinging nettles, their caustic leaves scraping against my cheek. I battle to bring order to my descent, my hands grasping at the undergrowth, clawing through loose soil in a frenzied search for stability.

Rocks and dirt cascade around me as I pull myself onto my back, finally managing to descend with my feet pointed downhill. I’ve regained control just in time, looking ahead to see a large tree, bursting out of the hill a few metres below me. A split second before I would have collided with the thick, knotted trunk, I throw myself to the side, my wrist ricocheting against the bark and sending a shooting pain down my arm.

The valley’s base comes into view, hurtling towards me as I plummet through the rushing undergrowth. I can make out the bodies of the deer who made this hazardous journey before me. I can hear the pained braying of the survivors, moaning in hollow resignation as they struggle to stand on broken legs.

A moment later, I join them.

The slope doesn’t level out gradually. Just before the bottom, the sharp incline I’ve been hopelessly traversing drops off into a sheer rock face. Before I can stop myself, I’m launched from the slope, kicking dirt into the air. I spend the final three metres in freefall, before landing on my hands and knees, my whole body subject to a complete, bone rattling halt.

My body tensed and aching, I pick myself up off the valley floor. The second I stumble onto my feet, a harsh beam of torchlight strikes the ground to my right. My muscles groaning, I jump back against the natural rock wall as the light swings my way, sweeping directly over the spot where I just landed.

Bluejay is looking for me. I would have expected nothing less. The beam glides along the ground, scanning the base of the slope, lighting up the twisted bodies of countless deer. Fortunately, the shadow cast by the rock wall offers a measure of sanctuary, shielding me from the torch’s restless glare.

About half a minute after it arrived, the beam rises through the trees and cuts out.

I don’t expect her to come after me. I certainly don’t expect her to drop down the slope. Perhaps she could walk back down the road, taking a gentler route downhill, and pursue me through the valley once it levels out, but that walk would probably take half an hour each way. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to leave the Wrangler unprotected for that long.

Despite the fact that she’s showing no signs of entering the valley, Bluejay is clearly eager to locate me. The torch suddenly illuminates the damp soil ahead of me as she points it back down into the valley. I suspect she turned it off just long enough for me to feel overlooked, allowing me to consider stepping out into the open. I also suspect that, should the torchlight find me scrambling around on the valley floor, a bullet will quickly follow it, putting me down to lie with the deer. From that point, all she’d need to do is walk down and slip the Wrangler’s key from my cold, limp fingers.

Catching my breath, my back pressed against the rough rock wall, I run through my current priorities. I need to stabilise Rob, I need to lure Bluejay away from the Wrangler, and, most pressingly, I need to contact Lilith.

I reach to the back of my waistband, my hand searching for my personal walkie talkie. My fingers touch denim, finding an empty space where the transceiver should be. My stomach drops as I search along my back. It’s gone. I’d had it with me when I dropped onto the slope, but at some point during my furious descent, it must have gotten away from me.

The torchlight swings back around once more.

Though it’s something I never thought I’d have to do, I find myself making a mental inventory of the convoy’s radio transceivers. Before we set out on the road, Rob handed a walkie talkie out to each of us. Since then, it’s safe to assume that those belonging to Ace, Apollo, Eve, Bonnie and Clyde are no longer in play. Lilith must have lost hers when her car sank into the ground, which is why I gave her Rob’s before she ran into the forest. That just left mine, which could be anywhere on the hillside, and Bluejay’s.

The torchlight disappears once more.

I cautiously lean out from the shadows, scanning the forest around me. Bluejay’s walkie talkie had been in her car when the child pushed it from the road. If I’m correct, then her transceiver is the only one left that I can use to contact Lilith. The car itself doesn’t seem to be anywhere around me, but as I turn my head and scan the dark hillside, I can see it resting on the slope. The entire car has been stopped mid-fall, resting precariously on its side, the vehicle’s crooked undercarriage crumpled around the trunk of an old and battered tree.

If I’m going to get in touch with Lilith, I’m going to have to climb up there.

I edge along the rock until Bluejay’s car is almost directly uphill from me. Turning around, and running my hands against the damp, shrouded wall, I’m able to discern a few passable handholds. Placing my fingers into a large groove above my head, I jam my boot onto a small outcrop just above the wall and push myself upwards.

It isn’t an easy climb. My hands are cold, my arms are tired and I’m certainly not wearing the right shoes. My boots repeatedly slip from their holds, causing my arms to throb as they’re forced to bear my weight. After painstakingly scraping up the first two metres, I run out of places to put my hands, my outstretched fingers falling roughly 10 inches short of the top. I take a quick breather, letting both arms straighten as I lean back and observe the wall above me. As the torch sweeps past overhead once more, it illuminates a small twisted root on the very edge of the cliff.

I have no idea if I can reach it, and there’s every chance it will give way immediately, causing me to topple helplessly back to the earth. However, I can already feel my grip weakening, a noticeable ache running up my forearms. I’m not going to be able to stay where I am much longer, and I suspect I won’t have the energy to make it this far again. Edging my feet up, scrabbling the side of my boot against the wall until it sticks in place. I bend my legs slightly, poising myself to make the jump. Gritting my teeth, and with a sharp, tentative intake of breath, I swing myself up into the air and let go of the wall.

I feel grossly vulnerable, hanging in the air with nothing but a harsh fall below me and a harrowing climb waiting above. I throw my arms forward as I hit the peak of my jump and just manage to catch the root with both hands. A heavy jolt wrenches my shoulders, threatening to yank me back to the ground. Fear and adrenaline alone sustain my desperate grip, my arms on fire as I swing my leg up to the ledge, hooking my heel over the top after a few clumsy attempts.

I force myself over the edge and onto the soft soil, just in time for the torchlight to start circling back towards me.

With one final surge of effort, I push my aching body upright and struggle over to the nearest tree, falling at its base and pressing myself against the bark. The light travels quickly. The tree’s darkening shadow swings over from the right, covering me, and then fading again as it stretches out to my left. The light leaves me in darkness, certain to return soon as Bluejay continues her frenzied surveillance.

It's started to rain a little. A few sporadic droplets fall through the sparse canopy and land on my outstretched palm. It doesn’t take long before these scouts are reinforced by a steady downpour, drumming against the leaves and grass, soaking through the loam. The already punishing incline is going to prove completely unclimbable if the rain has enough time to slicken the grass and pound the soil into mud. I also doubt I’ll be able to make the initial climb again, especially if the rock wall becomes coated in a layer of cold rain.

As much as I have to move quickly up to the car, I also need to move carefully. It’s becoming increasingly clear that this will be my only attempt at reaching the radio.

The vehicle is only a short climb away. I can see its undercarriage laying against the tree, the entire left side of the vehicle pressed into the ground. Only now I’m nearby do I hear the ominous creaking sound that emanates from the car, as it rocks almost imperceptibly around a thin focal point.

I wait for the torchlight to swing past me once more before pulling myself out from the shadow of the tree. My dirt covered hands grasping at any conceivable purchase, I crawl up the bank towards Bluejay’s vehicle. My feet slip on the grass with every other step as the rain seeps into the ground, soaking through my fleece.

I’m completely exposed as I make my way on towards the car. Though it remains a constant concern, the torch seems to be exploring another section of the hill as I arrive beneath the chassis, the undercarriage looming imposingly over me. I briefly glance up to check on Bluejay’s movements then, slowly, steadying myself against the incredible incline, I climb out into the open once more and pull myself up until I’m in line with the warped, twisted hood.

Bluejay’s transceiver is still fastened within its dock. Despite the car’s battered condition, the windshield is frustratingly intact, with nothing more than a small jagged, irregular hole near its centre. It will take a bit of manoeuvring, but it should be just big enough to reach through and pull the radio free. Slowly, and tentatively, I thread my arm through the centre of the opening, shards of serrated glass encircling my skin. My hand reaches the dashboard, slowly brushing along its surface towards the walkie talkie as I lean into the car.

The torchlight starts to swing back across the hill. Bluejay is walking along the ledge in a frantic mission to find me. In my current position, out in the open and trapped in a slow and delicate procedure, there’s no way I can get out of the way in time.

My hand grasps the transceiver as the light reaches me. Though I’m ashamed to admit it, for a brief moment, drowned in the revealing glare of the torch’s beam, I’m stunned into inaction. The light has stopped moving, fixed directly on me, casting my stark shadow down into the valley. I can imagine Bluejay’s triumphant glare as her desperate search is finally rewarded.

Returning to my senses all too late, I grit my teeth, and wrench the walkie talkie from its dock. With no time for grace or care, I retract my arm from the windshield, inhaling sharply as an aberrant shard of glass scrapes across the back of my hand.

It turns out I have greater things to worry about, as I hear a loud bang from up the top of the hill, followed instantaneously by a disgusting zipping sound that flashes past my ear. I flinch instinctively from the noise, my sudden reaction causing my boots to give way beneath me. I slam into the earth and career down the hill. What little control I have over the slope, I give away in a desperate bid to roll into the car’s shadow and out of the light. I don’t have time to right myself as I’m dragged chaotically down towards the valley, and cast over the edge once more.

The base of the valley flashes into view mere seconds before my body slams into it. The air is ripped out of my lungs, my pained cry forming a visible plume of steam that dissipates into the cold night air. I lay on my side, cradling the walkie talkie in my hands. At the very least, I’d managed to keep a hold of it.

The torch dances erratically around my position. I pick myself up and drag my body the last few metres, collapsing against the wall as torch beam lights up the ground in front of me. As I raise the radio, I realise my hands are violently shaking. I don’t think I’ve ever been as close to death as when that bullet passed by me, and although the noise itself died quickly, it’s horrific implications echo in my skull. Bluejay shot Rob as a bargaining chip, to drag us out of the Wrangler. It was a show of force. A power play. The bullet that she just fired in my direction had no nuance, no pretence, no objective other than its primary function.

Bluejay’s prepared to kill me, which means she’s prepared to kill any of us. I raise the transceiver, and switch through the channels until I find Rob’s frequency.

AS: This is Bristol to Lilith. Bristol to Lilith. Do you copy?

The radio crackles as I release the button. I wait twenty interminable seconds for Lilith to respond. She doesn’t.

AS: This is Bristol to Lilith, can you hear me?

This time I let a minute pass. Still nothing. Everything I’ve been struggling for since I jumped into the valley has come up against a wall of silence. I feel a swell of frustration inside me.

It isn’t fair.

AS: Jen? Jen… are you there?

Another minute goes by. I sit in silence the whole time, watching as the radio I risked my life to collect transforms into a useless hunk of plastic. After a while I loosen my grip and let it drop into the wet soil.

I bring my legs up to my body, wrap my arms around them, and rest my head against my knees. In a moment of rest, my breathing becomes shallow. A set of fresh tears well up behind my eyes, spilling out down my face. The rain falls around me as I quietly cry, sitting in the middle of a dark forest, muddied, injured, and alone.

I’m ripped out of my melancholy as the rain is blasted in every conceivable direction, whipping against my face, and splattering against the rock with incredible force. The air is whipped into a furious maelstrom, and a familiar, booming sound crashes through the ether.

VOICE: I’ve watched you struggle.

As soon as it arrives the voice is gone. The wind quiets down and the rain begins to drop vertically once again.

AS: Hello?! Hello?! Who is that?

The air is still, absent of everything but the rain. I wipe the tears from my face as I call out to the air.

AS: Can you help me? Please can you... just…

The voice has disappeared, and I suspect I won’t be hearing it again any time soon. Perhaps it just wants me to know that it’s watching. One thing is certain, if the voice is attempting to bring me comfort, or make me feel less alone, then its methods are horribly misguided.

LILITH (VO): Alice are you there?

My eyes fixate on the crackling radio.

LILITH (VO): Alice are you still there? I’m sorry I couldn’t…

AS: Jen! Jen, are you ok? Are you safe?

LILITH (VO): Yeah I’m ok, I thought you were… what happened to you?

AS: I uh… I jumped down the hill, got Bluejay’s walkie, she shot at me… how’ve you been?

LILITH (V.O): She’s gone fucking crazy. I made it to a clearing in the woods. It’s straight on from the car, or at least I hope it is. I still haven’t seen that… that thing anywhere.

AS: Well, it’s a big forest. Maybe it’s gone. Can you stay near the clearing?

LILITH (V.O): Yeah I can keep hidden nearby. What are you gonna do?

AS: I’m going to make my way to you and we’re going to get Bluejay away from the Wrangler.

LILITH (V.O): How?

AS: I’m still working on that. I’m about half an hour away. Keep your volume down but stay in touch alright?

LILITH (V.O): Yeah. Ok… ok will do. I’m glad you’re alright Alice.

AS: Yeah, you too Jen.

I fasten the radio to my waistband. My body still aches from the fall, blood dripping slowly from my hand, and my fingers are almost numb from the cold. Yet hearing Lilith’s voice on the other end of the radio has brought back something I lost in the valley. A sense of resolve that jumpstarts my tired muscles, pushes me to my feet and sets me off to rejoin road.

I’m still stuck in the middle of a dark forest, I’m still muddied, bloodied, and injured, but I’m no longer alone.

It isn’t long before my boots hit asphalt. I follow the road, sticking to the tree line as I work my way back up the hill. I’m reluctant to place myself within sight of the Wrangler, where Bluejay will almost certainly be camped out and waiting. Unfortunately, it’s the only point of reference in an otherwise unknowable forest, the only location from where Lilith’s location can be divined.

Once the road levels out, I take the precaution of heading deeper into the trees. The road is almost impossible to see now, but I’ll need the cover if Bluejay is still on the lookout. Even though I’m only a few metres deep, the woods fill me with a palpable sense of unease. Every shadow feels predatory, every twig that snaps under my foot sounds like the crack of a whip.

When the Wrangler comes into view, Bluejay’s nowhere to be seen. Curiosity getting the better of me, I creep closer to the road, observing the scene as the trees thin out. The place is deserted, with neither Bluejay or Rob anywhere to be seen. I have no idea what could have forced her to move him. Perhaps he managed to get away.

Something feels wrong.

Creeping up to the Wrangler, I find the passenger side window broken, a thousand splinters of glass spilled across the ground, trodden into the mud. The glovebox has been left open, the boxes of ammunition either emptied or removed. The next thing I notice makes my blood run cold, and forces me to curse my own stupidity.

The light on the CB radio is on.

When I’d reached the bottom of the hill. I’d correctly calculated the number of active radios, arriving at the conclusion that only me and Lilith would be able to communicate. Technically I’d been right, we were the only two who could talk, but that didn’t mean we were the only ones who could listen. I’d forgotten that the CB radio in Rob’s car had its own independent battery, and in-built speakers. Most importantly, he’d been using it throughout the trip to broadcast and receive across all our frequencies.

I switch the frequency of the walkie to a random channel, lift the receiver to my mouth and hold the talk button.

AS: Bristol to all cars.

My voice crackles out of the CB radio. Bluejay must have known I was going to contact Lilith, and she’d broken into the Wrangler to spy on the conversation. I can’t believe I didn’t think about it before now.

I switch the radio back to Lilith’s frequency.

AS: Lilith you need to get moving. Bluejay heard us. She’s not listening now but she knows I’m meeting you near the clearing. Get yourself back here ok? Lilith can you hear me?

BLUEJAY (V.O): Bring me my fucking key Alice.

My heart sinks. Now it makes sense why Bluejay wasn’t guarding the Wrangler. She’d eavesdropped onto my conversation and, instead of waiting for me to get back up the hill, she’d gone after Lilith. Despite all my efforts, all my good intentions, I led Bluejay right to her.

AS: Bluejay, where’s Lilith?

BLUEJAY (V.O): She’s here.

I hear a refrain of quiet sobbing in the background of the call, I can hear Lilith meekly calling my name.

AS: Ok… ok let me speak to her.

BLUEJAY (V.O): Hah what?! No no. No you’re not going to trick me again, Alice. You don’t get to confer. You get to bring me the key to my fucking car, and then you get to walk yourselves back home. Now what about that do you need to fucking discuss?

AS: Bluejay this is ins… we’re not your enemy Denise ok? Please… please you have to believe me-

BLUEJAY: You think I’ll ever believe a fucking word you say?! Bring me my fucking keys and if you pull ANY more tricks I will put a bullet in your fucking skull. Now, do you believe that?

She waits patiently for my answer. I suddenly feel like we’ve entered an entirely new realm. Bluejay has the upper hand, and under the threat of fierce, unthinkable consequence we’ve become the subjects of her domain. Reason, diplomacy, and sanity no longer hold sway over proceedings. As long as she has Lilith remains at the end of that rifle, I’m beholden to her madness.

AS: Fine. Ok. I’m on my way.

BLUEJAY (V.O): Good. You need to remember Alice, I didn’t want any of this. You brought ME here.

Bluejay lets go of the button, returning me to a familiar silence. If I keep the keys from her, Lilith will be at her mercy, and although Bluejay can’t really afford to kill her bargaining chip, I have no doubt she’ll be willing to hurt her as much as she needs in order to force my compliance. If I let her take the Wrangler, however, we’re both dead anyway.

I take a moment to think through my options. It doesn’t take long. There aren’t that many left.

My journey through the forest is uncomfortable, and rings with an unsettling finality. Like a guilty child heading towards an unavoidable reckoning, I’m overcome by a pervasive dread which builds with every shuffling step. I do my best to keep the Wrangler behind me, carving a straight line through the woods. All in all, it takes less than five minues before the clearing opens up ahead of me.

Bluejay is planted in the very centre of a large glade, leaving too much exposed ground in every direction for me to even contemplate an ambush. Rob’s torch lies at her feet, as she keeps both her hands firmly wrapped around the rifle. Lilith kneels beside her, the barrel of the gun placed against her temple, her tearstained face contorted by a mixture of despair and vitriolic anger. Her hands rest against her lap, her wrists bound by same brand of cable ties I’d used to restrain Bonnie. I can imagine Bluejay bristled with poetic justice when she ordered Lilith to fasten the band around her wrists.

They both see me as soon as I step out of the trees.

BLUEJAY: You’re late.

AS: I got turned around. Lilith are you ok?

BLUEJAY: Stop walking. Stop walking!

Bluejay grips the rifle more tightly, sending me an unignorable message. She’s keeping me at a good distance. She knows it takes her a second or two to reload the rifle, and she wants me far enough back to allow time for at least two consecutive shots. Everything she does, every action she takes, demonstrates that she’s preparing to act swiftly against us, should anything untoward take place.

AS: Lilith, are you ok?

LILITH: I’m… I’m ok. I’m ok.

BLUEJAY: Hand over the keys, Alice.

AS: Bluejay, take her back with you. Please. You don't have to let her… you can drop her off at a police station as soon as you’re home. But just… take her home.

BLUEJAY: Hand me the fucking keys.

AS:... Fine. I have them in my bag let me-

BLUEJAY: Hey HEY! What are you doing.

Bluejay snaps at me as I reach into my bag, pointedly jabbing the rifle against Lilith. Lilith cries with distress as the barrel repeatedly prods her temple. I take my hand out of my bag, and slip it slowly from my shoulder. Every move I make is being considered a potential act of subterfuge.

AS: Fine. Fine. Here.

I swing my bag in a slow arc and throw it over to Bluejay, it lands in the wet dirt about a meter in front of her.

BLUEJAY: That's better.

Bluejay steps forward, momentarily letting the gun’s barrel slip from Lilith temple. She quickly bends down and places the bag over her shoulder, reaching in, extracting the key to the Wrangler and placing it in her jacket pocket. In the fleeting seconds of distraction, I watch Lilith raise her hands high above her head and swing her elbows down to her sides in a single fluid motion.

The zip tie snaps open, and without wasting a second Lilith launches herself at Bluejay, grabbing her waist from behind and trying to force her to the ground. Shocked at the suddenness of it all, but aware that this may be our only chance, I find myself sprinting across the clearing towards the pair of them.

Bluejay is taken by surprise following Lilith’s assault, but she adapts to the situation quickly. Planting one foot in front to brace her sudden momentum, she stops herself from being brought down. At the same time, she swings the stock of the rifle down to her side, where it meets Lilith’s face with a sickening crack.

BLUEJAY: You fucking bitch!

Lilith is knocked onto her back, dazed and hurt. Without hesitation, Bluejay swings the rifle down and fires a shot into the girl’s stomach.

I find myself trapped in the moment, as if reality itself is stunned by the madness taking place before it, unsure how it will continue on. The sound of the shot thunders through my consciousness, yet at the same time seems distant, otherworldly. I can’t bring myself to speak, my lips uselessly parted as Lilith’s fitful cries resound, uninterrupted, throughout the clearing.

AS: What have you done… what have you-

Bluejay is backing quickly away from Lilith, putting space between the two of us while she struggles to reload. She was right to keep me at a distance early on, she’s given herself more than enough time to drive a second bullet into the chamber, and click the bolt into position.

BLUEJAY: No more tricks Alice.

Before I know it, I’ve broken into a final, desperate sprint, casting wet mud behind me as I dash towards the shelter of the treeline. I can imagine Bluejay levelling the rifle, lowering her eye to the sights.

Another shot echoes through the cold air, flying wide and perishing with a distant thud. As I reach the edge of the clearing, I throw myself behind the thick trunk of the nearest tree. My back presses against the rough bark, as I listen for any movement behind me.

Twigs snap beneath Bluejay’s feet as she advances towards me.

BLUEJAY: You did this to yourselves! You did this with your lies and your tricks and your fucking games. Well I’m not FUCKING playing any more!

A shot grazes the tree, ricocheting off into the woods, I can hear her beginning to strafe around my position, poised and ready to fire as soon as she gets an angle.

BLUEJAY: You kept lying right until the end. Everything you’ve done, everything you are, you fucking monster! I will put a bullet in your skull and I won’t feel a fucking thing!!

From the moment she’d first opened her mouth, spilling her bitter, dogmatic cynicism into our group, I’d been waiting for Bluejay to realise she was wrong. Every so often, in a quiet moment, I’d catch myself fantasizing about the stark and esoteric phenomenon that would stop her tongue and force her to accept the truth. I realise now there was never going to be such a moment, that nothing lies beyond her powers of self-delusion. She was lost to us, lost to the road; a twisted woman, driven mad by her own rationality.

My hand slips into my pocket.

AS: You know what Bluejay. I believe you.

The next thing I hear is a faint, nostalgic ring tone, a sudden, deafening bang.

In the brief time I was afforded, following my tense call with Bluejay, I had taken one of Rob’s knives to the block of C4, cutting away almost everything around the blasting cap. The block was less than a pound in weight when I’d slipped it into a compartment of my satchel and buttoned it up. When Bluejay had asked for the key, I’d made sure to reach into my bag enthusiastically, I had a feeling she’d see my eagerness as a potential trap, allowing me a chance to throw her the satchel.

She didn’t trust anything I did, and it had made her predictable.

I step out from behind the tree and look towards Bluejay, lying broken on the forest ground, a large section of her abdomen removed by the blast, her arm, shoulder, and upper thigh virtually non-existent. She struggles to breathe as blood fills her air way.

BLUEJAY: I was ri… I was-

I turn away from her, and run towards Lilith. I drop to my knees beside her, grasping one of her hands. She grips my fingers weakly, her eyes are starting to drift shut, opening again for briefer and briefer intervals.

AS: Hey Jen…

LILITH: H… Hey Alice.

She speaks softly, her words hardly making it through the intense ringing in my ears.

AS: Try to stay awake Jen. You’re going to be alright ok? We’ll stop the bleeding and we’ll get you patched up… back at the Wrangler. We’ve got Roswell… in the spring. Once you’re better we’ll go there together ok? Jen? Jen…

When she manages to open her eyes once more, the look she gives me is kind, and heartbreakingly knowing. I can’t help but think back to our time on the cliffside, overlooking the vast ocean of fields. She’d asked how many people had died being told comforting lies. She asked how many of them knew. I can’t speak for anyone else, but as she stares up at me, hushing me with a look, I can tell that she does.

LILITH: I wish we could have been friends for longer.

I can’t bring myself to speak, every word seems too small, too insubstantial, too wholly insignificant to be the last thing she might hear. All I can do is stare into Lilith’s eyes as her faltering breath rises in clouds of pale steam, clouds that grow slowly thinner, and thinner, until nothing rises at all.

I lay her hand on the ground, and let her fingers slip gently from my grasp.

My legs carry me over to Bluejay. My hand reaches into her pocket and lifts out the key to the Wrangler. The metal is irreparably bent, with no hope of fitting back into the ignition. This was the potential outcome which had rendered the C4 as a last resort, only to be used if my life was in imminent danger. It had done its job, I was alive, but I was also stuck in this forest.

I can’t bring myself to care about that right now. My mind is numb to the concept of future suffering, with no space left to contemplate tomorrow’s potential trials. The horrors of the present are hard enough to face, my mind eclipsed by more darkness than I can process. The only glimmering shred of solace I can muster, comes from the wishful belief that I’ve now seen all the terrors this night has to offer.

As I turn towards the Wrangler, I find myself proven wrong once again.

I stand stock still as the child’s crooked form staggers out from the treeline. It looks markedly different, now a patchwork malformation of adolescence, adulthood, and old age. The face however, is still juvenile and filled with an innocent sorrow as it lurches towards Bluejay on uneven feet.

It doesn’t seem to have noticed me. I back away from Bluejay and step slowly towards Lilith, where Rob’s LED torch still lays on ground.

The child reaches Bluejay, observing her silent, mangled frame. Through my dampened hearing I can just make out a heartbroken whine. I continue to back away as it lifts Bluejay’s limp arm, shaking it wildly as if attempting to imbue it with some semblance of animation.

Frustrated tears dripping freely from its chin, the child throws Bluejay’s wrist back down against the ground. As it looks away from her broken body, and turns its face to me, I watch as the soft innocent features contract into a scowl of juvenile rage, signifying the inceptive throes of a tantrum that could eviscerate anything in its path.

In the last few seconds of calm, I feel my boot brush up against the torch. Bending slowly, keeping my eyes on the child for as long as I can, I reach down with my right hand and lift it from the ground. My hopes that I wouldn't have to use it are dashed instantly. The child drops onto its hands and legs, letting out a tortured, furious scream, and races towards me with staggering velocity.

I dodge out of the way at the last possible moment, hitting the soft dirt as the child skitters to a stop behind me. In the time it takes to turn itself around, I’ve already switched on the torch.

Once again, the child is hit by a powerful beam of light. It's body lurches and spasms, its skin pulling and stretching over elongated bones. Crying out in pain, its voice deepening with every passing second, the disjointed figure dashes in my direction, clasping my right arm in its hands and slamming me down onto the ground.

The torch swings wildly as the creature climbs on top of me, tearing the fabric from my right sleeve, digging its nails into the skin just above my elbow. It doesn’t stop at the skin. I feel the hot, electric agony of scraped nerve endings, hear the sickening snap of breaking bone. Before I lose my chance forever, I throw the torch weakly from my right hand, and catch it in my left, pressing the beam directly into the child’s face.

It screams a scream of decades. The child’s eyes roll back into its head, overpowered by the brutal onslaught the light has wrought. I look on as its face melts and flickers through adolescence, through adulthood and middle age. The tortured scream grows hoarse and weak as its skin wrinkles and sags, rushing beyond human years into an untouched realm of decrepitude. Eventually its eyes glaze over, and its once powerful scream becomes nothing more than a grating rattle. I let the pitiful, lifeless creature fall to the ground beside me as I roll myself onto my knees.

I stumble along the ground towards Bluejay, falling repeatedly, a stream of red soaking into the soil behind me. Once I reach her, I use my left hand to unfasten the rifle’s leather shoulder strap. I clumsily form the strap into a loop, passing it beneath my right shoulder. My head feels light, struggling to maintain focus. I grab a stick from the ground and place it through the knot of the loop, using my teeth to draw the knot securely closed around it. My left hand twists the stick over and over again, each turn tightening the leather strap until it bites into my skin.

The bleeding lessens, but not nearly enough.

Picking up my tired frame, barely able to keep myself upright, I place one foot painstakingly in front of the other, struggling over the damp ground, out of the clearing, and into the trees.

I need to get back to the Wrangler.

I can feel everything starting to fade, even the ringing in my ears is dulled, my vision blurry. I lock the stick under my armpit, freeing up my left hand to brace me as I start to stumble against the trees. The more I lose of my faculties, the less capable I am of perceiving their decline, but I know they’re slipping away all too quickly.

As I struggle further through the woods, a figure steps out from the trees, stopping me in my tracks. I sway on my feet, as I try to identify what I’m seeing, the very act of standing now requiring constant, dogged attention.

I have never seen the figure before. It seems to be composed of a constantly shifting maelstrom of crackling monochromatic sparks. An electric cloud of black, white, and grey, formed into a humanoid shape. As soon as it sees me, the humanoid creature falls backwards, scrabbling away from me across the ground, more terrified of me than I am of him.

I don’t know if the entity is malignant or benign, but in my current state, my mind softly screaming against the dying light, I can’t make the distinction. As it backs up against a mound of earth, I try to ask it for help. The requisite words have already been lost to the advancing fog, and all I can do is reach out my hand towards him. Attempting to entreat some spark of humanity within the fizzling, shifting figure.

In response to my vague plea, the entity scampers off into the forest, tripping over itself before disappearing from view. As I watch it leave, a single dim beacon ignites in the far corners of my swiftly vanishing mind. A single light, whose implications kick-start my fading reason, and force me on through the forest.

I can see the Wrangler through the trees. It’s close by, yet at the same time, impossibly far away.

There’s something wrong with my eyes. The car shifts in and out of focus, but every time it comes back in view the image is less sharp, until it exists as a pulsing dark green blur against a dull, slowly swaying backdrop.

My boot’s kick up against one another, a final stumble that brings me down to earth. When I try to get up again, I find that I’m completely unable. There’s no strength left in my body, and no amount of resolve can raise me back to my feet.

Though it may be my imagination, I think I can hear a steady rustling through the undergrowth, as if something were making its way towards me. Soon after my senses start to die away, leaving me with nothing more than the cold and the silence for company.

The dim light shines until the end however, the single strand of revelation, a solitary thought that I attempt to hold aloft from the all-consuming fog.

It’s a memory, a vague recollection from my first interview with Rob J. Guthard.

It was the day we met. The day he told me about his long and meandering life, Japan, Hiroji, Aokigahara, and the strange phenomenon he saw which sparked his obsession with the supernatural. The singular event that started him down the road to the Left/Right Game, that led this excursion… the moment that brought us here.

ROB (V.O): It walked up to me through the trees. Looked like static you see on a TV screen but it had a human shape almost.

AS (V.O): Almost?

ROB (V.O): It was missing an arm.

Outlander Epi 3.04 Recap

Of Lost Things you think quite a bit about.

Toni Graphia wrote this highly anticipated episode - it's the favourite thus far of the original author, Diana Gabaldon.  Again, this season is cramming a lot of details from the book and the additions and deletions are mostly good (don't get me started on Cheating Frank). It's bothering me a little that it jumps between times so often and making me OCD with my screencaps. Hold on tight. We are going on a bumpy ride.

Scotland 1968. Claire is still in Inverness hunting down her highland ginger biscuit like a Wight looking for Jon Snow.  Bree and Roger are using it as a chance to flirt at every opportunity *ah young love.... as finding your loved one’s secret loved one is like adopting a puppy together. It takes commitment.

Fiona is not letting Bree get in the way of her giving Roger a coronary and stops by the researchers, to nourish them with her baked goods.  We all want a Fiona Roger, you ungrateful oaf.

Claire pops up from the table shouting ‘Ginger Bingo’ (or is that 'Gingo'?) and shows them a list of Prisoner names from Ardsmuir. They are off again but it soon becomes a dead end.  They head to Edinburgh for a last laugh, take the time to stir up the locals with their outrageous womanhood etc & to look at some mouldy ship logs as prisoners were usually transported to the Colonies. They should have asked Jamie's Ardsmuir cell mate for help.

 It’s 1756 in Helwater, England. Jamie is living tough with a new name (Alex McKenzie) and with the Dunsaneys.  He’s sulking because they won’t let him grow his hair longer than his shoulders but that mop will not be ruled. Lord Dunsaney has a quick word on their arrival back from a holiday in Italy, Molto Benne! He knows who Big Red is and suggests keeping it from his wife.  I think it’s a ploy to keep the Hot Scot away from his wife for other reasons. *wink wink nudge

Roger has faked a broken down car just so he can see what other skills Bree has up her sleeve.  After some Scottish boy noises, Bree takes over the mechanic-ing and spots the trouble straight away.  Silly boy look, Rog. It was that sneaky distributor cap going all loose and now so was Roger’s feelings. Awwww. So romantic.

Geneva Dunsaney wakes and the devil says ‘Oh crap, she’s up’ as does half the Helwater staff. The stablehands draw short-straws to see which poor sod will be her ‘escort’ during her leisurely gallop in the woods.  Jamie cops abuse from her and dutifully bites his tongue.  Geneva’s exit is her sister Isobel’s cue to arrive just as Jamie is fantasising about kicking Geneva’s arse.  She’d like a ticket to that event and front row please.  Isobel is crushing on Jamie’s Chess buddy, Lord John Grey and naturally finds it appropriate to share this with Jamie.  She is only human. Jamie is a lady whisperer.

Claire gets a call from her surgeon buddy Joe Abernethy.  He’s sick of doing her workload and asks when she’ll be back in Boston instead of flunking around Scotland’s dusty Archives.  Claire isn’t sure but encourages Joe to operate on her fave patient as a treat.

Helwater, 1757.  The stablehands have all rallied and found Geneva a husband.  They party for days.  Mr Groom-to-be is that old that Geneva is stoicly trying not to vomit as he kisses her hand in farewell. They are to be married soon. Ick.

Geneva now has Jamie in her sights.  She's like a sailor looking for land after being at sea for 27 months.  She forces him to escort her on her daily horse ride and quickly puts the 'Bitch' in 'Bitch'.  Jamie trieds to stand his ground but dang, she looks like Claire, no? Plus, lady whisperer.....  Geneva is a brat and races her horse ahead, all the while laughing like a woman with a screw loose. Shortly after, Jamie hears her scream.  He finds her unconscience on the ground and goes to help.  He picks her up and she becomes animated again, laughing at her having tricked him.  Disgusted, Big, Grumpy Red promptly dumps her face first, into a big slushy mud puddle and we all cheer like it’s a Queensland win at State of Origin. Geneva is a bit nuts though and embraces her impromptu mud mask.  Chick logic. Life gives you lemons, you make a facial out of it, right, Ladies?

The handsomest redcoat in history, Lord John Grey, is visiting from London and we find them playing Chess in the Helwater gardens with Jamie.  Who knew chess was an outdoor sport? Lord John swells with pride that Jamie’s report card is in and it’s glowing.  Yayyy!  *high fives.  They are soon interrupted by Isobel, Hal (John's big bro), Hal’s ego and Geneva aka Mega Beyotch.  After introductions are made, it’s clear to Gen-baby that Hal knows Alex McKenzie and not just from his horsey-skills. She's a moth to the flame that one.  Of course it doesn't help when Alex aka Jamie aka can't this guy settle on one name, doesn't stop looking at his feet. Suspicious factor 50+.

Just a few days before the big nuptuals take place Geneva corners Alex and threatens to reveal his true identity to her mother, ensuring Jamie gets another stretch in HMS Ratfarm.  To keep his secret, she demands he takes her maiden-head so that Lord Crusty McEllesmere doesn’t have that privilege.  He tries to reason with her but she’s seen his backside in breeks and well Duh. 

Jamie’s sex class has attracted one eager student.  Professor Tight Breeks arrives and without hesitation performs Magic Mike’s striptease with the flair of a dead frog. That bum though is fiiiiiine!  He tries to turn her off the job at hand *cough by showing her his back scars but she’s impervious.  She’s seen that fuzzy butt peach for real and there is no letting this opportunity go.  He’s patient and she’s nervous and for the first time we see her vulnerable side and her nipples.  Jamie softens to her (no not that kind, he’s Scottish af) and starts to enjoy himself too.  Good class, sir. Good class. I reckon that's the best wedding gift she'll get.

Condoms didn’t exist in 1757 so when Geneva next visits Helwater about 7 months into her marriage, it’s very obvious that the father of her bulging waistline is Jamie.  He nearly has a conniption at the sight of her but keeps his cool because he’s Fraser. Jamie Fraser. Carry on, old chap.

Roger and Bree, kissing in a tree manse, K>I>S>S>I>N>G 

Bree & Roger are discussing giving up the search for Jamie.  Roger says feelings and so Bree grabs Professor Brown-Beard and smacks one on him. *Woot woot. He doesn’t want her to go back to Boston. #Broger

Nothings ever rosy for long in TV land and we find ourselves scurrying with Jamie to Ellesmere Estate.  There is some big emergency with Geneva.  She has gone into labour and all is not well. So of course a stable dude is just what she needs.  When they arrive, Lord Crusty McTightjocks has started chucking his toys out of the cot.  He has finally realised that Geneva was not a virgin when they married. Seriously? It took him a whole pregnancy to work out he’d forgotten to tap that?  *smacks forehead  Along with his toys, he threatens to kill the baby and Jamie arrives just in time to save the day by shooting Ellesmere, D.E.I.D.  Noone knows how the baby survived the fall to the floor because we all just cried as Jamie was seeing his son for the first time.  Awwww.  Blood gushing nearby, nope, don't see it.  Awwww, baby blinked at daddy.

The coroner found that Ellesmere died from severe arse-holeness and we all moved on.  Well, he really ruled it as misadventure, due to stress.  The stress of receiving a bullet at high speed probably. Just guessing.  Lady Dunsaney thinks Jamie is pretty HAWT now.  He saved her grandson and so he’s earned his ticket back to Sunny Scotland. Jamie chooses to stay though as he's wanting to see how this fathering business turns out.  He tells Mrs D that Scotland sux right now so he’s going to hang aboot in H-water for a bit longer, thanks.  PS>When’s payday?

Teaching your secret son to ride a horse like a boss is Jamie’s new hobby.  Wee Willie is starting to resemble his daddy though and even though he lacks the flaming red hair, it’s the cock of his head and the way he rolls his R’s that is starting to cause suspicion.  Even the neighbours are onto it.  Jamie realises it’s time to go before people put two and two together so Sayonara English bitches.

Lord John arrives at Helwater just as Jamie is about to leave.  Jamie asks him a favour; Would he look after Willie in his absence and in return LJG can have the use of his peachy playground.  When Lord John comes back down to earth from shock, he announces he’s to marry Isobel Dunsaney and raise Willie as his own anyway.  Jamie is pleased that all seems to be working out.  What's with the handshake here?  In the book it was a kiss and I wanted to see that. Tsk.Tsk. At least give the man a big hug....

Willie is distraught at Mac leaving and goes to visit him in his room.  PS. The security and supervision is terrible in this house, it’s a wonder anyone is alive.  He interrupts Jamie lighting Stinking Papist candles and wants to join his fire party.  Jamie explains he’s lighting them to remember all the people he’s missing or has lost, including his Wife.  He gives Wee Willie McCutey a hand-carved snake with his name on it to remember Mac by.  He wants to give Mac something in return so he'll remember Willie too but *sob Big Red will never forget *sob him *sob.

Things get a bit blurry here and tear ducts need to recover.  When it comes to saying goodbye we parallel bounce between times.Bree and Claire are also giving up the search and heading home to Boston while Jamie is leaving Helwater for Lallybroch.  Pause.  Just pause here.  Can't we have two more episodes with wee Willie?  No?  *grunts 

 Can we just have one happy ending ffs?  Is it Monday yet?

The End.

The Martian Chapter 1

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page.

This is a Lesbian edit of The Martian by Andy Weir.

Chapters will be posted every day at 2pm EST.

Google doc version can be found here. The chapter can also be found under the cut. Enjoy!

CHAPTER I

LOG ENTRY: SOL 6

I’m pretty much fucked.

That’s my considered opinion.

Fucked.

Six days in to what should be a greatest two months of my life, and it’s turned in to a nightmare.

I don’t even know who’ll read this. I guess someone will find it eventually. Maybe a hundred years from now.

For the record… I didn’t die on Sol 6. Certainly the rest of the crew thought I did, and I can’t blame them. Maybe there’ll be a day of national mourning for me, and my Wikipedia page will say “Maia Watney is the only human being to have died on Mars.”

And it’ll be right, probably. Cause I’ll surely die here. Just not on Sol 6 when everyone thinks I did.

Let’s see… where do I begin?

The Ares program. Mankind reaching out to Mars to send people to another planet for the very first time and expand the horizons of humanity blah, blah, blah. The Ares 1 crew did their thing and came back heroes. They got the parades and fame and love of the world.

Ares 2 did the same thing, in a different location on Mars. They got a firm handshake and a hot cup of coffee when they got home.

Ares 3. Well. That was my mission. Well, not mine per se. Commander Lewis was in charge. I was just one of her crew. Actually, I was the very lowest ranked member of the crew. I would only be “in command” of the mission if I were the only remaining person.

What do you know? I’m in command.

I wonder if this log will be recovered before the rest of the crew die of old age? I presume they got back to Earth all right. Well, guys, if you’re reading this: It wasn’t your fault. You did what you had to do. In your position I would have done the same thing. I don’t blame you, and I’m glad you survived.

I guess I should explain how Mars missions work, for any layman who may be reading this. We got to earth orbit the normal way, through an ordinary ship to Hermes. All the Ares missions use Hermes to get to and from Mars. It’s really big and cost a lot so NASA only built one.

Once we got to Hermes, four additional unmanned missions brought us fuel and supplies while we prepared for our trip. Once everything was a go, we set out for Mars. But not very fast. Gone are the days of heavy chemical fuel burns and trans-Mars injection orbits.

Hermes is powered by ion engines. They throw Argon out the back of the ship really fast to get a tiny amount of acceleration. The thing is, it doesn't take much reactant mass, so a little Argon (and a nuclear reactor to power things) let us accelerate constantly the whole way there. You'd be amazed at how fast you can get going with a tiny acceleration over a long time.

I could regale you with tales of how we had great fun on the trip, but I won’t. We did have fun, but I don’t feel like reliving it right now. Suffice it to say we got to Mars 124 days later without strangling each other.

From there, we took the MDV (Mars Descent Vehicle) to the surface. The MDV is basically a big can with some light thrusters and parachutes attached. Its sole purpose is to get six humans from Mars orbit to the surface without killing any of them

And now we come to the real trick of Mars exploration: Having all our shit there in advance

A total of 14 unmanned missions deposited everything we would need for surface operations. They tried their best to land all the supply vessels in the same general area, and did a reasonably good job. Supplies aren’t nearly so fragile as humans and can hit the ground really hard. But they tended to bounce around a lot.

Naturally, they didn’t send us to Mars until they’d confirmed all the supplies had made it to the surface and their containers weren’t breached. Start to finish, including supply missions, a Mars mission takes about 3 years. In fact, there were Ares 3 supplies en route to Mars while the Ares 2 crew were on their way home.

The most important piece of the advance supplies, of course, was the MAV. The “Mars Ascent Vehicle.” That was how we would get back to Hermes after surface operations were complete. The MAV was softlanded (as opposed to the balloon bounce-fest the other supplies had). Of course, it was in constant communication with Houston, and if there were any problems with it, we would pass by Mars and go back to Earth without ever landing.

The MAV is pretty cool. Turns out, through a neat set of chemical reactions with the Martian atmosphere, for every kilogram of hydrogen you bring to Mars, you can make 13 kilograms of fuel. It’s a slow process, though. It takes 24 months to fill the tank. That’s why they sent it long before we got here.

You can imagine how disappointed I was when I discovered the MAV was gone

It was a ridiculous sequence of events that led to me almost dying. Then an even more ridiculous sequence that led to me surviving.

The mission is designed to handle sandstorm gusts up to 150 km/hr. So Houston got understandably nervous when we got whacked with 175 km/hr winds. We all got in our suits and huddled in the middle of the Hab, just in case it lost pressure. But the Hab wasn’t the problem.

The MAV is a spaceship. It has a lot of delicate parts. It can put up with storms to a certain extent but it can’t just get sandblasted forever. After an hour and a half of sustained wind, NASA gave the order to abort. Nobody wanted to stop a month-long mission after only six days but if the MAV took any more punishment we’d all get stranded down here.

We had to go out in the storm to get from the Hab to the MAV. That was going to be risky, but what choice did we have?

Everyone made it but me.

Our main communications dish, which relayed signals from the Hab to Hermes, acted like a parachute, getting torn from its foundation and carried with the torrent. Along the way, it crashed through the reception antenna array. Then one of those long thin antennae slammed into me end first. It tore through my suit like a bullet through butter and I felt the worst pain of my life as it ripped open my side. I vaguely remember suddenly having the wind knocked out of me (pulled out of me, really) and my ears popping painfully as the pressure of my suit escaped.

The last thing I remember was seeing Johanssen hopelessly reaching out toward me.

I awoke to the oxygen alarm in my suit. A steady, obnoxious beeping that eventually roused me from a deep and profound desire to just fucking die.

The storm had abated; I was face down, almost totally buried in sand. As I groggily came to, I wondered why I wasn’t more dead.

The antenna had enough force to punch through the suit and my side, but then it got stopped by my pelvis. So there was only one hole in the suit (and a hole in me, of course).

I had been knocked back quite a ways and rolled down a steep hill. Somehow I landed face down, which forced the antenna to a strongly oblique angle that put a lot of torque on the hole in the suit. It made a weak seal.

Then, the copious blood from my wound trickled down toward the hole. As the blood reached the site of the breach, the water in it quickly evaporated from the airflow and low pressure, leaving only a gunky residue behind. More blood came in behind it and was also reduced to gunk. Eventually, the blood sealed the gaps around the hole and reduced the leak to something the suit could counteract

The suit did its job admirably. Seeing the drop in pressure, it constantly flooded itself with air from my nitrogen tank to equalize. Once the leak became manageable, it only had to trickle new air in slowly the relieve the air lost.

After a while, the CO2 (carbon dioxide) absorbers in the suit were expended. That’s really the limiting factor to life support. Not the amount of oxygen you bring with you, but the amount of CO2 you can remove. In the Hab, we had the Oxygenator, a large piece of equipment that could break CO2 apart and give the oxygen back. But the spacesuits had to be portable, so they used a simple chemical absorption process with expendable filters. I’d been asleep long enough that my filters were useless.

The suit saw this problem and moved in to an emergency mode the engineers call “bloodletting”. Having no way to separate out the CO2, the suit deliberately vented air to the Martian atmosphere, then back-filled with nitrogen. Between the breach and the bloodletting, it quickly ran out of nitrogen. All it had left was my oxygen tank.

So it did the only thing it could to keep me alive. It started backfilling with pure oxygen. I now risked dying from oxygen toxicity, as the excessively high amount of oxygen threatened to burn up my nervous system, lungs, and eyes. An ironic death for someone with a leaky space suit: too much oxygen

Every step of the way would have had beeping alarms, alerts, and warnings. But it was the high-oxygen warning that woke me.

The sheer volume of training for a space mission is astounding. I spent a week back on Earth practicing emergency space suit drills. I knew what to do.

The sheer volume of training for a space mission is astounding. I spent a week back on Earth practicing emergency space suit drills. I knew what to do.

Carefully reaching to the side of my helmet, I got the breach kit. It’s nothing more than a funnel with a valve at the small end, and an unbelievably sticky resin on the wide end. The idea is you have the valve open and stick the wide end over a hole. The air can escape through the valve, so it doesn’t interfere with the resin making a good seal. Then you close the valve and you’ve sealed the breach.

The tricky part was getting the antenna out of the way. I pulled it out as fast as I could, wincing as the sudden pressure drop dizzied me and made the wound in my side scream in agony.

I got the breach kit over the hole and sealed it. It held. The suit backfilled the missing air with yet more oxygen. Checking my arm readouts, I saw the suit was now at 85% oxygen. For reference, Earth’s atmosphere is about 21%. I’d be ok, so long as I didn’t spend too much time like that.

I stumbled up the hill back toward the Hab. As I crested the rise, I saw something that made me very happy and something that made me very sad: The Hab was in-tact (yay!) and the MAV was gone (boo!).

Right that moment I knew I was screwed. But I didn’t want to just die out on the surface. I limped back to the Hab and fumbled my way in to an airlock. As soon as it equalized, I threw off my helmet.

Entering the Hab, I doffed the suit and got my first good look at the injury. It would need stitches. Fortunately, all of us had been trained in basic medical procedures, and the Hab had excellent medical supplies. A quick shot of local anesthetic, irrigate the wound, 9 stitches and I was done. I’d be taking antibiotics for a couple of weeks, but other than that I’d be fine.

I knew it was hopeless, but I tried firing up the communication array. No signal, of course. The primary satellite dish had broken off, remember? And it took the reception antennae with it. The Hab had secondary and tertiary communication systems, but they were both just for talking to the MAV, which would use its much more powerful systems to relay to Hermes. Thing is, that only works if the MAV is still around.

I had no way to talk to Hermes. In time, I could locate the dish out on the surface, but it would take weeks for me to rig up any repairs, and that would be too late. In an abort, Hermes would leave orbit within 24 hours. The orbital dynamics made the trip safer and shorter the earlier you left, so why wait for no reason just to make the trip take longer?

Checking out my suit, I saw the antenna had plowed through my biomonitor computer. When on an EVA, all the crew’s suits are networked so we can see each others status. The rest of the crew would have seen the pressure in my suit drop to nearly 0, followed immediately by my biosigns going flat. Add to that I was sent tumbling down a hill with a spear through me in the middle of a sandstorm… yeah. They thought I was dead. How could they not?

They may have even had a brief discussion about recovering my body, but regulations were clear. In the event a crewman died on Mars, they stayed on Mars. Leaving their body behind reduced weight for the MAV on the trip back. That meant more disposable fuel and a larger margin of error for the return thrust. No point in giving that up for sentimentality.

So that’s the situation. I’m stranded on Mars. I have no way to communicate with Hermes or Earth. Everyone thinks I’m dead. I’m in a Hab designed to last 31 days.

If the Oxygenator breaks down, I’ll suffocate. If the Water Reclaimer breaks down, I’ll die of thirst. If the Hab breaches, I’ll just kind of explode. If none of those things happen, I’ll eventually run out of food and starve to death.

So yeah. I’m fucked.

When They Go Low, We Go High*

Movies are a drug for me, and there’s a certain type of movie that delivers a high that simply can’t be beaten. They don’t come around too often, but when they do, it’s like a blast of pleasure to the left and right hemispheres of my brain simultaneously.

Take a moment and imagine there are really two kinds of movies. Low film and high film. Low films are, first and foremost, designed to entertain. That doesn’t mean they’re disreputable or of poor quality, though they can be. Transformers and Suicide Squad are low films that are also eau de garbage. Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Avengers are low films that do what they do with skill and intelligence. These movies give you an endorphin rush, and when they’re done right, they don’t just send you out of the theater with a bounce in your step. Years later, you continue to cherish them.

High films, on the other hand, are designed to make a statement. Artistically, politically, morally, they have something to say. Keep in mind that just because it’s a high film, it’s not necessarily a good film. Schindler’s List and United 93 are masterpieces. Crash is terrible and Driving Miss Daisy is fluffy nonsense.

When you get that perfect merger of high and low film? It’s magic. Black Panther is about the responsibility of power, and about a guy in a cat suit whipping 18 kinds of ass. Goodfellas is about how the lack of honor among thieves trumps the honor of the family, and about Joe Pesci behaving like an entertaining psychopath. Widows is one of those movies, and in this Thanksgiving season, I feel thankful to have it.

Veronica (Viola Davis) lives in a sleek apartment in Chicago’s Gold Coast. Her life is comfortable, and that’s because her husband Harry (Liam Neeson) is a talented thief. Talent, like luck, eventually runs out, and that’s also true for Harry. Along with his crew comprised of Carlos (Manuel Garcia-Rulfo), Florek (Jon Bernthal), and Jimmy (Coburn Goss), he’s killed in a hail of police bullets when a heist turns disastrously wrong.

Disaster has a way of coming back around, and Veronica finds that out the hard way. You see, Harry stole $2 million from crime lord Jamal Manning (Brian Tyree Henry). Jamal needs that money to go semi-legit and finance a campaign to be the alderman of Chicago’s 18th ward. It’s a tight race, considering Tom Mulligan (Robert Duvall) has been holding the seat forever, and his Kennedyesque son Jack (Colin Farrell) is viewed as next in line.

So what’s Jamal’s plan? Simple, he threatens Veronica and her adorable Westie,** and tells her she has one month to pay back her departed husband’s $2 million debt. I know, it’s a dumb plan, but you try telling a violent gangster he has a stupid plan and see how far you get. At this point, Veronica needs help. She’s not the only one in a bind.

Carlos’ widow Linda (Michelle Rodriguez) put her heart into a shop and lost it due to Carlos’ gambling debts. Jimmy’s widow Amanda (Carrie Coon) has a four-month-old baby to look after. Flore’s widow Alice (Elizabeth Debicki)  has nothing except for a mother (Jacki Weaver) nudging her into a career in high-class prostitution. When Veronica finds her dead husband’s notebook, she finds detailed plans for his next job and a $5 million payday. Each of these women now has a choice to make.

I feel so lucky that this movie exists in this particular incarnation. We’re lucky because Steve McQueen, the Academy Award-winning filmmaker of 12 Years a Slave is directing. In previous films, McQueen has examined the resiliency of people and how they deal with body horror caused by slavery, sex addiction, or gnawing hunger. He’s still examining resiliency, but this time it’s about how women survive the endless abuses caused by men. Alice goes from nursing a black eye given to her by Florek to enduring passive-aggressive comments from a wealthy developer (Lukas Haas). McQueen tells us the abuses of sexism never stop. They ebb and flow, and while the severity changes, the existence of the abuse never does.

McQueen also has a wonderful gift of calling attention to a point without bringing the entire film to a screeching halt. There’s a scene where Jack Mulligan leaves a campaign event. It’s located at a deserted lot in a run-down part of town. In a subtle and breathtaking single shot, we see Jack’s limousine pull away. As it drives, the neighborhood gradually changes, gradually improves. Finally, the limo stops at Jack’s opulent home. In a shot lasting less than a minute that includes dialogue, McQueen makes a devastating point about the effects of gentrification, racism, and power. Oliver Stone only dreams of that kind of subtlety.

Along with McQueen, the screenplay is written by the fiendishly clever Gillian Flynn. You’ve seen her pitch-black sensibilities before in Gone Girl and Sharp Objects, and she excels at twisty-turny, “one damn thing after another” tales. Flynn and McQueen’s script never veers toward being too preachy, and the dialogue hums with energy without overtly calling attention to itself.

The cast is hugely talented, perhaps the best of the year. We have an old pro like Robert Duvall who can take a character that’s a one-note racist and make him compelling. We have Michelle Rodriguez, stuck for years*** playing a tough chick, finally given the chance to flex her dramatic muscles. As Alice, she’s not playing a character type. She’s playing a distinctive person, and doing it very well. We have Elizabeth Debicki as Alice, and watching her gradual shift from victimhood to survivor is thrilling. We have Cynthia Erivo, who stole Bad Times at the El Royale, as a quick-thinking babysitter. I’ll say it again — Erivo needs to be a major star. We have Daniel Kaluuya as Jatemme, Jamal’s brother and chief enforcer. He’s basically playing The Terminator, and nearly every time he’s in a scene with another human being, something terrible is going to happen.

We’re lucky because we have a lead performance from Viola Davis that’s controlled, disciplined, and powerful. She’s got the ability to impart more meaning in a look than many actors can in an entire monologue. I love when actors let us see their characters thinking and making decisions, and we see Victoria emerging from her grief and making choices. I thought that Toni Collette’s operatic performance in Hereditary was Oscar-worthy, as it was a primal howl of pain. Davis’ performance is the polar opposite. Locked-down, subtle, but no less impressive.

Widows is very much a genre crime movie with shifting loyalties and a couple of muscular action sequences. However, it’s not a rah-rah celebration of girl power, a meatheaded action movie, or a dusty ripoff of Quentin Tarantino’s work. It’s a fusion of low and high film that operates with assured craftsmanship and is very much itself. This is one of the best films of the year.

*Michelle Obama might not appreciate this, but at least I’m giving her credit.

**Fun and totally irrelevant factoid — this is the same Westie that was in the outstanding Game Night. Maybe this is the beginning of a new cinematic universe?

***Rodriguez is so much better than The Fast and the Furious films.

from Blog https://ondenver.com/when-they-go-low-we-go-high/