What a cool dude, I hope he isn’t haunted by memories of his dead friend lol

FHJY Spoilers || my live thoughts as I watch episode 9

i got a new job and I felt sick last night so. I'm watching this very late. it has been tough avoiding spoilers but I Have Done So

TTTAKING OVER TEENAGE REBELLION

hiiii one and all!!! hii intrepid heroes!!!!

i have been told stuff happens this episode. I'm so excited

"You're mad we're not doing drugs."

"I think this might be gorgug's worst day of his life."

so much happened last episode

totally healthy adult activity.

VULTURE

THE SPELL-LESS KRISTEN APPLEBEES 😭😭

THE VULTURE DIMENSION

I love the projections

DOMINATE MONSTER NO LONGER EFFECTING RIZ

THE VULTURE KING

I think Brennan is loving being the vulture king

NAT 20 FOR FABIAN

"IT'S THE VULTURE KING YOU HAVE TO KISS HIM!"

"One answer and it's Riz."

"I'm so glad I died on that battlefield."

A crisp 500 dollar bill

I love this so much

This is so silly

THEY'RE HOLDING HANDS

"Hey, I'll kill you, you fucker." "kiss him!"

VULTURES YAY OR NAY?

"Can you bring his parents up here—" "NO."

"Feels like five"

"You wanna be in our crew?"

Kristen is really trying to get her friends to romance the vultures.

"Are you a God of some kind?" "I don't mind man."

This season is just Brennan breaking the PCs

oh good god

MAGIC ITEMS!

"Summons 1d4 vultures, they are not under your command."

no bring us back to the vulture dimension im obsessed with it

fireball

18 damage 😭😭😭

"I'm going to think about that for days."

FIRST STRIKE HITS REAL ONE

"get out of my yard."

(Brennan rolling too many dice.)

the little fireball that could!

THE ROMAN CANDLE YOU SHOT AT THE BIG BAD

THE BALL GAVE FABIAN ADVANTAGE

Concentration lost 🔥🔥🔥

is Ruben only able to give bardic

BRENNAN NAT 20

what are we making dex saves for.

ZERO DEX SAVE. KRISTEN.

"I'm dead from shame."

ADAINE DOWN? NOOOO

29!!

So many dice for Fabian

"Don't worry I got the ones out guys" Emily 😭😭😭

"I'm actually a huge fan."

so now that grix is destroyed does that mean there's no principal?

Ruben's frantically calling for Wanda

"I'm real right?"

"What happened? I was taking a shit."

"Do you have a warrant? Do you have a fucking warrant?"

Adaine is still dead on the ground

THE IDENTIFY SPELL

grix is untampered with

I miss ayda

29 investigation 🔥

GLOWING STINGERS? GROWING RED? LIKE THE SYNOD?

24 points glowing red

Rage connection!!

"Can we get some hot sauce before we leave?"

HE ATE THE VULTURE FOR NOTHING

"Found another glass of water"

Fabian finally getting his kisses in.

Nat 20 history rat check

SEXY RAT

"You know thats triggering for me!"

Rat stores

"There's not a rat world under the school."

Rat World!!!

BabyBojörn

oh god fig gave Fabian a bardic

sexuality inclusivity for cassandra!

aww..... fabian took bardic from fig earlier...

"You are. Cursed."

RIZ NAT 20!!!!

NOOO YOLANDA

Force damage...

Three hours????

ah yes another use of the identity spell!

"You could multi class into wizard!" "Yeah, add it to the fuckin' pile."

AN UNHOLY LAST RITES

NOOO YOLANDA

There's something under the tree?? glyth???

LUCY FROSTBLADE DEAD BODY

I think Fig's bad luck is genuinely effecting Emily too with all these bad rolls 😭😭😭😭

Did.... Did the rat grinders kill Lucy???????

let adaine use the diamonds. finders keepers

divine intervention........

Kristen will have to work so hard to get cassandra back

spies tongue curse???

"Call an adult?"

"You were such a good teacher, I'm sorry I just got a C..." 😭😭

THIS IS SO HEARTBREAKING!!!

LUCY AND YOLANDA'S SOULS HELD HANDS BEFORE GOING TO HEAVEN. ACTUALLY CRYING

BUD CUBBY THE REALEST EVER

FIG NAT 20

level of exhaustion :(

elmville police departments always on fire

"David..."

AGENT CLARK?!?!?!?

did he just take the dirt like a line of drugs?

one becomes a 10 which becomes a 19

*head in hands* "is it okay if I ask you about your case, mom?"

"So I'm unbelievably wealthy. And me and my friends just discovered the site of a double homicide. So....."

Group IV time, or group shock therapy.

Gorgug putting barbarian first

HE'S DOING ARTIFICER SPELLS WHILE RAGING!!!

"We need a word."

Gorgug talking to Porter is so funny

ok. wait this is actually kinda sweet between Porter and Gorgug

"I feel lucky to have you in my class." 😭😭😭😭

MCAT SIGNED!!!

The Last Stand exam?

KRISTEN MIGHT PASS FAIL?

oh god. 4 stress tokens

I wonder if the intrepid heroes are aware of the 5 stress token

"I'm in a lot of school."

Gorgug looking into building a time machine real as hell

Oh my god gorgug is still on the owlbears

"Okay I think I have to lie down."

I'm going to fight the wizard teacher

"I love my life. Everything is perfect."

"... YOU'RE WORKING?"

AELWYN LONELY ARK

10 CATS??

aelwyn and adaine bonding 😭😭

AELWYN IS WORKING FOR KIPPERLILLY COPPERHEAD???

I'M SO EXCITED FOR THE NEXT EPISODE

The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction

In the temperate and tropical regions where it appears that hominids evolved into human beings, the principal food of the species was vegetable. Sixty-five to eighty percent of what human beings ate in those regions in Paleolithic, Neolithic, and prehistoric times was gathered; only in the extreme Arctic was meat the staple food. The mammoth hunters spectacularly occupy the cave wall and the mind, but what we actually did to stay alive and fat was gather seeds, roots, sprouts, shoots, leaves, nuts, berries, fruits, and grains, adding bugs and mollusks and netting or snaring birds, fish, rats, rabbits, and other tuskless small fry to up the protein. And we didn’t even work hard at it — much less hard than peasants slaving in somebody else’s field after agriculture was invented, much less hard than paid workers since civilization was invented. The average prehistoric person could make a nice living in about a fifteen-hour work week.

Fifteen hours a week for subsistence leaves a lot of time for other things. So much time that maybe the restless ones who didn’t have a baby around to enliven their life, or skill in making or cooking or singing, or very interesting thoughts to think, decided to slope off and hunt mammoths. The skillful hunters would come staggering back with a load of meat, a lot of ivory, and a story. It wasn’t the meat that made the difference. It was the story.

It is hard to tell a really gripping tale of how I wrestled a wild-oat seed from its husk, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then I scratched my gnat bites, and Ool said something funny, and we went to the creek and got a drink and watched newts for a while, and then I found another patch of oats.... No, it does not compare, it cannot compete with how I thrust my spear deep into the titanic hairy flank while Oob, impaled on one huge sweeping tusk, writhed screaming, and blood sprouted everywhere in crimson torrents, and Boob was crushed to jelly when the mammoth fell on him as I shot my unerring arrow straight through eye to brain.

That story not only has Action, it has a Hero. Heroes are powerful. Before you know it, the men and women in the wild-oat patch and their kids and the skills of makers and the thoughts of the thoughtful and the songs of the singers are all part of it, have all been pressed into service in the tale of the Hero. But it isn’t their story. It’s his.

When she was planning the book that ended up as Three Guineas, Virginia Woolf wrote a heading in her notebook, “Glossary”; she had thought of reinventing English according to her new plan, in order to tell a different story. One of the entries in this glossary is heroism, defined as “botulism.” And hero, in Woolf’s dictionary, is “bottle.” The hero as bottle, a stringent reevaluation. I now propose the bottle as hero.

Not just the bottle of gin or wine, but bottle in its older sense of container in general, a thing that holds something else.

If you haven’t got something to put it in, food will escape you — even something as uncombative and unresourceful as an oat. You put as many as you can into your stomach while they are handy, that being the primary container; but what about tomorrow morning when you wake up and it’s cold and raining and wouldn’t it be good to have just a few handfuls of oats to chew on and give little Oom to make her shut up, but how do you get more than one stomachful and one handful home? So you get up and go to the damned soggy oat patch in the rain, and wouldn’t it be a good thing if you had something to put Baby Oo Oo in so that you could pick the oats with both hands? A leaf a gourd shell a net a bag a sling a sack a bottle a pot a box a container. A holder. A recipient.

The first cultural device was probably a recipient.... Many theorizers feel that the earliest cultural inventions must have been a container to hold gathered products and some kind of sling or net carrier.

So says Elizabeth Fisher in Women’s Creation (McGraw-Hill, 1975). But no, this cannot be. Where is that wonderful, big, long, hard thing, a bone, I believe, that the Ape Man first bashed somebody in the movie and then, grunting with ecstasy at having achieved the first proper murder, flung up into the sky, and whirling there it became a space ship thrusting its way into the cosmos to fertilize it and produce at the end of the movie a lovely fetus, a boy of course, drifting around the Milky Way without (oddly enough) any womb, any matrix at all? I don’t know. I don’t even care. I’m not telling that story. We’ve heard it, we’ve all heard about all the sticks and spears and swords, the things to bash and poke and hit with, the long, hard things, but we have not heard about the thing to put things in, the container for the thing contained. That is a new story. That is news.

And yet old. Before — once you think about it, surely long before — the weapon, a late, luxurious, superfluous tool; long before the useful knife and ax; right along with the indispensable whacker, grinder, and digger — for what’s the use of digging up a lot of potatoes if you have nothing to lug the ones you can’t eat home in — with or before the tool that forces energy outward, we made the tool that brings energy home. It makes sense to me. I am an adherent of what Fisher calls the Carrier Bag Theory of human evolution.

This theory not only explains large areas of theoretical obscurity and avoids large areas of theoretical nonsense (inhabited largely by tigers, foxes, and other highly territorial mammals); it also grounds me, personally, in human culture in a way I never felt grounded before. So long as culture was explained as originating from and elaborating upon the use of long, hard objects for sticking, bashing, and killing, I never thought that I had, or wanted, any particular share in it. (“What Freud mistook for her lack of civilization is woman’s lack of loyalty to civilization,” Lillian Smith observed.) The society, the civilization they were talking about, these theoreticians, was evidently theirs; they owned it, they liked it; they were human, fully human, bashing, sticking, thrusting, killing. Wanting to be human too, I sought for evidence that I was; but if that’s what it took, to make a weapon and kill with it, then evidently I was either extremely defective as a human being, or not human at all.

That’s right, they said. What you are is a woman. Possibly not human at all, certainly defective. Now be quiet while we go on telling the Story of the Ascent of Man the Hero.

Go on, say I, wandering off towards the wild oats, with Oo Oo in the sling and little Oom carrying the basket. You just go on telling how the mammoth fell on Boob and how Cain fell on Abel and how the bomb fell on Nagasaki and how the burning jelly fell on the villagers and how the missiles will fall on the Evil Empire, and all the other steps in the Ascent of Man.

If it is a human thing to do to put something you want, because it’s useful, edible, or beautiful, into a bag, or a basket, or a bit of rolled bark or leaf, or a net woven of your own hair, or what have you, and then take it home with you, home being another, larger kind of pouch or bag, a container for people, and then later on you take it out and eat it or share it or store it up for winter in a solider container or put it in the medicine bundle or the shrine or the museum, the holy place, the area that contains what is sacred, and then next day you probably do much the same again — if to do that is human, if that’s what it takes, then I am a human being after all. Fully, freely, gladly, for the first time.

Not, let it be said at once, an unaggressive or uncombative human being. I am an aging, angry woman laying mightily about me with my handbag, fighting hoodlums off. However I don’t, nor does anybody else, consider myself heroic for doing so. It’s just one of those damned things you have to do in order to be able to go on gathering wild oats and telling stories.

It is the story that makes the difference. It is the story that hid my humanity from me, the story the mammoth hunters told about bashing, thrusting, raping, killing, about the Hero. The wonderful, poisonous story of Botulism. The killer story.

It sometimes seems that the story is approaching its end. Lest there be no more telling of stories at all, some of us out here in the wild oats, amid the alien corn, think we’d better start telling another one, which maybe people can go on with when the old one’s finished. Maybe. The trouble is, we’ve all let ourselves become part of the killer story, and so we may get finished along with it. Hence it is with a certain feeling of urgency that I seek the nature, subject, words of the other story, the untold one, the life story.

It’s unfamiliar, it doesn’t come easily, thoughtlessly, to the lips as the killer story does; but still, “untold” was an exaggeration. People have been telling the life story for ages, in all sorts of words and ways. Myths of creation and transformation, trickster stories, folktales, jokes, novels....

The novel is a fundamentally unheroic kind of story. Of course the Hero has frequently taken it over, that being his imperial nature and uncontrollable impulse, to take everything over and run it while making stern decrees and laws to control his uncontrollable impulse to kill it. So the Hero has decreed through his mouthpieces the Lawgivers, first, that the proper shape of the narrative is that of the arrow or spear, starting here and going straight there and THOK! hitting its mark (which drops dead); second, that the central concern of narrative, including the novel, is conflict; and third, that the story isn’t any good if he isn’t in it.

I differ with all of this. I would go so far as to say that the natural, proper, fitting shape of the novel might be that of a sack, a bag. A book holds words. Words hold things. They bear meanings. A novel is a medicine bundle, holding things in a particular, powerful relation to one another and to us.

One relationship among elements in the novel may well be that of conflict, but the reduction of narrative to conflict is absurd. (I have read a how-to-write manual that said, “A story should be seen as a battle,” and went on about strategies, attacks, victory, etc.) Conflict, competition, stress, struggle, etc., within the narrative conceived as carrier bag/belly/box/house/medicine bundle, may be seen as necessary elements of a whole which itself cannot be characterized either as conflict or as harmony, since its purpose is neither resolution nor stasis but continuing process.

Finally, it’s clear that the Hero does not look well in this bag. He needs a stage or a pedestal or a pinnacle. You put him in a bag and he looks like a rabbit, like a potato.

That is why I like novels: instead of heroes they have people in them.

So, when I came to write science-fiction novels, I came lugging this great heavy sack of stuff, my carrier bag full of wimps and klutzes, and tiny grains of things smaller than a mustard seed, and intricately woven nets which when laboriously unknotted are seen to contain one blue pebble, an imperturbably functioning chronometer telling the time on another world, and a mouse’s skull; full of beginnings without ends, of initiations, of losses, of transformations and translations, and far more tricks than conflicts, far fewer triumphs than snares and delusions; full of space ships that get stuck, missions that fail, and people who don’t understand. I said it was hard to make a gripping tale of how we wrested the wild oats from their husks, I didn’t say it was impossible. Who ever said writing a novel was easy?

If science fiction is the mythology of modern technology, then its myth is tragic. “Technology,” or “modern science” (using the words as they are usually used, in an unexamined shorthand standing for the “hard” sciences and high technology founded upon continuous economic growth), is a heroic undertaking, Herculean, Promethean, conceived as triumph, hence ultimately as tragedy. The fiction embodying this myth will be, and has been, triumphant (Man conquers earth, space, aliens, death, the future, etc.) and tragic (apocalypse, holocaust, then or now).

If, however, one avoids the linear, progressive, Time’s-(killing)-arrow mode of the Techno-Heroic, and redefines technology and science as primarily cultural carrier bag rather than weapon of domination, one pleasant side effect is that science fiction can be seen as a far less rigid, narrow field, not necessarily Promethean or apocalyptic at all, and in fact less a mythological genre than a realistic one.

It is a strange realism, but it is a strange reality.

Science fiction properly conceived, like all serious fiction, however funny, is a way of trying to describe what is in fact going on, what people actually do and feel, how people relate to everything else in this vast stack, this belly of the universe, this womb of things to be and tomb of things that were, this unending story. In it, as in all fiction, there is room enough to keep even Man where he belongs, in his place in the scheme of things; there is time enough to gather plenty of wild oats and sow them too, and sing to little Oom, and listen to Ool’s joke, and watch newts, and still the story isn’t over. Still there are seeds to be gathered, and room in the bag of stars. by Ursula K. Le Guin

Close To The Edge

Pairing: Castiel x Reader

Others: Sam and Dean, Crowley, Meg Masters and Dick Roman

Warnings: Cannon Divergence, Torture

Words: 2.9K

A/N: Part 6 of the Castiel Soulmate Series. Here’s Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4,  Part 5, __  Part 7

Summary: Castiel deals with the thought that you are dead. Meanwhile, the brothers take Crowley to an abandoned warehouse where a certain Demon is waiting, ready to join the fight.

Castiel had been sitting in the same spot for long enough now to see the sun rise. That spark of purpose that willed him to keep on fighting had been savagely ripped away. You were dead. He was certain of it.

He didn’t want to stand up or do anything productive. The emotional pain had buried itself inwards, applying a constant and heavy pressure to his vessel’s organs, making him completely immobile.

He had searched every inch of that burning warehouse for you, or what was left of you. After finding only burned remains of your backpack, he sat down and listened for you, for any presence of your soul. But there was no sign, no inkling that you were still alive in this messed up and forsaken world.

Even though he’d only known you for two days, the connection that he had felt to you was unfamiliar and indescribable. Now that he had seen the course of your life through memory and touched the pureness of your soul, he felt attached to everything about you.

But, you were now gone. Pulled away from his side, never to return. He blamed himself as Dean’s words rang through his mind: “She’s an untrained civilian. Placing her in the centre of this mess, will only get her killed. She’d last two minutes in there, tops”.

Although you lasted more than ten minutes and managed to rig the trucks, Dean was right about one thing. It got you killed. At least, that was what Castiel thought.

Meanwhile, after several hours of driving, the brothers were close to St Louis on their way to Roman HQ, along interstate 70. The boys were currently discussing the decision to let you fight with them.

“I think it’s a good thing” Sam gestured with a shrug of his shoulders. “Cas has been a little off his game lately and”...

“Yeah, and can you blame him?” Dean interrupted, justifying the Angel’s recent behaviour. “He’s been through the grinder this past year. I’d be worried if he wasn’t”. Dean scratched his nose as he listened to Sam’s opinion on the matter.

“I know, but this time he’s not alone, you know? He’s got her to help him”.

“What? Like he didn’t have us?” Dean questioned, feeling a little hurt. Sam was quick to correct himself. “No, I mean in an intimate way, you know. A human companion will maybe help him to see the emotional side and fragile nature of things. Do you know what I mean?”

Dean was silent for a moment as he thought about Castiel’s tendency to jump into situations without a second thought of the human casualty. Whilst he does believe that Cas only has good intentions, a little humility wouldn’t go amiss.

“Yeah. That’s what makes me worry though” he admitted. “What if he does get attached to Y/N and then something happens to her? If she dies, it will break him”.

“Yeah, I see your point”. Sam’s hand ran through his hair as he pondered the many possible situations in which you could become a liability to their mission. If you were kidnapped, that was leverage to be held against Castiel. If you were killed, that would definitely divert his focus on revenge. 

At a loss, Sam let out a small sigh, hands rubbing against his knees as he conjured up their only option. “Let’s just hope that he keeps her out of serious danger”.

“Yeah” Dean snorted with pessimism. “Let’s hope”.

As the minutes passed and miles of shrubbery flew by, they eventually arrived at their next destination.

“Turn in here” Sam advised, pointing to the oncoming road on the right. Dean followed his Brother’s request, leading the car down a side-road and up to a warehouse.

Dean switched off the ignition and looked up sceptically through his wind-shield at the old and abandoned building. “This is where you wanted to go? Have you got some kind of property renovation or hobo fetish you’re not telling me about?”

Sam shook his head with closed eyes and a smile, deflecting Dean’s quirky insult. “No. Just came to get a few things. Help me get Crowley out?”

After an unconvinced eye squint from Dean, the boys swiftly stepped out and made their way over to the trunk. Dean popped the hood and a smile plastered his face as Crowley’s sweaty and dishevelled figure was revealed.

Sam, once again, yanked Crowley out without any sensitivity. The King of Hell stumbled onto the gravel before straightening his posture and addressing his captors. “Come on boys. What’s with all the hostility? I thought we were friends”.

Dean scoffed at his statement. “Friends? You tried to kill us, Crowley. Not to mention the conspiring with Cas to open up Purgatory”.

Sam was quick to jump in with the blame game. “This whole mess is your fault”.

“How is it my fault”? he retorted defensively. “Your Angel was the one who swallowed all those Leviathans. All I did was suggest the idea”.

“Exactly!” was all Dean needed to say, grabbing his sleeve and leading him into the warehouse. Sam was quick to find a rickety, wooden chair and placed it in the middle of the room before pulling a spray can out of his bag, giving it a shake.

Plonking Crowley down on the chair, Dean stepped back and pointed a finger at him. “Sit there and be quiet. If I hear so much as a snarky comment, you’ll be gagged for the rest of this journey”. Crowley’s eyes were full of both defiance and reluctant acceptance as he glared harshly at the eldest Winchester.

As Sam drew the trap along the floor, Dean paced the room, taking in the sight of broken windows and dust-covered machines. “What are we even doing here Sammy?”

“It’s just a pit-stop. We’re waiting for someone” he replied as he finished spraying and stood up, wiping his hands on his jacket. “Who?” Dean questioned sceptically, cautious of Sam’s secretiveness.

“A friend” Sam explained. “Trust me”.

“We don’t have any friends” Dean said, trying to think of who Sam had been talking to. Maybe it was another Hunter.

A figure soon appeared in the doorway. “Hello boys” a familiar voice called to them. Dean shot his head round to see Meg standing there. Before he had a chance to react, Crowley voiced his concern. “Hey! That’s my line”.

Dean’s gaze sharply turned to his brother with a cold expression. “Really Sam? Meg? That’s who’s helping us?”

“It’s nice to see you too Dean” she retorted, feeling slightly offended. Here comes the ‘Demons are second class citizens’ bullshit again.

Dean’s lack of tolerance was portrayed by the look on his face as he swivelled back around to face her. “What do you want, Meg? We’re kind of busy here?”

“I come bearing gifts” she said before looking down at the floor with a fake sadness. “But since I’m not welcome here, I’ll just take this Alpha blood with me”. As she held the vial out in front of her, Dean’s eyes instantly widened with intrigue.

“Whoa, whoa. Just hold on a second” he held his hands up defensively. Meg shifted an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. What was that?”

Dean’s face dropped as he turned and shared a look with Sam. He knew that she wanted an apology, or at least some recognition for helping them. He straightened his posture and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Thank you for helping us Meg. We really appreciate it”.

She smiled sarcastically at his words before throwing the vial of blood to him. “You know, I’ve got just as much reason to destroy that grade A asshole. Humans aren’t the only ones on Dick’s hit list”. 

She reached a hand into her pocket and pulled out the familiar sight of the Colt. “Here’s your gun back” she said, passing it over to Sam. Dean’s eyes followed the Colt with a shocked expression and a pointed finger. “Wh- what, where? How?”

His eyes quickly narrowed at Sam with the feeling of another betrayal. “Excuse us a moment” he said as he grabbed the sleeve of Sam’s jacket and lead him to a corner of the room.

“Dude! What the hell? You gave her the Colt? His voice was raised in anger as his little brother had once again, gone behind his back.

“Dean. She’s on our side. She was willing to kill an Alpha to put Dick down”.

“I couldn’t give a rat’s-ass, Sam. You lied to me, again!”

Sam’s arms flew up in frustration. “This is why I didn’t tell you Dean. Because I knew you wouldn’t even give the idea a chance”.

“Of course I wouldn’t” he admitted, throwing his hands up. “But that’s not the point. It’s the keeping shit from me, like that crap you did with Ruby. We’ve been chasing the Colt for days now and you’ve just sat shotgun this whole time, watching me run around like an idiot. That’s not teamwork, Sam. It’s sabotage”.

Sam took a deep breath, shaking off the harsh reminder of his past. “Look, I’m sorry for not telling you. But we’ve got the rest of the ingredients within our reach now. All we need is Crowley’s blood and Cas’, then we can kill Dick for good”. There was still a look of frustration in Dean’s eyes as Sam pleaded to him.

“Please, Dean. Let Meg help us. We all know that Crowley’s not gonna give it up without a fight”. Dean took a moment to think about it. Sam was right. But he was still pissed about the way he went about it.

“Uh, we’ll talk about this later” he dismissed the argument and held out his hand. “Give it to me”. Sam passed the gun over without hesitation, where Dean snatched it and put it in his waistband before walking back over to Meg.

“So how are you going to convince Mr sunshine and daisies over there to give a blood donation?”

The smile that transfixed Meg’s face was full of evil intent, enacting on some revenge of her own. “Oh, I’ve got certain powers of persuasion. Besides, you boys have made my job easier, seeing as he can't go anywhere”.

Sam walked around the trap, admiring his handy work. "It should hold for now. Let's hope these powers of yours are enough".

A snort of sarcastic denial came from the Demon King. Crowley was resisting the urge to mock, but ultimately failed as the words came falling from his mouth. “It didn’t take much persuasion for you to betray your king, you little whore”.

Both Sam and Dean widened their eyes at his insult. Meg didn’t reply, but walked up to the devil’s trap and slapped Crowley across the face with force. Dean couldn’t help but laugh, this was turning out to be a good day.

Crowley lifted his head back up and licked his bottom lip, looking at Meg with a taunting amusement. “Is that all you’ve got? I knew you were pathetic, clinging on to whoever’s got the best chance of survival. You’re nothing but a parasite, to Humans and Demons alike. Nobody wants you around, you little bitch”.

This seemed to infuriate Meg, causing her to approach Crowley and throw a mighty punch towards his throat. The weight of her swing forced the chair to swing backwards, crashing to the floor. Crowley groaned, rolling on his side amongst the broken pieces of wood.

Meg turned around to see the Brothers reactions, not being disappointed by their faces of shock and admiration. “That was awesome” Dean praised with a wide smile.

“Thanks” she said, before something hit her against the back, gaining her attention. She turned around to face Crowley but was met with a chair leg flying towards her face. And then another.

Refusing to give up, Crowley threw each piece of wood towards the pesky Demon with defiance. She attempted to block the harrowing onslaught but gained a few cuts and splinters to the face. Eventually, her patience wore out.

Stepping forward, she clenched her fist and used her power to send Crowley to his knees.

Crowley was now on the other side of torture. Experiencing the pain of having his internal organs crushed was not what he’d expected. After nothing but groans of pain from across the room, Dean stepped forward to try a different tactic. “Give it up, Crowley. She's not gonna stop”.

“Okay. Okay” he surrendered, holding his hands up with defeat, causing Meg to release her hold on him. “You can have my blood. But you lumberjacks are still missing a key ingredient”.

Dean’s eyes darted to the side and back as Castiel jumped into his thoughts. God, he hoped that you and Cas were okay.

You awoke to the sight of total darkness, face covered by a black hood over your head. An attempt to move your arms made you realise that both your hands and legs had been restrained. Breathing heavy, you turned your head to listen as someone entered the room. No, two people.

The sound of footsteps became overshadowed as they began to converse. “The Sucro-Corp trucks have been destroyed”.

A deeper, yet calmer voice entered the conversation. “How did this happen?”

“It was her, Sir. We found her in the warehouse. She was with the Angel”.

An annoyed groan was short-lived when he laid eyes upon you. “Excellent. Well let’s meet our new guest, shall we?” One of the men walked behind you. Lifting the hood off your head, light suddenly burning your retinas until they began to focus on your surroundings. An office room.

The blurred silhouette in front of you was now visible as the famous Dick Roman, standing smugly and smiling at you. 

“Hi there“, he greeted you, crouching down to your eye level. “And what do we have here?” You tugged at your restraints, fearful of what this creature was capable of. “Let me go!” you demanded, hoping that they would see you as just an innocent bystander.

He placed a hand to his chest with fake sympathy. “You know what? I would like nothing more than to send you merrily on your way. But, it seems you’ve been busy destroying my things with that sad excuse of an Angel. Now, I need to know, who else is a part of this little scheme to ruin my plans?”

“I’m… I. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you people, and what the hell am I doing here?” You played on the fact he had no idea who you were.  “Let me go, or I will sue your ass”.

“Oh, quite the demanding one, aren’t you?” He smirked before standing up and slowly pacing the floor. “I know you’re playing dumb with me. If you refuse to tell me who else you’re working with, then I’ll just have to pry it out of you by force”.

He stopped pacing and stared at you expectantly, waiting for a confession. At this point, your thoughts had taken over, dreading and debating how this interaction could pan out.

He gave the man who stood behind you, a nod of his head. This prompted the man to move across the room and up to a large cart that was covered by a white, plastic sheet. He gripped the covering and pulled it away to reveal a display of metal tools and instruments.

You watched as Dick strolled over to the selection and picked up a three-pronged fork. You involuntarily swallowed at the sight of the long and sharp weapon. This was not how you expected this adventure to end; being killed by the bad guy.

He approached you again, gently taking hold of one hand, straightening your fingers and placing the fork under three of your fingernails. “Now. I’m going to ask you once, and only once. Who else knows that you and Castiel were in that warehouse?”

You quickly debated your options. You could keep your mouth shut and endure the torture, maybe give some false names or give in and hand over the Winchester brothers. You chose option one, reluctantly.

A prolonged silence forced Dick to follow through on his promise. “Very well. This is most definitely going to hurt”. He pushed on the instrument, forcing the prongs under your fingernails. The pain was excruciating, causing your arm to spasm against the restraint and involuntary screams to fall from your mouth as the sensitive skin was penetrated.

You were not prepared for this level of pain. Your head hit the back of the chair, desperation for relief coursed through you like severe dehydration, reaching out for something to soothe. Your spirit was unconsciously calling for one thing in particular. Castiel.

At that moment, Castiel was standing inside the hotel room from last night. This was the first place he was drawn to, the freshest reminder of you. After lying down on the bed for several minutes, wishing he could turn back time, he stood up and began to pace the room.

He was thinking about how to tell Sam and Dean of this tragic news, when the lights above him began to flicker violently.

His eyes shot upwards at the instant feel of your presence. The way that you were trying to connect to him through pure emotion and willpower created such an energy that his chest began to fill with a feeling of golden warmth.

A weight was gradually lifting off his shoulders, relief now coursing through him. You were alive!

Thanks for reading. Here’s Part 7 .

Tags:

@uselessace @superheavymetalunicorn @sumara62  @eziggyra @spookysculderfiles @doritoevansxwinterschildren @cabbitholeresearch @acheloishe

The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction

Ursula K. Le Guin

In the temperate and tropical regions where it appears that hominids evolved into human beings, the principal food of the species was vegetable. Sixty-five to eighty percent of what human beings ate in those regions in Paleolithic, Neolithic, and prehistoric times was gathered; only in the extreme Arctic was meat the staple food. The mammoth hunters spectacularly occupy the cave wall and the mind, but what we actually did to stay alive and fat was gather seeds, roots, sprouts, shoots, leaves, nuts, berries, fruits, and grains, adding bugs and mollusks and netting or snaring birds, fish, rats, rabbits, and other tuskless small fry to up the protein. And we didn’t even work hard at it — much less hard than peasants slaving in somebody else’s field after agriculture was invented, much less hard than paid workers since civilization was invented. The average prehistoric person could make a nice living in about a fifteen-hour work week.

Fifteen hours a week for subsistence leaves a lot of time for other things. So much time that maybe the restless ones who didn’t have a baby around to enliven their life, or skill in making or cooking or singing, or very interesting thoughts to think, decided to slope off and hunt mammoths. The skillful hunters would come staggering back with a load of meat, a lot of ivory, and a story. It wasn’t the meat that made the difference. It was the story.

It is hard to tell a really gripping tale of how I wrestled a wild-oat seed from its husk, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then I scratched my gnat bites, and Ool said something funny, and we went to the creek and got a drink and watched newts for a while, and then I found another patch of oats.... No, it does not compare, it cannot compete with how I thrust my spear deep into the titanic hairy flank while Oob, impaled on one huge sweeping tusk, writhed screaming, and blood sprouted everywhere in crimson torrents, and Boob was crushed to jelly when the mammoth fell on him as I shot my unerring arrow straight through eye to brain.

That story not only has Action, it has a Hero. Heroes are powerful. Before you know it, the men and women in the wild-oat patch and their kids and the skills of makers and the thoughts of the thoughtful and the songs of the singers are all part of it, have all been pressed into service in the tale of the Hero. But it isn’t their story. It’s his.

When she was planning the book that ended up as Three Guineas, Virginia Woolf wrote a heading in her notebook, “Glossary”; she had thought of reinventing English according to her new plan, in order to tell a different story. One of the entries in this glossary is heroism, defined as “botulism.” And hero, in Woolf’s dictionary, is “bottle.” The hero as bottle, a stringent reevaluation. I now propose the bottle as hero.

Not just the bottle of gin or wine, but bottle in its older sense of container in general, a thing that holds something else.

If you haven’t got something to put it in, food will escape you — even something as uncombative and unresourceful as an oat. You put as many as you can into your stomach while they are handy, that being the primary container; but what about tomorrow morning when you wake up and it’s cold and raining and wouldn’t it be good to have just a few handfuls of oats to chew on and give little Oom to make her shut up, but how do you get more than one stomachful and one handful home? So you get up and go to the damned soggy oat patch in the rain, and wouldn’t it be a good thing if you had something to put Baby Oo Oo in so that you could pick the oats with both hands? A leaf a gourd shell a net a bag a sling a sack a bottle a pot a box a container. A holder. A recipient.

The first cultural device was probably a recipient.... Many theorizers feel that the earliest cultural inventions must have been a container to hold gathered products and some kind of sling or net carrier.

So says Elizabeth Fisher in Women’s Creation (McGraw-Hill, 1975). But no, this cannot be. Where is that wonderful, big, long, hard thing, a bone, I believe, that the Ape Man first bashed somebody in the movie and then, grunting with ecstasy at having achieved the first proper murder, flung up into the sky, and whirling there it became a space ship thrusting its way into the cosmos to fertilize it and produce at the end of the movie a lovely fetus, a boy of course, drifting around the Milky Way without (oddly enough) any womb, any matrix at all? I don’t know. I don’t even care. I’m not telling that story. We’ve heard it, we’ve all heard about all the sticks and spears and swords, the things to bash and poke and hit with, the long, hard things, but we have not heard about the thing to put things in, the container for the thing contained. That is a new story. That is news.

And yet old. Before — once you think about it, surely long before — the weapon, a late, luxurious, superfluous tool; long before the useful knife and ax; right along with the indispensable whacker, grinder, and digger — for what’s the use of digging up a lot of potatoes if you have nothing to lug the ones you can’t eat home in — with or before the tool that forces energy outward, we made the tool that brings energy home. It makes sense to me. I am an adherent of what Fisher calls the Carrier Bag Theory of human evolution.

This theory not only explains large areas of theoretical obscurity and avoids large areas of theoretical nonsense (inhabited largely by tigers, foxes, and other highly territorial mammals); it also grounds me, personally, in human culture in a way I never felt grounded before. So long as culture was explained as originating from and elaborating upon the use of long, hard objects for sticking, bashing, and killing, I never thought that I had, or wanted, any particular share in it. (“What Freud mistook for her lack of civilization is woman’s lack of loyalty to civilization,” Lillian Smith observed.) The society, the civilization they were talking about, these theoreticians, was evidently theirs; they owned it, they liked it; they were human, fully human, bashing, sticking, thrusting, killing. Wanting to be human too, I sought for evidence that I was; but if that’s what it took, to make a weapon and kill with it, then evidently I was either extremely defective as a human being, or not human at all.

That’s right, they said. What you are is a woman. Possibly not human at all, certainly defective. Now be quiet while we go on telling the Story of the Ascent of Man the Hero.

Go on, say I, wandering off towards the wild oats, with Oo Oo in the sling and little Oom carrying the basket. You just go on telling how the mammoth fell on Boob and how Cain fell on Abel and how the bomb fell on Nagasaki and how the burning jelly fell on the villagers and how the missiles will fall on the Evil Empire, and all the other steps in the Ascent of Man.

If it is a human thing to do to put something you want, because it’s useful, edible, or beautiful, into a bag, or a basket, or a bit of rolled bark or leaf, or a net woven of your own hair, or what have you, and then take it home with you, home being another, larger kind of pouch or bag, a container for people, and then later on you take it out and eat it or share it or store it up for winter in a solider container or put it in the medicine bundle or the shrine or the museum, the holy place, the area that contains what is sacred, and then next day you probably do much the same again — if to do that is human, if that’s what it takes, then I am a human being after all. Fully, freely, gladly, for the first time.

Not, let it be said at once, an unaggressive or uncombative human being. I am an aging, angry woman laying mightily about me with my handbag, fighting hoodlums off. However I don’t, nor does anybody else, consider myself heroic for doing so. It’s just one of those damned things you have to do in order to be able to go on gathering wild oats and telling stories.

It is the story that makes the difference. It is the story that hid my humanity from me, the story the mammoth hunters told about bashing, thrusting, raping, killing, about the Hero. The wonderful, poisonous story of Botulism. The killer story.

It sometimes seems that the story is approaching its end. Lest there be no more telling of stories at all, some of us out here in the wild oats, amid the alien corn, think we’d better start telling another one, which maybe people can go on with when the old one’s finished. Maybe. The trouble is, we’ve all let ourselves become part of the killer story, and so we may get finished along with it. Hence it is with a certain feeling of urgency that I seek the nature, subject, words of the other story, the untold one, the life story.

It’s unfamiliar, it doesn’t come easily, thoughtlessly, to the lips as the killer story does; but still, “untold” was an exaggeration. People have been telling the life story for ages, in all sorts of words and ways. Myths of creation and transformation, trickster stories, folktales, jokes, novels....

The novel is a fundamentally unheroic kind of story. Of course the Hero has frequently taken it over, that being his imperial nature and uncontrollable impulse, to take everything over and run it while making stern decrees and laws to control his uncontrollable impulse to kill it. So the Hero has decreed through his mouthpieces the Lawgivers, first, that the proper shape of the narrative is that of the arrow or spear, starting here and going straight thereand THOK! hitting its mark (which drops dead); second, that the central concern of narrative, including the novel, is conflict; and third, that the story isn’t any good if he isn’t in it.

I differ with all of this. I would go so far as to say that the natural, proper, fitting shape of the novel might be that of a sack, a bag. A book holds words. Words hold things. They bear meanings. A novel is a medicine bundle, holding things in a particular, powerful relation to one another and to us.

One relationship among elements in the novel may well be that of conflict, but the reduction of narrative to conflict is absurd. (I have read a how-to-write manual that said, “A story should be seen as a battle,” and went on about strategies, attacks, victory, etc.) Conflict, competition, stress, struggle, etc., within the narrative conceived as carrier bag/belly/box/house/medicine bundle, may be seen as necessary elements of a whole which itself cannot be characterized either as conflict or as harmony, since its purpose is neither resolution nor stasis but continuing process.

Finally, it’s clear that the Hero does not look well in this bag. He needs a stage or a pedestal or a pinnacle. You put him in a bag and he looks like a rabbit, like a potato.

That is why I like novels: instead of heroes they have people in them.

So, when I came to write science-fiction novels, I came lugging this great heavy sack of stuff, my carrier bag full of wimps and klutzes, and tiny grains of things smaller than a mustard seed, and intricately woven nets which when laboriously unknotted are seen to contain one blue pebble, an imperturbably functioning chronometer telling the time on another world, and a mouse’s skull; full of beginnings without ends, of initiations, of losses, of transformations and translations, and far more tricks than conflicts, far fewer triumphs than snares and delusions; full of space ships that get stuck, missions that fail, and people who don’t understand. I said it was hard to make a gripping tale of how we wrested the wild oats from their husks, I didn’t say it was impossible. Who ever said writing a novel was easy?

If science fiction is the mythology of modern technology, then its myth is tragic. “Technology,” or “modern science” (using the words as they are usually used, in an unexamined shorthand standing for the “hard” sciences and high technology founded upon continuous economic growth), is a heroic undertaking, Herculean, Promethean, conceived as triumph, hence ultimately as tragedy. The fiction embodying this myth will be, and has been, triumphant (Man conquers earth, space, aliens, death, the future, etc.) and tragic (apocalypse, holocaust, then or now).

If, however, one avoids the linear, progressive, Time’s-(killing)-arrow mode of the Techno-Heroic, and redefines technology and science as primarily cultural carrier bag rather than weapon of domination, one pleasant side effect is that science fiction can be seen as a far less rigid, narrow field, not necessarily Promethean or apocalyptic at all, and in fact less a mythological genre than a realistic one.

It is a strange realism, but it is a strange reality.

Science fiction properly conceived, like all serious fiction, however funny, is a way of trying to describe what is in fact going on, what people actually do and feel, how people relate to everything else in this vast stack, this belly of the universe, this womb of things to be and tomb of things that were, this unending story. In it, as in all fiction, there is room enough to keep even Man where he belongs, in his place in the scheme of things; there is time enough to gather plenty of wild oats and sow them too, and sing to little Oom, and listen to Ool’s joke, and watch newts, and still the story isn’t over. Still there are seeds to be gathered, and room in the bag of stars.

https://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/ursula-k-le-guin-the-carrier-bag-theory-of-fiction

When the truth is found...to be lies. And all the joy.. within you...dies..

*There was something unmistakable about the feel of electricity coursing through your body. The way each new wave brought a new lick of terror right up my spine. I don’t remember clearly but I was sure that I hadn’t received this treatment before. But with each fresh volt a little flash of memory came back to me. I had been here, enduring this same punishment before. The feel of the electrodes pressing against my temples. How was it that I only begun to recall this now? Had my mind gone too far beyond what it could withstand? Exactly how far were they going to take this rubberband brain before it will most assuredly snap? Fuck. Here comes more of that white heat racing through my bloodstream. I bit down on the rubber ball that was so thoughtfully wedged between my teeth. I guess my tormentors didn’t want to hear the spoils of their work. This time I bit down so hard that I could of sworn I was about to bust my jaw, hurting so bad that it brought tears to my eyes. After the last round of lighting, I tried to think about how long I had been here, every muscle twitching helplessly. Either out of shock or in anticipation for the next hit. My eyesight was blurry, but with a quick exploration of my surroundings I realized where I was. Home sweet home. Heaven. Which meant my captors must be the lovely bunch of winged fuc-   There it was, another current claiming my entire body. I was now triggered into a seizure, flashes of horrid memories come crashing to the front of my mind. There was so much blood. Some of it my own, most of it being Zachariah's. This explains the ride on the lighting train. Things started to get fuzzy and it seemed almost too much to handle just to keep my eyes open. And right on cue, another violent volt envelops me, my jaw snapping down tight again on the gag, tasting blood on my tongue. The memories come flooding in rapidly now, my eyes close and I give in to the undertow, the darkness seducing my consciousness that I admit I was too weak to put up any sort of fight.

Just sit back and go with the flow.

One second I was peacefully sleeping, the next I was rudely being taken from my blissful dreams by the bastard Angel Zachariah. I wasn’t pleased at all to see the very angel that had on multiple occasions tried to kill me. That was probably an understatement. I hated him with the fire of a thousand suns. And that was no exaggeration. I sat up in bed and was subsequently regaled with some seriously heavy truths. One blow after another. The hits kept coming. Each one pushing that proverbial dagger deeper into my back. And just as my old buddy Zac was telling me all the dirty details on how he was very much involved with killing my last lover, the key offender come walking in with a tray of food for us. More lies he was prepared to feed me I’m sure. Well I was done choking down this bullshit he was shoving down my gullet every single fucking day since the day we met. I felt this bile rise in my throat. I was sick, I was betrayed and I was furious. I felt nothing but fury, could see nothing but red flashing before my eyes. I felt unimaginable pain and all I wanted in that moment was to share it all around.

It was time to get even with my demons.

Vinny’s lips parted to say something and it triggered something inside me that hated the thought of ever hearing his voice again. My hand rose and I forced his air to cut off by will, choking him as if my own fingers were right there around his neck. I could tell the pressure was just enough, still gathering some air that he most rightfully had to work for but still kept him from opening his mouth and letting more lies spill out. Truth be told I was done with both of these fuckers. Zachariah was quick to reach over and try to break the hold I had on Vinny, only causing me to switch my focus right to him. With a flick of my wrist I sent the Saint launching into the corner and caught the Angel with my hand, my palm firm against his throat. I wasn’t sure if these guys thought I was some fool they could form to fit in there little world but they really read me wrong. This ain’t my circus. I was no one’s monkey.

Or was it Puppet, as Vinny liked to call me?

The eyes of my fellow angel began to bulge as I tightened my grip, kinda looked like one of those goofy looking stress contraptions that folks use instead of doing things like this to people. I prefer this method to work out some of those frustrations, ones that these two assholes caused, but I digress. Something in my head nagged at me, a voice in the back of my mind that told me that I wasn’t getting the whole story and if I killed them both right here and now, I would never get it. But the wrath that I desired at the present time seemed to overrule any and all common sense. I stood and brought Zachariah with me, dragging his pathetic body across the room and through the doorway to guide him down the stairs. He did his best in trying to claw and grapple at me, anything to try and break the hold I had on him. Everything was for nothing, my power would always be far more than he could handle. I wasn’t sure what all I was capable of, but this was something I could feel with every fiber of my being. It was more than just facts here, I was dealing with a state of mind. As we descended down the stairs, I caught a glimpse of my eyes, those icy blues staring back at me through the glass of a picture frame that hung along the wall. This time, unlike at the plane crash, I wasn’t afraid of the image reflecting back at me. I fucking embraced it.  

I didn’t know when I started using my fists but I was fully engaged in this fight. All systems were up and running. With each hit to the elder angel’s face I could feel his bones give way, cracking all the way from the cheekbones to his jaw then around to the front of his skull. It was no surprise that it was the most stubborn of areas being the hardheaded bastard Zachariah was, bruising and busting open my own knuckles with each unforgiving blow. His face was beginning to look like it had an unfortunate run in with a meat grinder when he finally gained the upper hand, flipping us and taking his turn with his own fists. And at some point we made it outside and my back was pinned against the cool, tender blades of grass. Other than this asshole punching me in the face, it would have been a lovely place to take a nap or just lay out and look at the stars. Which I caught a few sights of between his punches. Ass beating with a view. Who would have thought?

Alright, I have had enough of this.

His next punch was met with my palm, fingers closing, clutching and crushing every single bone in his hand without a second thought. You should have seen the look on his face, the pain in his cry only made me want to hear more. I shot up without warning, crashing my forehead into the other Angel’s, a sickening crack could be heard across the neighborhood. Blood trickled down from my brow where either I had just busted it open or from his assault, or both assaerbated the injury to the point where I had a steady warm stream coming down the side of my face and coating my lips. My tongue swiped out over it to taste of my own life force, the blood that made me who I was and I earned a gasp from Zachariah.*

“I should have killed that wretched human woman as soon as I found out that your father knocked her up. Instead you became a curse to us all, never amounting to any good except to fuck everything up. Now look at you, an abomination to our Heavenly father, laying with men, enjoying all the sins that ruin this creation that God wanted so badly. You have the ability to do so much good but you’re a waste to this world and a waste of raw abilities. Your mother should have swallowed you like the whore she was.”

*If I thought I was seeing red before, now there was burning hellfire standing between him and I. and then there was rage. It claimed me, burned from the inside out until I was clutching his neck again and lifting him off of his feet that kicked and eagerly searched for footing. But he would never find it again in this life. My other hand punched forward and plunged right into his chest, clutching and ripping out his still beating heart. I let it drop from my blood soaked fingers, splatting messily onto the ground at my feet. With a very self-satisfied grin, I glared up at him and laid my palm against his forehead, smiting him right there on the spot where my mother was buried. I tossed his lifeless body over to the side before picking up and shoving his heart right into that fat fucking mouth of his. I smeared my hand across my chest, wearing the blood of my victory proud across my flesh.

One down, one to go.

I made my way back into the house, finding Vinny mid-way down the stairs, sitting there with his hands cradling his face. I could tell he had been crying, the smell of tears was something I got use to in this house with my mother. And now my boyfriend, the liar and the rat was trying to pull out all the resources to gain some pity from me. Well, it wasn’t going to work. His fate was already written in stone once he decided to team up with the now dead elder angel and work against me. I cleared my throat to catch his attention as I stood, arms crossed over my chest at the bottom of the stairs. It gave him quite the start, head snapping up and eyes meeting mine. He got to his feet and immediately began sputtering out excuse after sorry excuse. Endless apologies and more lies that made my stomach turn.*

“I didn’t expect to fall for you. Isaac you have to believe me. This, what’s between us is real. I was about to tell you everything but..I was too late. I love you and I am begging you for mercy, please forgive me.”

*Mercy? Forgiveness? Love? No. This was all a ploy to get me back under his thumb, working another angle now that the first plan went and hit the fan. His words continued, each syllable seemed to add to the fire that roared inside me. The pain of betrayal, feelings for someone that had stabbed me in the back from that first night. Each word. Stab. Cut. Bleed. Until I felt nothing but contempt for this man standing in front of me now. Both hands wrapped around his neck, there wasn’t a fight left in him. He was a man who had confessed everything but it came to us a little too late. As I watched the life drain from his eyes, the light dimming in this once bright star, the saint who will now die a sinner, I felt his tears drip onto my wrist. I squeezed harder, he was gasping my name, saying those three words again. The ones that I would never say out loud back to him. Instead I showed him my mercy by placing a kiss to his lips before hearing that distinctive crack. I had applied enough pressure to snap his neck and he was suffering no more.

Now the suffering was all mine. As I finished my trip down memory lane, the events that lead me here, the only thing I felt now was the numbness setting in. As another round of electricity claims my battle weary body, I closed my eyes and tried not to remember how it felt to kill someone I loved yet again. I think that will stick with me for all of my days. That is if I make it out of this place with any brain cells left. With any luck, they will take this way too far and I won’t recall anything. One could only hope. Right?*

#TBC

Doublemeat Palace

Fast food job. Fast food job. Fast food job!

I worked three different fast food jobs before I was 25 - four if you count delivering for Domino’s, though that didn’t feel like fast food. They varied wildly in quality, but the one that sticks in my mind as the iconic fast food experience was working for a Taco Bell with verbally abusive managers, rampant wage theft, and them punishing any complaints by sticking people on seven-day-a-week four-hour closing shifts. It was miserable, and I couldn’t wait to be away from there.

Let’s see how Buffy’s experience stacks up!

1. Previously On reminds us how awful this season has been. It also reminds us that Giles is gone and shouldn’t be. Then we get Willow telling Anya and Xander about the Trio. She also gets spacy when talking about Andrew’s magic gear. Anya sings the praise of capitalism. And Buffy has a stripey fast food uniform on, like Hot Dog on a Stick. Dammit, this is going to mix all the worst parts of working for every fast food chain, isn’t it? Opening credits no Tara.

2. Oh god training videos. Oddly, none of the actual fast food chains I worked for put me through this particular brand of hell. Domino’s did, though, with videos of particularly foolish drivers getting robbed by the same two guys constantly, and my current job involves staying CPR certified which means horribly overacted videos depicting emergencies. The sandwich they sell at Doublemeat has a beef patty and a chicken patty. They’re showing the slaughtering process now, which seems like a bad idea for training fast food workers. Buffy: “Holy crap.” Now they’re talking about the rules. And here’s the manager. His name is Manny. He seems to have no sense of humor. But he is aware of how absurd the Doublemeat Experience is. Emily is gone. She has a locker. Fast food never gives a locker that I know of. There is a lot of turnover. These two are lifers. Manny is a lifer, too. He has a ten year button. And now Buffy is on the clock… which indicates she wasn’t on the clock for the training video, so the wage theft has already started. There is a meat slicer. Everyone is dead inside. She is looking around. There’s dehydrated pickle storage. She has to eat the Medley. She wants to know what the secret ingredient is. It’s a meat process. It’s time for her to do work.

3. She’s on the front counter. Doing final check work, it looks like. The guy training her wants her to stop having a sense of humor. A woman has ordered a small coffee and a cherry pie. The woman tells her that sometimes there’s someone working there you never see again. Now Buffy is ringing a family up. They have a huge order.

4. Buffy is on break. Eating the Medley again. Now she’s in the back, looking around. There’s the freezer. Wendy’s doesn’t use frozen meat now, and McDonald’s is starting to phase it out. Manny doesn’t want Buffy in the freezer.

5. Dawn and Anya are there. So are Xander and Willow. Willow is twitchy. Buffy is talking about the weirdness of the place. Xander says this is normal fast food. Buffy is giving Xander free food. Anya is Anya. There is a level of ehhhh to this episode that makes it hard to transcribe. Just… it’s an atmosphere of blah.

6. Blah. “Downtime robs us all.” Spike is there. Talk talk flirt flirt provoke provoke Spike noticing that Buffy isn’t happy in a terrible job working with soulless people. He says this place will kill her.

7. An employee is outside. He got attacked. I think it’s the guy who was training Buffy. Not Manny. The other guy.

8. A coworker is surprised Buffy came back. The time clock is too loud. Manny says Gary is gone and Buffy is on the grill now. Manny thinks it’s good to learn to grill. Now Buffy is grilling. Every burger is the same. People don't like variation. The secret ingredient is a meat process. She has to flip the patties now. Grease gets everywhere. Manny saved Buffy from the grill guy. One of the grinder guys is late too. Buffy has to grind meat. I don’t think any major fast food chains grind meat in-house…

9. Xander is visited by a vengeance demon. It’s Halfrek! She and Anya are friends. Xander leaves and Halfrek and Anya catch up. Halfrek has no faith in their relationship.

10. The fry grease is boiling with nothing in it. Buffy can go on her break now. Spike is outside. He walked away, but Buffy caught up with him and now they’re making out - or having sex - in the alley. Having sex.

11. Amy is visiting Willow. Willow is studying. Amy wants the rat cage. Amy is talking to Willow and making her uncomfortable. And Amy just magic-drugged Willow. Amy leaves with the rat cage.

12. Buffy is grinding meat. Lots of meat. And she found a finger in it.She runs to Manny’s office. Manny talks about a grinder incident six weeks ago. The finger is new. Maybe the grinder person had an accident and is at the hospital. Or maybe he is the meat. Buffy thinks the secret ingredient is people. Manny is chasing Buffy before she… “The Doublemeat Medley is people.” Cherry Pie Woman asks about the cherry pie. Buffy throws Manny. She’s fired. She leaves.

13. Halfrek and Anya are having tea. Halfrek asks about Xander. Halfrek is now deliberately undermining their relationship - she has just enough point to make it bite but not enough for it to be worth behaving the way she is.

14. Xander is at the Magic Box. With Dawn. Buffy called an emergency meeting. Willow is locked in her room and Anya’s talking to Halfrek. Buffy shows Dawn Gary’s finger. Willow is there. Xander ate the burger. She still has some of the magic. Willow is offering to do science. Buffy is going back to the restaurant. Dawn checks on Willow.

15. Buffy is at the Doublemeat Palace. She goes to the kitchen. In the freezer. Leaves the freezer. Checks the blades of the grinder. The output point. There’s a sound… she thinks it’s Manny. She trips over Manny’s foot. And only his foot.

16. Willow is doing science and reminding herself that she doesn’t need magic. Dawn is talking to Xander about Janice’s lawyer sister and how Buffy’s calling affects her career prospects. Willow is done. She made something that reacts to human blood. Anya arrived. Xander and Anya are having an argument. Willow is done sciencing. The meat isn’t human. Willow says there is something weird there.

17. Buffy found a wig. It’s Cherry Pie Lady’s hair. Chery Pie Lady is here. She has a demon mouth sprouting from her head. It spat paralyzing gunk on Buffy. Buffy is crawling away. Willow comes to the store… she’s trying to get in, but the door is locked. Buffy is still trying to escape. Cherry Pie Lady found Buffy. The burger is processed vegetable. Willow is confessing what happened with Amy. The demon head is biting Buffy’s shoulder. Buffy turned on the grinder. Willow got inside. Willow dodged the paralyzing spray and cut the demon head off, and Buffy stabbed it with a plastic fork, then Willow fed it into the grinder. The paralysis wore off.

18. Amy is at the house. Willow opens the door. Willow isn’t letting her in. Willow sent her away. “Amy, if you really are my friend, you better stay away from me. And if you really aren’t, you better stay away from me.”

19. Buffy is at Doublemeat returning her uniform. Lorraine Ross is the new manager… she’s replacing Manny. Buffy is asking about the Medley and the secret ingredient and the vegetables. Buffy is asking for her job back. She’s another lifer, but at least she has a personality.

Overall: Fast food burgers don’t use filler any more. They hadn’t for quite some time when this episode was made.

That’s really all I have to say.

22 The grace period has ended. Perhaps Snow had them digging through the night. As soon as the fire died down, anyway. They found Boggs's remains, briefly felt reassured, and then, as the hours went by without further trophies, began to suspect. At some point, they realized that they had been tricked. And President Snow can't tolerate being made to look like a fool. It doesn't matter whether they tracked us to the second apartment or assumed we went directly underground. They know we are down here now and they've unleashed something, a pack of mutts probably, bent on finding me. "Katniss." I jump at the proximity of the sound. Look frantically for its source, bow loaded, seeking a target to hit. "Katniss." Peeta's lips are barely moving, but there's no doubt, the name came out of him. Just when I thought he seemed a little better, when I thought he might be inching his way back to me, here is proof of how deep Snow's poison went. "Katniss." Peeta's programmed to respond to the hissing chorus, to join in the hunt. He's beginning to stir. There's no choice. I position my arrow to penetrate his brain. He'll barely feel a thing. Suddenly, he's sitting up, eyes wide in alarm, short of breath. "Katniss!" He whips his head toward me but doesn't seem to notice my bow, the waiting arrow. "Katniss! Get out of here!" I hesitate. His voice is alarmed, but not insane. "Why? What's making that sound?" "I don't know. Only that it has to kill you," says Peeta. "Run! Get out! Go!" After my own moment of confusion, I conclude I do not have to shoot him. Relax my bowstring. Take in the anxious faces around me. "Whatever it is, it's after me. It might be a good time to split up." "But we're your guard," says Jackson. "And your crew," adds Cressida. "I'm not leaving you," Gale says. I look at the crew, armed with nothing but cameras and clipboards. And there's Finnick with two guns and a trident. I suggest that he give one of his guns to Castor. Eject the blank cartridge from Peeta's, load it with a real one, and arm Pollux. Since Gale and I have our bows, we hand our guns over to Messalla and Cressida. There's no time to show them anything but how to point and pull the trigger, but in close quarters, that might be enough. It's better than being defenseless. Now the only one without a weapon is Peeta, but anyone whispering my name with a bunch of mutts doesn't need one anyway. We leave the room free of everything but our scent. There's no way to erase that at the moment. I'm guessing that's how the hissing things are tracking us, because we haven't left much of a physical trail. The mutts' noses will be abnormally keen, but possibly the time we spent slogging through water in drainpipes will help throw them. Outside the hum of the room, the hissing becomes more distinct. But it's also possible to get a better sense of the mutts' location. They're behind us, still a fair distance. Snow probably had them released underground near the place where he found Boggs's body. Theoretically, we should have a good lead on them, although they're certain to be much faster than we are. My mind wanders to the wolflike creatures in the first arena, the monkeys in the Quarter Quell, the monstrosities I've witnessed on television over the years, and I wonder what form these mutts will take. Whatever Snow thinks will scare me the most. Pollux and I have worked out a plan for the next leg of our journey, and since it heads away from the hissing, I see no reason to alter it. If we move swiftly, maybe we can reach Snow's mansion before the mutts reach us. But there's a sloppiness that comes with speed: the poorly placed boot that results in a splash, the accidental clang of a gun against a pipe, even my own commands, issued too loudly for discretion. We've covered about three more blocks via an overflow pipe and a section of neglected train track when the screams begin. Thick, guttural. Bouncing off the tunnel walls. "Avoxes," says Peeta immediately. "That's what Darius sounded like when they tortured him." "The mutts must have found them," says Cressida. "So they're not just after Katniss," says Leeg 1. "They'll probably kill anyone. It's just that they won't stop until they get to her," says Gale. After his hours studying with Beetee, he is most likely right. And here I am again. With people dying because of me. Friends, allies, complete strangers, losing their lives for the Mockingjay. "Let me go on alone. Lead them off. I'll transfer the Holo to Jackson. The rest of you can finish the mission." "No one's going to agree to that!" says Jackson in exasperation. "We're wasting time!" says Finnick. "Listen," Peeta whispers. The screams have stopped, and in their absence my name has rebounded, startling in its proximity. It's below as well as behind us now. "Katniss." I nudge Pollux on the shoulder and we start to run. Trouble is, we had planned to descend to a lower level, but that's out now. When we come to the steps leading down, Pollux and I are scanning for a possible alternative on the Holo when I start gagging. "Masks on!" orders Jackson. There's no need for masks. Everyone is breathing the same air. I'm the only one losing my stew because I'm the only one reacting to the odor. Drifting up from the stairwell. Cutting through the sewage. Roses. I begin to tremble. I swerve away from the smell and stumble right out onto the Transfer. Smooth, pastel-colored tiled streets, just like the ones above, but bordered by white brick walls instead of homes. A roadway where delivery vehicles can drive with ease, without the congestion of the Capitol. Empty now, of everything but us. I swing up my bow and blow up the first pod with an explosive arrow, which kills the nest of flesh-eating rats inside. Then I sprint for the next intersection, where I know one false step will cause the ground beneath our feet to disintegrate, feeding us into something labeled Meat Grinder. I shout a warning to the others to stay with me. I plan for us to skirt around the corner and then detonate the Meat Grinder, but another unmarked pod lies in wait. It happens silently. I would miss it entirely if Finnick didn't pull me to a stop. "Katniss!" I whip back around, arrow poised for flight, but what can be done? Two of Gale's arrows already lie useless beside the wide shaft of golden light that radiates from ceiling to floor. Inside, Messalla is as still as a statue, poised up on the ball of one foot, head tilted back, held captive by the beam. I can't tell if he's yelling, although his mouth is stretched wide. We watch, utterly helpless, as the flesh melts off his body like candle wax. "Can't help him!" Peeta starts shoving people forward. "Can't!" Amazingly, he's the only one still functional enough to get us moving. I don't know why he's in control, when he should be flipping out and bashing my brains in, but that could happen any second. At the pressure of his hand against my shoulder, I turn away from the grisly thing that was Messalla; I make my feet go forward, fast, so fast that I can barely skid to a stop before the next intersection. A spray of gunfire brings down a shower of plaster. I jerk my head from side to side, looking for thepod, before I turn and see the squad of Peacekeepers pounding down the Transfer toward us. With the Meat Grinder pod blocking our way, there's nothing to do but fire back. They outnumber us two to one, but we've still got six original members of the Star Squad, who aren't trying to run and shoot at the same time. Fish in a barrel, I think, as blossoms of red stain their white uniforms. Three-quarters of them are down and dead when more begin to pour in from the side of the tunnel, the same one I flung myself through to get away from the smell, from the - Those aren't Peacekeepers. They are white, four-limbed, about the size of a full-grown human, but that's where the comparisons stop. Naked, with long reptilian tails, arched backs, and heads that jut forward. They swarm over the Peacekeepers, living and dead, clamp on to their necks with their mouths and rip off the helmeted heads. Apparently, having a Capitol pedigree is as useless here as it was in 13. It seems to take only seconds before the Peacekeepers are decapitated. The mutts fall to their bellies and skitter toward us on all fours. "This way!" I shout, hugging the wall and making a sharp right turn to avoid the pod. When everyone's joined me, I fire into the intersection, and the Meat Grinder activates. Huge mechanical teeth burst through the street and chew the tile to dust. That should make it impossible for the mutts to follow us, but I don't know. The wolf and monkey mutts I've encountered could leap unbelievably far. The hissing burns my ears, and the reek of roses makes the walls spin. I grab Pollux's arm. "Forget the mission. What's the quickest way aboveground?" There's no time for checking the Holo. We follow Pollux for about ten yards along the Transfer and go through a doorway. I'm aware of tile changing to concrete, of crawling through a tight, stinking pipe onto a ledge about a foot wide. We're in the main sewer. A yard below, a poisonous brew of human waste, garbage, and chemical runoff bubbles by us. Parts of the surface are on fire, others emit evil-looking clouds of vapor. One look tells you that if you fall in, you're never coming out. Moving as quickly as we dare on the slippery ledge, we make our way to a narrow bridge and cross it. In an alcove at the far side, Pollux smacks a ladder with his hand and points up the shaft. This is it. Our way out. A quick glance at our party tells me something's off. "Wait! Where are Jackson and Leeg One?" "They stayed at the Grinder to hold the mutts back," says Homes. "What?" I'm lunging back for the bridge, willing to leave no one to those monsters, when he yanks me back. "Don't waste their lives, Katniss. It's too late for them. Look!" Homes nods to the pipe, where the mutts are slithering onto the ledge. "Stand back!" Gale shouts. With his explosive-tipped arrows, he rips the far side of the bridge from its foundation. The rest sinks into the bubbles, just as the mutts reach it. For the first time, I get a good look at them. A mix of human and lizard and who knows what else. White, tight reptilian skin smeared with gore, clawed hands and feet, their faces a mess of conflicting features. Hissing, shrieking my name now, as their bodies contort in rage. Lashing out with tails and claws, taking huge chunks of one another or their own bodies with wide, lathered mouths, driven mad by their need to destroy me. My scent must be as evocative to them as theirs is to me. More so, because despite its toxicity, the mutts begin to throw themselves into the foul sewer. Along our bank, everyone opens fire. I choose my arrows without discretion, sending arrowheads, fire, explosives into the mutts' bodies. They're mortal, but only just. No natural thing could keep coming with two dozen bullets in it. Yes, we can eventually kill them, only there are so many, an endless supply pouring from the pipe, not even hesitating to take to the sewage. But it's not their numbers that make my hands shake so. No mutt is good. All are meant to damage you. Some take your life, like the monkeys. Others your reason, like the tracker jackers. However, the true atrocities, the most frightening, incorporate a perverse psychological twist designed to terrify the victim. The sight of the wolf mutts with the dead tributes' eyes. The sound of the jabberjays replicating Prim's tortured screams. The smell of Snow's roses mixed with the victims' blood. Carried across the sewer. Cutting through even this foulness. Making my heart run wild, my skin turn to ice, my lungs unable to suck air. It's as if Snow's breathing right in my face, telling me it's time to die. The others are shouting at me, but I can't seem to respond. Strong arms lift me as I blast the head off a mutt whose claws have just grazed my ankle. I'm slammed into the ladder. Hands shoved against the rungs. Ordered to climb. My wooden, puppet limbs obey. Movement slowly brings me back to my senses. I detect one person above me. Pollux. Peeta and Cressida are below. We reach a platform. Switch to a second ladder. Rungs slick with sweat and mildew. At the next platform, my head has cleared and the reality of what's happened hits me. I begin frantically pulling people up off the ladder. Peeta. Cressida. That's it. What have I done? What have I abandoned the others to? I'm scrambling back down the ladder when one of my boots kicks someone. "Climb!" Gale barks at me. I'm back up, hauling him in, peering into the gloom for more. "No." Gale turns my face to him and shakes his head. Uniform shredded. Gaping wound in the side of his neck. There's a human cry from below. "Someone's still alive," I plead. "No, Katniss. They're not coming," says Gale. "Only the mutts are." Unable to accept it, I shine the light from Cressida's gun down the shaft. Far below, I can just make out Finnick, struggling to hang on as three mutts tear at him. As one yanks back his head to take the death bite, something bizarre happens. It's as if I'm Finnick, watching images of my life flash by. The mast of a boat, a silver parachute, Mags laughing, a pink sky, Beetee's trident, Annie in her wedding dress, waves breaking over rocks. Then it's over. I slide the Holo from my belt and choke out "nightlock, nightlock, nightlock." Release it. Hunch against the wall with the others as the explosion rocks the platform and bits of mutt and human flesh shoot out of the pipe and shower us. There's a clank as Pollux slams a cover over the pipe and locks it in place. Pollux, Gale, Cressida, Peeta, and me. We're all that's left. Later, the human feelings will come. Now I'm conscious only of an animal need to keep the remnants of our band alive. "We can't stop here." Someone comes up with a bandage. We tie it around Gale's neck. Get him to his feet. Only one figure stays huddled against the wall. "Peeta," I say. There's no response. Has he blacked out? I crouch in front of him, pulling his cuffed hands from his face. "Peeta?" His eyes are like black pools, the pupils dilated so that the blue irises have all but vanished. The muscles in his wrists are hard as metal. "Leave me," he whispers. "I can't hang on." "Yes. You can!" I tell him. Peeta shakes his head. "I'm losing it. I'll go mad. Like them." Like the mutts. Like a rabid beast bent on ripping my throat out. And here, finally here in this place, in these circumstances, I will really have to kill him. And Snow will win. Hot, bitter hatred courses through me. Snow has won too much already today. It's a long shot, it's suicide maybe, but I do the only thing I can think of. I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. "Don't let him take you from me." Peeta's panting hard as he fights the nightmares raging in his head. "No. I don't want to..." I clench his hands to the point of pain. "Stay with me." His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. "Always," he murmurs. I help Peeta up and address Pollux. "How far to the street?" He indicates it's just above us. I climb the last ladder and push open the lid to someone's utility room. I'm rising to my feet when a woman throws open the door. She wears a bright turquoise silk robe embroidered with exotic birds. Her magenta hair's fluffed up like a cloud and decorated with gilded butterflies. Grease from the half-eaten sausage she's holding smears her lipstick. The expression on her face says she recognizes me. She opens her mouth to call for help. Without hesitation, I shoot her through the heart.