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the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

Tenacious Plague

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FROM STEEL GUITARS AND OTHER s**t
                      HEADS WILL RLL HEADS W»ILLXXX )xxROLL
                                                                            *OFF WITH YOURXXXHEAD!

                                        Next time, he’d have to get something less covered in grease. He took another bite of the monstrosity and swore his stomach churned at it. But it was better than nothing at all. He snorted as Devin fumbled for words; tumbled and rolled for them. He honestly seemed surprised by the gesture. He couldn’t blame him, but a small tic worked through his jaw nonetheless. It was supposed to be someone else. And exactly who was he expecting? “Then I’ll let you rot next time, happy?” He sneered as a flare of anger hissed through him. He rolled up the aluminum foil that remained from his sandwich and tossed it in the trash. He missed by an inch—not to help his lowering mood. But the past few days had been more than a battle; trying to bandage himself, Devin, fight the monster that clawed at him…he’d been a victim of it long enough, he couldn’t quite remember how he was supposed to act when moments at a time were painted red. The days that Devin hadn’t seen.

                                        And now the revelation left him irritable. Devin moved—he should have stopped him, there was no way he was going to be able to move in his condition. Almost died again, tenacious aren’t you? But if he wasn’t, he’d have been dead a long time ago. Why did Devin even bother to hold on anymore? He investigated his condition; Ryo hid his underneath a well-worn shirt. He stared in disbelief at the food and pills—pills that were half empty from the sheer amount he took. He should’ve been some sort of hero for that. “Don’t want them, then don’t take them. Won’t be my fault when you keel over.” He remarked nonchalantly.

                                        He balked, arching a brow. Since when did he get to say s**t about ‘having enough’? He snorted. You’ve had enough?” You’re an idiot if you think this is over. He scoffed—a harsh ring rolled off it in waves. “How the ******** should I know? He won’t just tell me where he is, that’d be suicide.” Because I’ll strangle him if it’s the last thing I do. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been looking. It just hadn’t been enough. He glanced idly as Devin grabbed his wrist. A feeble movement, he could crush him if he twitched…

                                        “You done crying already? What the hell do you want from me? I bandaged your a** up and brought you food.” He snapped. Now the pieces were making sense—it was partially coming back. In part, he’d forgotten some of the things he’d done to Devin. He hadn’t wanted to completely remember, to completely own up to them. But now he could taste copper in his mouth underneath the linger taste of grease. “Now you’re sobbing about how I ‘care’. Isn’t that what you wanted?” He rolled his eyes. I’m tired of hoping, of pretending you’ll ever love me back. That wouldn’t be a wise idea. But hadn’t he survived the hurricane already by staying with him before? And now he was just starting to give up? Idiot.

                                        “Make up your damn mind before I lose mine again.” There wasn’t any guarantee that he’d be ‘okay’ after this. Not if he continued to go after Belial…but there wasn’t a way he could stop either. After all the sins he’d racked up, all the things he’d had Ryo do…no, he wasn’t getting away without some broken bones. At the very least.

                                        “You would’ve died if I hadn’t.” He never wanted to kill Devin. But he’d been so close…so many times. Hadn’t they both? They’d been flirting with death from the very beginning.

the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

Tenacious Plague

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                          XXX( THE ROAD。 xYOUCAN'Txxxxx* RELY ON is the risk you take⊱
                          beats like a drum▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰ ▰
                          xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx( IF THIS ROAD GOES TO HELL )
                          xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxIF THIS ROAD GOES TO HELL
                          XXX


            Unrest. It crackled through the air as the light dimmed beneath a cloud; a breeze swayed through the crack in the window he left ajar—one leg bent to support the volume in one hand, the other leg stretched out in the window, partially hanging off, a by-product of growing up. His free hand held an ink-pen, lazily scratching sentiments onto the pages. He’d kept a journal since he was a child—“the good reader, reads; the best reader, practices,” his mother used to tell him, when she presented him the first volume, a black leather-bound monster worthy of a child’s harsh drawings, when he was seven.

            “What do I write?”

            A laugh, louder than a bell but hardly as harsh, it echoed in memory where it couldn’t in flesh. “Whatever you want, sweetheart. Write your thoughts, your day, a story of your own, no matter how dull you think it is, just write something, anything. Practice your penmanship. Promise me you’ll write.” So he did.

            He glanced out the window as the cloud shifted away again. I don’t know anymore. He scribbled each stroke of the pen sharp and crisp against the page, I just don’t know. Δεν γνωρίζω. Ποτέ μου δεν ένιωσα αυτό το ποσό της ενέργειας πριν. έχει ο πατέρας μου; Αμφιβάλλω. ως άπληστοι, όπως είναι, δεν μπορεί να είναι ότι η απελπιστική. αλλά ότι δεν μπορώ να πω μια ψυχή. ίσως θα πρέπει να δοκιμάσετε τα όρια αυτής της ρύθμισης; Μπαίνω στον πειρασμό και που ποτέ δεν μπορεί να είναι καλό. (Ι don’t know. I've never felt this amount of power before. Has my father? I doubt it. As greedy as he is, he can't be that desperate. But that I can't tell a soul. Perhaps I should test the limits of this arrangement? I'm tempted and that can never be good.) He slammed the book shut a moment later, leaving it on the windowsill when he left.

            Despite his father’s presence somewhere in the vicinity, the house felt less like a home, more like a crypt—void of life. The windows were bound behind curtains, spilling trickles of light, but with the electricity off, each ray cast an eerie glow where it landed. How his father could stand all these shadows was beyond him. It was impractical on the eyes and he’d told the old man as such, only to be greeted with a harsh snap that he’d grown to favor. But the house was silent now, even the cats were occupying themselves elsewhere. Cats, three of them, Arthur, Merlin, and Morgana—they were the by-product of his late mother’s love of literature and furry creatures. Though his father had wanted to get rid of the “beasts”, he’d practically told him he’d be getting rid of a son as well and so they’d stayed all three of them. Not that he could tell where they were now as the floorboards creaked beneath his feet when he moved from the upper hallway down the stairs.

            Not the best move he’d taken in his life. For as soon as he stepped foot onto the landing, a large sandy colored creature flurried past him, leaving behind a parcel at his feet. He raised a brow, hardly in surprise, more in veiled disgust as he picked up the dead mouse—half his head bitten off. “Arthur.” He groaned as he wandered into the kitchen to throw it away. “If you’re going to catch mice, the least you could do is let them rot outside.” Washing his hands, he heard a yowl of pain come from the other room, upon investigation, he found the other two hoodlums they kept in the house. Merlin, a small silver short-hair with green eyes, batted warily, hissing and yowling as a distinct black shadow trapped him in the corner. “Morgana.” He remarked warily as he snatched up the black cat, her paw reached out to swat air as though whining, letting Merlin scamper off somewhere. Although the youngest of the three, Morgana, a black cat from the pound, was easily the most mischievous. Though delicate and sleek, she was smaller than Arthur but larger than Merlin by far. And she seemed to enjoy teasing her smaller companion daily, though he never seemed to return the sentiment. He remembered when his mother brought Merlin home—a tiny kitten with a bloody gash over his eye, he’d almost lost it. She’d said she had something to show him and produced the tiny thing in her arms, cradling it like a small child.

            “Be careful, Avon. He’s tiny and scared.” His mother could never have resisted saving a kitten, especially a small one like him. He’d been trembling so much at the time Avon hadn’t dared to touch him. “What are you going to call him?” He’d remarked with a ten-year olds curiosity. “Well, I was thinking Merlin. Our king needs an advisor, doesn’t he?” He’d been with them ever since. Even after her death two years later. Her small frame encased in a coffin, a monster to swallow her hole; her visitation had been open to everyone but the funeral to only a few. He’d swear it’d rained that day, but it could’ve been his memory lying to him. He blanked on the few days after burying her; all the crying, and the sympathy—the only good that came from it was Max’s present, Morgana.

            In actuality, her mother, Bridget had been the one to give him Morgana. Sometime after the funeral, a week maybe, she’d come by with Max to give him something. “I know it won’t replace Abbi, Avon.” She’d been kind to him ever since he could remember. Even if she openly hated his father—he couldn’t blame her sometimes—she’d been a mother to him every time he came to see Max. “But I thought you should have her, a pet of your own. Her name’s Morgana.” And she’d put in his hands a tiny black kitten, who glanced at him, and then demanded his love and attention with mews and purring. And all he could reply with was a hollow ‘thank you’.

            “Now just because you’re a lady doesn’t mean you have to be a tease; there’s enough of them wandering around on two legs as it is.” He chuckled as the cat meowed at him. He chuckled again, sitting on the stairs, the black minx in his lap. A faint thought reminded him that today was the day of the carnival. Though it wasn’t set up for his father, it was likely he was supposed to make an appearance and as his son, Avon was probably supposed to attend as well. He sighed as he grabbed his phone from his pocket. Morgana head butted his free hand, leaving him only one to text with.

            Max; Kate
            I’ll assume you lovely ladies are attending the carnival, may I have the honor of escorting you?
            - Avon

            He clicked the phone's screen off after the message sent, scratching Morgana's ears gently. He imagined both his friends were lounging around Trudy's cafe where Kate worked but Max seemed to be constantly. He might've spontaneously appeared if the weather had been nicer, perhaps, but as the clouds dimmed the light again, it was a much better day to write. To practice. He mused. But how? He freed his hand from Morgana, idly tracing the slim charcoal lines that twirled around his wrist. He still felt the heat brimming around the red edges of the devil's mark where it'd burned him. Power comes at a cost.


            ( I'LL FIGHT BACK WHEN I ⇣FAIL )
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the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

Tenacious Plague

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it was so strange and so surreal( ONLY IF FOR A NIGHT )
.I WAS BURNING* ░ I WAS SET ALIGHT !
        *CONCENTRATE
        and I heard your voice!& & &xxxTHExxxONLYxxxSOLUTIONxxxWASxxxTOxxxSTANDxxxANDxxxFIGHT.


                  Shadows. The tug of darkness. Familiar. There was a moon overhead. Bright in a half crescent shape. Someone laughed, at him? With him. There was the sound of glass and a howl. Something shifted then pounced. He panicked, grabbing the closest thing. Blood splattered everywhere. His? No. Daniel’s. The thing before him was a demon; it was too late for him now.

                  He blinked, tightening another bolt. It looked like he was done for now. “There. Tenga cuidado con esto, ¿de acuerdo? Usted no dejan de golpear los frenos demasiado duro y van a quemar en ti otra vez.” (Be careful with this, okay? You keep hitting the brakes too hard and they'll burn out on you again.) He sighed, setting the wrench down the slid out from underneath the small Ford Focus one of the girls in the neighborhood owned. “Lo siento, Rafa. En realidad no es mi intención. Es que ... la gente deja muy rápido aquí.” She replied. (I'm sorry, Rafa. I really don't mean to. It's just...people stop really fast here.) He stood up and stretched a bit. Lying underneath such a small car was a bit hard on someone as tall as he was. Still, he felt a bit bad for Nicole. She just turned sixteen, just started driving and this wasn’t the greatest place in the world for that. “Still. Ten cuidado. Y conducir más despacio.” (Be careful. And drive slower.) He remarked; she gave a sheepish grin—they always did. Kids like this made him feel old. Or maybe that was simply a byproduct of the way he lived his life. She thanked him again—in Spanish, of course as was the usual of the neighborhood—and hopped in the car. Fortunately for him, he’d gotten his payment from her father earlier. “And she’ll be back here by the end of the week.” He chuckled as she sped off.

                  Rafael Alvares was the resident Mr. Fix-it in the community mostly Cuban and Puerto Rican. It was well known that Rafa was born in Brazil and grew up with Portuguese learning Spanish when he moved to the States. Still, he was treated like family by the neighborhood. Especially for all the work he did around it. From fixing up cars to air conditioning, he did just about everything. It wasn’t a bad thing really; it paid the bills and it gave him something to do when he had downtime. Which wasn’t often considering his night job—so the haphazard schedule of a wayward mechanic was perfect for him. It was the perfect distraction to keep the edginess at bay. Ever since he’d officially “settled” down in New York, he got…edgy sometimes. Anxious. After years of travelling around, it wasn’t a surprise really but not even a cigarette calmed him down. Times like those he wandered New York; not the safest trick in the book but as long as he had one of his handguns, he was more than protected. Even then, the handgun was simply to prevent a cheap shot at him—he was capable enough in a hand to hand fight. He’d been through enough as it was.

                  He put aside his tools and grabbed a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, lighting up idly. A few more hours. A few more hours before he’d meet up with the ‘others’ in order to hunt things that most people didn’t think existed. Vampires, werewolves, demons, witches…all sorts of creatures mankind feigned interest in lurked in the dark. He knew that lesson well enough. Because who would willingly hunt after these bastards? He’d made a mistake getting drunk with his brother…and Daniel had paid the price. So now he used his time hunting down as many creatures as he could. Solo, at first, until he was recruited by a strange team. Now he had to report in at dusk. Because hunting werewolves was easier at nightfall; they tended to be more active then and easier to spot. Only a few more hours then.

                  - - - - - - - - -

                  Night hit faster than he imagined. He’d just finished another cigarette when the sun set. It was time to move out. Couldn’t have anyone waiting for him, could he? He grabbed Hell from the table, taking out the magazine and reloading the semi-automatic Beretta 92FS with a custom made brand of silver bullets. It was commonly known that werewolves were naturally allergic to silver, it burned them like no one’s business, but wolfsbane was their real natural enemy. He’d spent the last hour crushing up the remaining aconitum he had into a small jar, then coated the barrel of both Hell and Highwater with the poison. He wasn’t taking chances; any wolf unlucky enough to get caught in his shot was going down like a brick. The rest he poured into another small jar which he put around his neck. No wolf was going to catch him off guard.

                  With Hell locked and loaded, he grabbed his M9 Bayonet and tucked it away against his leg for backup. Rafa usually packed light when it came to hunting since most creatures were much faster than humans; so he needed to be as light as possible to keep up. That generally meant three things—both the Beretta’s Hell and Highwater and either the Bayonet Deimos or his trusty tire iron Nessie. And since he figured cutting up wolves was more effective than bashing their brains in, Deimos it was.

                  Packing aside, Rafael was ready to go. Cellphone in pocket—one of two that he kept around—he hit the streets, hiding both guns underneath a jacket. Out of habit, he checked the locks on the door again, before he actually left. He didn’t take his car, just in case he wasn’t in any position to drive it home. The walking was good for him, the air was good for him. Speaking of…about halfway through the journey, he lit another cigarette, the fourth one that day. But he always had one before a mission, just to make sure cravings didn’t get in the way of his focus. He had to be focused…or someone might get killed.

                  But apparently, he was the last one to the party. Not uncommon really considering how he prepared himself before setting out—research, weaponry, poison…he’d never leave his house without being ready to kill something on the trip over. He’d been playing this game too long to make such a rooky mistake. He paused outside the complex; idly finishing his cigarette, eying the dying sun. Almost show time. He thought grimly. Finally, he crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe and continued on. He made his way up to the apartment quietly and casually, both his hands in his pockets just barely catching the tail end of a crooked conversation between Ezra and Noel—two of his companions in this little group.

                  “Bullet between the eyes leaves more satisfaction. Seguro não vai pagar os mortos.” (Insurance won't pay the dead.)

the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

Tenacious Plague

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                                                xxYOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE LAST OF ME
                                                ▄ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄
                                                      comexxxonxxx&xxxjumpxxxinxxxthexxxfirexxxxxxxthe first one's on me
                                                      comexxxonxxx&xxxjumpxxxinxxxthexxxfirexxxxxxxxxthe first one's on me
                                                      comexxxonxxx&xxxjumpxxxinxxxthexxxfirexxxxxxxxxxxthe first one's on me
                                                      comexxxonxxx&xxxjumpxxxinxxxthexxxfirexxxxxxxxxxxxxthe first one's on me

                                                      reload my soul!
                                                      xxxxxxxxxI JUST HEAR MYVOICE JUST MY VOICExx xx xx


                                There was something serene about freedom. Not the bloody revolution freedom. The freedom gained from choice, from walking away. A little over four years now, four long years she’d been absent of a home of stone walls and left free to the wind. Did she miss it, Denerim? Of course. She couldn’t betray herself like that but there was something to this life, something serene and exciting. Something useful. Yes, something useful indeed.

                                The wind whistled in her ears as she urged her steed on, her voice lost to it the faster the white mare ran. In absence of a vocal companion, she found herself humming one of the tunes her mother used to clean dishes too. It was always dishes with her. I have one for everything I do. It makes the work go by quicker, don’t you think, Eli? But she didn’t have dishes to do, sometimes it was a shame. So she hummed whichever tune—sweeping, laundry, dishes—came first to her mind. It was just something to pass the time.

                                But they were making good progress. Even after years of riding, Titania ran swifter than any horse she’d ever seen and she was stubborn to boot. Trained to run headlong into a fist fight, she couldn’t have had a braver companion, human, hobbit, dwarf, or elf. “Almost makes me miss th’ Captain.” She chuckled with amusement. Her gruff Captain would never admit to missing her, she bet. He’d probably snarl something and bark for her to get patrolling like the rest of the shifts. And she would grab her sword and march out with a giggle between her teeth.

                                Fond times. A wave of homesickness washed over her briefly, much to her annoyance. Times like these, idle times, it always did. Nothing left to do but take a deep breath and march forward—as she always did. She seemed to be doing that a lot more recently.

                                With the destination nearly in sight, Titania slowed her gait to a canter without instruction. She didn’t mind, they weren’t in any hurry, and there was plenty of sunlight left. Lothering wasn’t going anywhere. Their previous pace was a byproduct of habit. It was best not to run out her good horse. “That just won’t do, would it?” She remarked with a small smile, rubbing the horse’s neck and leaning back in her seat with a deep breath.

                                Lothering, though she hadn’t been by for many a month, looked no different than when she’d seen it last. From several hundred paces away she could see the bustle of the small town—children chasing each other, mothers scolding them from afar, merchants selling wares, hunters, trappers, she could smell the sharpness of roasting meat from where she was. “Delicious. What do you say we eat when we arrive, hm?” She chuckled as the mare whinnied her reply. Nothing could beat a meal she didn’t have to cook herself and a bed that wasn’t flat on the ground after solid months of travelling around. Simple things. Simple things.

                                She pulled on the reigns gently to slow Titania to a walk as they approached the small village. It wouldn’t do to scare anyone by thundering in. Though she knew at this distance, her approach would hardly be a surprise. With the sun glinting harshly off her white and gold armor, she wasn’t an invisible figure. She couldn’t be. The element of surprise was a virtue that avoided her; no, she could only face her enemy head on. She knew no other way. That was how the guard did it and she would have no other way.

                                Titana broke through the village’s entrance, trotting and snorted as some of the village children stared at her. “Shh, don’t scare them.” She chuckled as the horse’s ears twitched in annoyance. Titania could never completely get used to children, no matter how many villages they visited. She also had a bad habit of stepping on them if they got too close to her. But she was an irritable mare in general, she would neigh in agitation if anyone else came too close to her but her lady knight. The Captain had warned her that horses of her line had bad temperaments. Tis is a fine horse. Only the best for ye, Eli. Only the best for ye. But be carefu’ she don’t throw ya. A gal like this’ll break ya if ya don’t break ‘er first. But she’ll be a fine warhorse, she won’t shy away from a thing. He’d told her when he gave Titania to her. Back then, she thought he was being too heavy handed; such a beautiful horse couldn’t be that finicky. And she would’ve lost a bet on it. On more than one occasion the mare had thrown her sending her to her back. But Eli wasn’t deterred so easily and she continued to get back on until the mare quit throwing her.

                                “It’s the errant knight!” a boy called out her nickname, wandering closer until his caretaker snatched him away.

                                “Get back ‘ere.” She called. “You don’t go wanderin’ ‘round the missus horse, y’hear?” She scolded sharply. “That horse’ll bite you or worse.” The boy nodded numbly, running off as Eliade dismounted, keeping a firm hold on Titania’s reigns.

                                “My apologies, Mistress Cooper. The boy didn’t mean any harm.”

                                The woman nodded. “Oh, you don’t need to apologize, Eliade. That boy needs to mind his manners anyhow. Shouldn’t ever get t’ close to a horse, ‘specially not a sprite like yours.” Titania snorted and stomped her foot. The older woman held up her arms. “Oh don’t you throw a fit at me. I know you’re worth your salt carrying this one out and about.” The horse whinnied again, seemingly accepting the answer. Eli chuckled, glancing around.

                                “She is worth it all right. How have you been mistress? I don’t think I’ve seen that boy before.”

                                Mistress Cooper shook her head and sighed. “Aye. You ‘member Eleni? That’s her boy. She took ill last summer and died. Couldn’t leave’m on the streets now could I? Even if he is more trouble than he’s worth.”

                                “I’m sorry to hear that Mistress. I remember her. She gave me a few herbs she collected before I left last. Has it really been that long? Nothing’s changed; it seems I’ve forgotten.” She smiled sadly. Plague, the one thing she stood no chance with.

                                The older woman nodded. “Enough of those sad things. Come, look at you, girl!”

                                She chuckled sheepishly. Her hair, a bloody crimson in the harsh light, was usually pulled into a neat braid that fell behind her back; but from hours of riding, stray strands broke loose at odd ends. She patted a few down only to form some sort of strange frame around her face. There was a red slit across her cheek where she was nicked by a bandits blade near Redcliffe. It was healing but still present. Her armor was worn and streaked with dried blood from all sorts of owners. Valiance—her shield—was dented slightly, a perfect mold for her hand; the rampant horse crest looked to be smeared sideways where she’d bashed someone’s nose in. Not to mention the cuts and bruises she covered up in white under her armor. Every bone ached and bled but a little too much was just enough for a wayward knight. Only the Captain’s Wrath—nestled nicely across her back—was in pristine shape, though caked in old blood. “I must admit, a nice bath would be welcomed.”

                                “Then go, off with you!” Mistress Cooper shooed her away; a gab of homesickness struck, she couldn’t help but be reminded of her mother. With her fingers laced around Titania’s reigns, she made it about two steps eyeballing a strange man outside The Iron Bear. Tall, rugged; his clothes betrayed his origin. She’d never met a man like that.

                                “Gives me the creeps, that one. Flew into town shortly before you, dear.” She glanced over her shoulder at Mistress Cooper’s voice. “Never seen a thing like that.” She muttered. Eliade turned her attention back to the wild man.

                                “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure either, mistress.” She remarked. The figure moved slightly, hands shifting towards weapons at his belt. Villagers scurried away. “Don’t worry. He’ll be no harm to you.” She caught his eye briefly, raising Valiance in inclination with a pointed nod. This was as much her home as any other; she’d die for it like any other.

                                Mistress Cooper seemed to accept that answer. “Oh my. More excitin’ things today, it seems.” The elder woman grumbled, causing Eli’s attention to waver more. Behind her, almost as equally near to the tavern as she was, was a quite startled elf. She was frozen in place, her fingers gripping a shortbow warily, eyes large—as though she’d never seen a human settlement. She probably hadn’t.

                                For once, Eli was glad her weapon was at her back. She lowered her shield. “Stay here.” She told the warhorse, patting her mane. “As much as I love you, you’ll only cause problems.” The mare snorted and pawed the ground, as though trying to say it’s you that causes problems, not me. Eli chuckled. “Of course, of course.” Warily, she approached the elf.

                                Her feet were too frozen, she didn’t seem to regard Eli’s approach. She knew she heard her, elves had excellent hearing—especially if she was from where Eli guessed she was. “Are you from the Wilds?” She called; she shifted her shield to her arm to reveal that both hands were empty. “Nasty terrain that is. I’ve been through it before. The mare don't like it none.” She took another careful step. “I mean you no harm. No one’s going to hurt you here, ser. I give you my word on that. You don’t need to grip your bow so tight. It’s all right.”

the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

Tenacious Plague

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                    xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe sound ◞of a crescendo & struckdown; it was your doom
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                    xxxxxxxxxx░░ ◞( there's a sign in the windowxxx ( tell me! annie are◞ you┋okay? )

                          Empty. Vast. White. The blankest of canvas’s. Something alive. Something should be alive. But there was only air. He should draw something. But what? There was a pen in his hand. Artists hated pens, pens couldn’t erase. Pencil lines, then cover in ink—framing technique. Training. Training. That’s how you draw, kiddo’s. He moved his hand to the left, the tip of the pen slanted right at a broken angle. “Well, that’s not right.” The Hatter told the Hare. “Where’s the bat in a teacup?” A laugh. A jagged line rained down like lightning, severing hand from arm. Blood splashed on white like a paint balloon bursting. A flower grew patiently out from all the mess. “Well, that’s one way to do it.” Run away. Run away, the petals screamed. The peal of thunder roared overhead, the pop, pop, pop, of the machine gun. The canvas vanished, replaced by dirt below his feet. The cry of war planes when they dove and weaved. Left and right. Left and right. Soldiers marching left and right—heading towards the reaper, vanishing one by one inside his mouth, crunched up like cereal. Pop, pop, pop. “Where are we going? The future.” One man whispered as he was swallowed up. BANG. Shot between the eyes. Hardly any blood flew. He fell backwards into the abyss. He landed on his hands. He sat up, the pen laced between his fingers. Draw something. Draw something for me. A voice whispered in his head. Who are you? He tried to say but his voice didn’t work. “Come to save Ms. Muffet, have you? The spider’s already scared her away!” A voice cackled from the bed where a bent figure laid—a doll? Head turned aside, what you doing, baby? Bent. Bent back. No, head bent back at a bad angle. Twisted off, bruises down her arms. Heads will roll. Heads will roll. Fingers crossed. Bloodstains on the carpet. So, Annie, are you okay?

                          “Anna?” Thump. “….why, hello, floor. How are you this fine morning? s**t.” It’d been a long time since he’d woken up with carpet on his tongue. “Obviously, doing better than I am. But thanks for asking.” He muttered as a pale silver color escaped under his bed, the faint outline of iron bars sinking back into the walls. He clucked his tongue as he sat up, leaning back against his mattress frame. “Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was jail bait.” Oh the things he could do when he wasn’t awake. His power had a nifty habit of rewiring itself when he wasn’t paying attention, generally when he was first waking up and when he didn’t have the mental power to contain it—when he was high, drunk, stoned. But alas, those days were gone now. “Ah, how I miss them.” His head lolled back against the mattress as he scooped up a stray cigarette from the floor and lit it. He never gave up the smoking; he never had the drive.

                          He blew smoke into the air once before finally moving again. Just a twitch of his foot at first, then finally the rest of him followed into a standing position. “Whelp, that settles the vodka debate. No more shots before bed.” That wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. He knew that. But it seemed more appropriate to blame the vodka in the fridge than the missing girl down the street. It wasn’t her fault she’d been kidnapped and the first place the sheriff ran sniffing was his family. Because of Anna. Always because they wanted to talk about Anna. Was it related? How did she go missing again? Questions, questions, questions. Then and now. The annoyance of the memory made his blood cringe. That girl was dead. He didn’t have to be psychic to know that. She was dead. The pity he felt for the Doctor was immense but the annoyance of the police overshadowed that. The worst thing they can do is find her body. You want me to say something to the cops? Tell them this: that girl is dead and the worst thing they can do is show her father the body. That’s a memory you can’t erase. He told his father once, the first time he called. That was a week ago. Now his father, one Geoffrey Seville, had made a statement but Shaun still avoided Sheriff Michaels like he had the Black Plague. Now he was avoiding his father’s phone calls. It was only a matter of time before one of them made a personal appearance at his work, he knew that, but until then, he could play it off.

                          He put the cigarette out in an ashtray near the couch. “Just on time!” He laughed as his phone launched into playing Pat Benetar’s Hit Me With Your Best Shot. His father had made a habit of calling him every morning now—always the same nonsense. Talk to the police. All you have to do is tell them you know nothing. Who benefited from him telling the cops that he knew nothing? It sounded like a waste of his time. They only wanted to talk about the things they didn’t know about Anna’s murder-suicide. He rolled his eyes, absentmindedly humming as he made a thing of coffee to chase some caffeine in his blood. There was something called ‘school’ happening today.

                          The phone stopped just short of a repeat of the chorus. He downed a quick shot left over from the previous evening, followed by some coffee. Okay, now he was mostly awake. “Damn, just short of the best part.” He grabbed a bagel, munching on it as he wandered back to grab his phone, delete the message without listening to it, and ignore the one missed call message. Yeah, it wasn’t that important. Clothes were. Sadly, clothes were.

                          Unfortunately, pantless and shirtless wasn’t a fad anymore—he was still living in college, sue him. And it was probably freakishly cold outside. If he hadn’t been born here, he would’ve complained but he was used to the cold weather by this point. Select other’s that he knew—one certain little homeless lady came to mind—but he was working on that. She had gloves at least. Perfectly good stolen gloves. Next time he saw the Coyote, he intended on leaving her a jacket to match, whether she liked it or not. Since she hadn’t appreciated the whole ‘you could break in and steal someone’s couch for a night’ conversation. He wasn’t sure why; it was fairly well known by this point in time—though not a concrete fact, of course—that Shaun Seville could find himself in any location, in any situation. He’d been in the habit of it

                          But speaking of friends, he had one too many, just the way he liked it, honestly. Though his closest friend was Matthias, easily. They got in more trouble and by default, had the most fun, than he could count on fingers and toes. He still had the naked Titanic themed drawing of Matthias over his couch. In fact, he just walked right by it a moment ago as he pulled on a shirt and pants. Still his best work by far in his account and he’d done a lot of artwork over the years. Though that wasn’t entirely his fault—between his little art students at the high school, his assorted group of friends, and other social figures around the town, he’d done more work than he did in college. Everyone wanted him to draw them something; most of the time it was for free. Only when he did artwork around town did he charge a small fee. It wasn’t like he needed money, it wasn’t like he needed work, he did what he liked and that was it really. But most businesses offered him money for the art and effort, eventually he learned to take it. But from other people? No way.

                          “Probably break my hand permanently before thirty.” He grinned at the thought. He was only four years away from that as his students like to remind him. Really, why did he teach again? Those little ******** were a pain in the a**, especially for him having to get up hella early to teach them. Maybe he should take a page from Beth’s book and demand that he not have a first period. Nah.. He supposed the earliness helped in its small way.

                          Shoes, shirt, now he could get service. He finished off the bagel, time to call it a morning. He slammed the door shut behind him; the trek down the apartment revealed rain. A trek back upstairs to grab a better jacket since there wasn’t much of a point in owning a car in Devonshire. Another reason he wasn’t wanting for money, didn’t have to pay insurance on a car. It was a perk and annoyance of Devonshire, one that he was used to by now. Even the school wasn’t terribly far from his apartment.

                          On the return trip, his phone went off again, playing Band of Skull’s Patterns—Athena, he knew from the get go. The song played once through the selected part then shut off again; she was texting him. Everyone he knew, for the most part, had a personalized ringtone. It was a convenience thing really. Once he memorized the pattern, he could avoid a call or answer it, just depended on his mood. He opened the message once he reached the bottom of the stairs, his fingers aching for another cigarette but not yet, he decided. Not yet. He stared at the message once, twice, then sold! and shoved the phone back in his pocket next to his cigarettes. It looked like it was time for a detour folks, the illusive man went where he was needed after all.

                          With the rain, it was chillier than he expected, walking through it and everything. Minutes ticked by; he narrowly avoided a confrontation with Sheriff Chase Michaels. The man was leaving a shop, something thin and papery between his fingers, a flyer? He raised a brow; Michaels caught a small glimpse of him waving before the man disappeared again out of his sight. Shaun Seville could be the most annoying b*****d on the planet if he wanted to be. Shaun leaned back against the building behind him, hidden by his own illusion, until the Sheriff passed again. It was cute almost, like a bad game of cat and mouse. Michaels knew Shaun well enough, since growing up Shaun hadn’t quite been the saint he should’ve been. More than once he’d been caught for drug possession; he knew the inside of the station like the back of his hand back in high school. Ah, the best days. He only straightened up when he realized how bad his addiction had been. Illusions were powerful when they got out of hand and when he was high, his mental functions were lower than low, he couldn’t control his power; not only did they make him a beacon for drug busts, but he’d almost killed someone important. He wasn’t going to let that happen again.

                          Michaels disappeared somewhere else when Shaun investigated closely enough to see the flyer he’d been posting around town. It was a “mandatory” town meeting. The flyer didn’t specify the contents, only that it was being held at 7:00 at town hall. Perhaps his father had been calling about that instead. He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to attend. He should; he knew that. But what could he do? He wasn’t a bloodhound. If he’d seen the girl, the first thing—okay second, after chasing after her—would’ve been to call the cops. You should go. You should go. Because you couldn’t for Anna. A nagging voice whispered; he hated when those damn things were right. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. See what they want us to do.” He muttered and continued on his way.

                          He hummed Olly Murs Troublemaker all the way to Taylor’s apartment. One of those lovely ladies was awake and in dire need of assistance, apparently. He pulled out his phone again as he stood in front of one of the windows.

                          To: Athena
                          Look outside.
                          —Shaun

                          Message sent. He scooped up a small rock and tossed it at her window the moment his phone had sent the message. He waited a moment, then tossed another small rock, watching as it clinked and bounced back down to earth. Fascinating. “You realize I only understood three words in that entire message right? ‘I’m’ ‘really’ ‘bored’—though really wasn’t in there. I’m just guessing.” He called when she finally realized he was throwing rocks at her window like a classy b***h. He made a ‘come on’ gesture. “If you’re coming with, then let’s go, so we aren’t late. For some strange reason the teacher has to be there before the students. I never quite understood that. I always thought we could come and go whenever we wanted. Oh, by the way, it’s raining! Y’know, if you couldn’t tell.” He grinned.

the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

Tenacious Plague

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                              *WALKING B!ETWEEN ⋮ ↷ RAINDROPS.
                              INSERTRIDINGXTHEXAFTERSHOCKXXXXXRIDINGXTHEXAFTERSHOCKXXXXXRIDINGXTHEXAFTERSHOCK
                                    INSERT THIS!THERE'S NOTHING 。´LEFT TO LOSE ◞↓

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                                    Clank. Thump. Clang. Thunk. There was an abundance of sounds at Go the Distance as there usually were every afternoon. Provided he had work to do of course. But that always seemed to be the case now. Before, when the shop had first opened, it'd been a little rough--people weren't kind to trust that the useless kid could actually do something now, it seemed, but once he got started, things went rolling from there. Now he did all sorts of strange business. Not "strange" strange, he wasn't like that...but the shop was formerly an auto repair shop, hell it still had the space for it, and the tools, but Hadrian Vallen, the owner, would fix anything anyone wanted him too. Most of the time, he took personal items home to work on and left the bigger items in the shop. Then he had to collect the items waiting on the doorsteps too. People tended to leave things for him to fix on his doorstep if they couldn't make it out to the store that night. He'd fix them, then leave them at the shop to ring out prices later. It usually only took him a few days to get everything done, unless he had to order a part. Of which, he'd send Reyna by or he'd go himself it wasn't far.

                                    Now who was Reyna? Reyna was his assistant of sorts. She helped keep the shop tidy and organized, helped ring out customers, ran errands, and worked on the cars so he could fix other things. He couldn't really have had a better assistant. Especially considered she seemed to like handling the cars, which always took the longest. It was nice to have help with them. Actually, it was nice to have help in general; if he didn't, he wasn't sure how he'd manage to get everything done at a decent time or how he'd ever eat. Generally, when got into working, he'd forget until Reyna reminded him.

                                    The radio played softly in the background outside as he banged around the underbelly of an old junker that he’d towed around back—most of the cars he fixed outside, only when the weather was bad did he park them inside, the shop wasn’t terribly big, room for one or two vehicles and the front of the shop. It was just him today. Which was fine, the only project he had left was Old Blue anyway. Since the thing was ancient with dirt collected from three generations, he wouldn't have let Reyna get underneath the thing anyway. The darn thing was really on its last legs; he'd seen more of it this month than anything else. But he promised he'd get it running again...though he'd warned the owner several times that he wasn't going to be able to keep saving it like this, it might be time to let go. Obviously his advice had gone unheeded.

                                    “Oh, great.” He gritted his teeth and grabbed the wrench next to him, twisting another bolt in place. The car apparently didn’t appreciate that as it spit a mouthful of dust at him; he coughed. “s**t.” This thing really had to go. He sighed and slid out from underneath the junker. “I think that’s the best I can do.” He set the wrench aside, wiping sweat from his brow; it wasn’t a surprise that it was boiling inside the shop. He had the air condition running inside and two fans outside but it didn’t seem to make a difference what with the humidity and being underneath the junker. It was always hot.

                                    Even so, Hadrian always brought his hoodie. He was never really sure why. He guessed it was ‘just in case’. It was hanging on the back of a chair at the front of the shop. Now, here’s the nice part of the shop; he rigged it a long time ago, so that when the front door was opened, the bell dinged inside the shop and outside. It was a nifty feature when he worked by himself. So far today, he hadn’t had too many new orders to fill. He set the wrench aside, wiping off dust on a rag he had hanging around the door, which he left open. He grabbed the keys from the hood and fired up the engine. It sputtered and groaned, angry at him, and for a moment he thought it wasn’t going to make it but it started and Hadrian leaned back in the seat, slightly relieved. He was getting tired of the truck. But a job’s a job.

                                    Turning the engine off again, he locked the junker and headed back inside to grab some water from the mini-fridge he kept in there. Usually he kept water and Coke in there. Sometimes lunch, but that was rare now, since usually Reyna went and grabbed it from the café. There wasn’t anything in there today, just one more bottle of water—so he added a few more—and some Coke. Did I eat already? He couldn’t remember. He’d finished changing the tires on a ’04 Honda Civic earlier, the junker, he’d fixed up an old clock…did he eat between those? Well, he wasn’t hungry so he had to assume somewhere in there he’d eaten lunch.

                                    He opened the till with a key he kept in his pocket and put the junker’s keys in there with the other sets. It was the safest place to keep them in the shop; they were kept there until the owner came to claim the car. He locked the till again and rubbed against his cheek gingerly. His hand drew back covered in a slimy black substance—oil. It must’ve been from the junker and he was lucky, it was smeared all over his cheek. “Well, I’ll definitely have to shower today.” Though that was obvious, between the sweat and the oil, he wasn’t presentable to go anywhere.

                                    “Damn, it is hot in here.” He half attempted to air out his shirt but ended up slipping it off in the end. It was all mangy and sweaty anyway. He rolled it up and tossed it behind the front counter near his jacket. He glanced at the clock. 5pm. He’d probably close up shop in a couple of hours if it stayed like this. He had more projects to do at home. “Now let’s see…what’s next?” But for now, it was off to the next project.

                                    ooc: there you go ladies and gents, a sweaty, somewhat dirty, half-naked Hercules. enjoy.

the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

Tenacious Plague

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                                  x. `you are not. »;WHAT YOU SEEM )
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                                  LIKE RESIGNATION TO THE END
                                          ██ »: THAT'S ⋮` THE THING ABOUT TRUST
                                          xxxxxxxxxx(xxxy o u ' r exxl o s i n gxxt h exxxg a m exxx)


                                    OH NO YOU LOST THE GAME ~
                                    Morning.

                                    Bang. Bang. Ricochet. Even muffled the metallic shot-burst resonated around his skull. Before—when he was simply another rookie—he would’ve flinched like all the rest but by this point, it was more than a familiar sound. He’d practically trained himself to never flinch, never falter, never fear—fear is a choice—in the sight of chaos. One mistake and it’s someone’s head, maybe yours, maybe your partner, maybe someone else. Don’t make that mistake, Thane. Don’t regret that. Someone told him once, a former officer, when he first started—the same person that taught him how to shoot, taught him that his life didn’t mean a damn thing if he spent it behind bars. Now he spent it putting other souls behind bars…and at the firing range.

                                    “I don’t know why you bother coming here anymore, Thane.” A pretty blonde—Megan—another rookie, remarked as the board swung forward. Three bullet holes, all almost a dead ringer in the center. “You never miss anyway.” She put on her glasses and fired a few rounds at the sheet next to him as he took off the headphones.

                                    “Don’t want to lose my edge.”

                                    She smiled. “I don’t think you could.” He smirked slightly.

                                    “I’ll keep that in mind. But it’s best I get out of here.”

                                    “Looking for Max?” He shrugged.

                                    “Not really looking, no. I’m pretty sure I know where to find him. See you.” At least, by this point, he should know where Max was. They’d been working together for years, been close longer than that even. He wasn’t worried. If Max wasn’t waiting for him outside, he’d have been a monkey’s uncle. He gave her a half wave and set out again.

                                    It wasn’t uncommon for him to hit the range before heading to work. It was familiar, he liked it there. Sometimes better than the station—mostly because sitting in one place bothered him. That and paperwork. That was his least favorite part of the job, all the damn paperwork. Hell, he was probably going to drown in it the moment he walked in. It was a safe bet since his phone hadn’t gone off at all last night or this morning. If there was something new for them, he’d have heard about it by now. Which means it’s catch-up day. He mentally groaned. He better get a cigarette in then. Mentally prepare himself for extraneous agony. Smoking was just another bad habit he’d picked up as a kid, along with moderate drinking, sleeping around, and overall natural teenage habits he hadn’t quite grown out of. His poor mother. At least that was what some would say behind his back; truth was, no one worked harder on the force than he did. Day or night, something came up; he wanted to be the first to know. And the town couldn’t deny that though he picked up some bad habits, he was an overall plus for the community. As much as they wanted to.

                                    Even this early in the morning—with the sun barely staring over the skyline—humidity stole the show. That didn’t bode well for the rest of the day. Lovely. He thought, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it, leaning back against the building as he smoked. Max was waiting for him—as he usually did. He took another drag off the cigarette holding it out to him wordlessly. Max shook his head and he shrugged, finishing it off.

                                    “All right, all right. Let’s go.”

                                    Afternoon.

                                    “Dear god, if I have to read another word from this dry-a** report—I might just have to shoot myself.” He groaned, taking off his reading glasses and running a hand over his face. Did all reports have to be in size eight font? It was hard enough reading normal sized font as it was, but he needed a magnifying glass for this. And they’d been at it all day. It didn’t help that most of these cases were over and done with and he’d just pushed them all to the side for later—as usual. He shoved the next stack of papers aside and put his feet on his desk, leaning back slightly. He marked something else down and set the report aside in the ‘finished’ pile. Max was chuckling at him.

                                    “What? I’m serious. If my eyes don’t start bleeding from this…”

                                    “And you’ll leave me to do a report on you? How nice of you.”

                                    He shrugged. “Thane Hackett, pleasure doing business with you.” He grinned, holding out his hand almost mockingly then pulled out his phone.

                                    To: Nik
                                    What’re you doing later? If I’m not d—

                                    message sent

                                    “HACKETT.” A loud thump resounded when the Chief slammed something down next to his leg, causing him to accidentally send the message early. “Whelp, this is only a bit awkward. Hi there, bossman.” He glanced up at their naturally irate boss. “What do you think you’re doing, Hackett?”

                                    “Texting?” He tilted his head slightly. That apparently wasn’t the right answer, just the obvious.

                                    “I can see that. Get your a** back to work.”

                                    “My a** has been working. It’s been sitting here while I’m doing paperwork. But I guess you can’t see this nice stack of finished reports.”

                                    The Chief cast him a glance to show he wasn’t kidding. “Your mouth’s going to get you killed Hackett. Now the two of you can bust that party tonight; we’ve got a tip there’s going to be one out at the farm sometime tonight.” Thane rolled his eyes.

                                    “Neither of those is surprising. You could pick a random day of the year and find kids drinking out there. At least I can promise you get my sass all 365.”

                                    “Don’t get cute with me, Hackett.”

                                    “Aw, that’s what I do best, sir.”

                                    He was real close to being smacked. He knew it. It didn’t mean he wasn’t going to continue to press his luck. The bossman grumbled something about ‘get your a** back to work’ and sauntered off somewhere out of view. He made sure of that before removing his feet from his desk. “All right, break time then.” Which earned him a what are you doing look from Max. “What? If we’re going to be pulling extra hours, I’m going outside for a bit. Got all night to finish the rest of those. Probably going to need a cigarette—or two. Coming or not?” He shrugged, grabbing his jacket and heading outside.

the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

Tenacious Plague

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                          XX » ( ONE BY ONE- &: WE ALL .FALL
                          ANDONEMORE hold on; tight
                          HOLD ON TIGHT! HOLD ON!xxXXTHISXXAIN'TXXMYXXFIGHTXX!
                          HOLD ON TIGHT! HOLD ON! HOLD ON! HOLD ON


                                Blood magic taints and corrupts. Its hold is deeper than any abyss; you won’t be able to escape it and you won’t be able to outrun its consequences. It’s best to never indulge it but it’s in your blood, always itching. Don’t make the mistake of scratching it.

                                He woke with a start and the beginnings of a cold sweat—the faint traces of whispers lingered in his ear. But he could only pick out a few words—enough to know it was a warning, but a dream or a spirit? He couldn’t say but he was betting on the latter all things considering. That was just his luck, wasn’t it? Did this mean his power just allowed random spirits to wander in and contact him when he wasn’t conscious? That was something to keep in mind. He already knew that if he wasn’t paying attention, his power drafted spirits to him—calling to them. Now what he wasn’t sure of was whether his power was calling the spirits from the ‘other side’ or whether it was just attracting the ones that were already here. From what he’d looked at already, it could have been either. It was annoying when he couldn’t find solid evidence but that was what history was—shaky ground.

                                “Taints…abyss…able to escape…consequences…in your blood…don’t make the mistake…” He muttered. Whoever it was, it was family, at least. Only family would be able to warn him like that. Not that I need a warning to know how dangerous this is. He shivered slightly. Family. Of all the ghosts he’d had the pleasure of seeing so far, he hadn’t seen any from his family; a blessing in disguise, he wasn’t sure if he could take much more of dead family. His grandfather, Avery, was still fairly fresh in the grave as well—at least his death was natural. He couldn’t say the same for either of his parents or the uncle he’d never met. It didn’t matter, what was done, was done.

                                He sighed. Still, he should write the warning down in the grimoire—just in case the line didn’t end with him—add his own handwriting to the hundreds of lines of pure chicken scratch where some magical family member thought it’d be helpful to write a spell or hex or some supernatural phenomenon. Though it’d only been a few weeks, he had the book practically memorized. After his grandfather’s death and its discovery, he’d dove right into it—trying to understand and piece together as much as he could. Of course, the initial discovery was the byproduct of the single night where he’d been goaded by Tarja to indulge curiosity and find out ‘what makes this family ticks’. Too bad he hadn’t known then how much he would regret his decision. After all, following others to the abandoned mansion in the woods had led to some strange events—a term he didn’t use lightly considering the strangeness of his mother’s death—which then led to this. Witchcraft. Blood magic. Death magic. Necromancy. The family legacy included seeing the dead, apparently, now his life was more than a mess. He couldn’t control his power and more often than not, he confused the dead with the living—then there was the massive headache that ensued when he tried to actively turn it off or when too many voices overloaded his own. The only clarity was in the history. Witchcraft opened another door on the death of his mother and father—in fact, it almost could explain them. But there were still many unknown factors.

                                Now speaking of the grimoire…where was it? He’d dozed off on the couch last night, halfway watching Amityville Horror and rereading sections of it. And now it was gone.

                                “TARJA!”

                                He got off the couch and went up to Tarja’s—his sister—room. Of the two, Tarja was the more impassioned where Tavi was more calculating. She was also a sneaky thief. He knocked on her door; no answer. “Tarja!” Again, no answer. Finally, he just opened the door. He found her curled up on her side, the grimoire next to her on the bed. “Kuinka monta kertaa täytyy kertoa koskemasta sitä?” (How many times do I have to tell you not to touch that?) Her head lolled to the side and she grinned up at him. “Aww, se ei ole kuin voin tehdä mitään täällä ~” (Aww, it’s not like I can do anything in here.) He had to be thankful for that. Tarja didn’t seem to inherit anything other than a shiver when ghosts were around. Tarja was less inclined to consequences than he was—and there had to be plenty of them to go along with the family curse. She rolled her eyes but offered the book as a peace treaty. “Älä suutu, älä olette jossain olla pian?” (Don’t be mad, don’t you have somewhere to be soon?) “Hm?” Ah. That’s true, he did have plans today. He’d almost forgotten. “Hieno, otan tämän kanssani.” (Fine, I’ll take this with me.) He disappeared to get ready. Tarja laughed and waved. “Käyttäytyä, veli.” (Behave, brother.) I believe that’s my line.

                                Despite that, Tavi was the first one to show up at the cemetery. Now who chose that theme? A necromancer in a cemetery, now that just boded ill will. He glanced up at the solid black iron gate and pushed it open cautiously. From there, it was like looking through glasses honestly. He could see the dead whenever they appeared as it was, but here, in the place they rested…it was almost unreal. There were multiple figures lining the grave markers, he didn’t say a word. One woman—with an unnerving missing eye—regarded him curiously and hissed something at him; but he couldn’t make it out from where he was standing—that was probably a good thing. Breathe. They’re annoying but harmless. Of course, he couldn’t ignore them forever, it wouldn’t be too long before they noticed he could see and hear them.

                                “Hm?” He glanced over his shoulder, completely oblivious as Lex appeared behind him. The one-eyed woman hissed again. Soon another ghost noticed. “You’re the one that wanted a secluded location.” Tavi shrugged idly. The woman came closer, he eyed her warily but she seemed unaffected. You can hear me, can’t you boy. He didn’t answer, his attention shifting back to Lex. “As well as anyone can, I guess. Unless there’s a manual somewhere, I doubt it can get much better.” Oh, don’t be coy! I’ve had enough to do with coy men. He shrugged again. “The dead don’t limit themselves to graveyards anyway.” But there was a stronger concentration of them here than most places—it didn’t help that he could sense a certain power from the graveyard or maybe the spirits themselves. A certain malice that his blood wanted to invoke. “They’re annoying but harmless. I don’t run from that.” The one-eyed woman was standing in front of him now, leaning forward on a headstone. Another ghost came forward to investigate. Can you hear us?

                                He was so entranced with the ghosts that he almost didn’t catch Lex pass him the blunt. “Thanks.” He took it gladly; if the ghosts were attracted by his power subconsciously at least maybe he wouldn’t have to listen to them. He laughed a bit. “How do you think I feel? I don’t think it turns off.” He took the lighter and lit up. Oh what a naughty boy ~ He was starting to feel the edges of a headache when he inhaled smoke; the first time he’d felt dizzy but after being friends with Lex, he was pretty used to it now. He tilted his head slightly when Lex pointed to Calli. “Still being round-about, I see.” Calli was a strange person indeed but at the moment—with the one-eyed woman around his neck—he couldn’t say he was any better.

                                “I like knowing.” Tavi interjected. “But my parents didn’t die in a straight-forward manner.” And the more he dug into their history, the more likely he was going to die in the same manner. Only slightly unnerving. “But I don’t care for the consequences any.” It was now that Calli joined them. He nodded—his version of ‘hello’—and took another hit from the blunt. He could feel pinpricks along his skin where the woman was lounging against him. At least her voice was becoming slightly fuzzy. If she got too annoying, he’d attempt to shut off his power—and then suffer the migraine afterwards.

                                “If I have, then they have poor manners.” He shrugged slightly. Or have a missing eye. But he didn’t say that. Tavi didn’t care to share who exactly he saw most of the time. It was bad enough that he had to see them without giving others the bad imagery as well. “I haven’t seen either of my parents at least; but since most ghosts don’t wear nametags, I don’t know whether I’ve seen either of yours or not.” He hadn’t seen his uncle or grandfather either. He debated on mentioning the unknown family member from earlier and decided against it. That wasn’t important to either Calli or Lex; that was a family issue. “I don’t think I have the power to summon a specific ghost either.” He shrugged slightly. Honestly, he was surprised it hadn’t come up earlier than this. Of the people in the group, he could access the people involved in the fire. He could get the answers every one wanted…but did he want to? He was still conflicted himself.

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                          XXXXTHIS IS A CALL TO ARMSXXXXTHIS IS A CALL TO ARMSXXXXTHIS IS━
                          XXXXXX」 ████ ` THIS IS x GONNAx HURT ████
                          XXXXXXXX♛」 ████ ` THIS IS x GONNAx HURT ████
                          LET IT OUT LET IT OUT LET IT OUT LET IT━━ ( so listen up !)
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                          XX » ( THIS IS- &: A SECOND .COMING
                          ANDONEMORE maybe maybe; wasted
                          HOLD ON TIGHT! HOLD ON!xxXXIT'SXXYOURXXFINESTXXHOURXX!
                          HOLD ON TIGHT! HOLD ON! HOLD ON! HOLD ON


                          [******** this s**t.” He growled, staring up at Club Rovente’s half-lit sign.

                          How the ******** did he end up here again? He hated this place. No, hate wasn’t the proper word. Despise? Despise. He despised the club. He despised the club that was really a brothel. That was part of the reason he hated it so much. NERO wasn’t an A category genius in originality but the club was a useful front for the part that made the most money. At least that was how it was explained to him. Several times. Every time he threatened to burn the place to the ground. One time he’d gone through with it. The one time his lighter actually lit up on the first run without Ryder having to beat it against a wall or throw it on the ground or kick it somewhere. But the fire hadn’t gotten very far—certainly not to the part of the brothel he wanted in ashes the most.

                          His room. His self-claimed territory. Whatever the ******** that was. Every time he came here, he ended up in Descry’s room somehow. But never for more than a few minutes. He’d hate to pick up some manner of disease from those sheets. Though he’d love to put a few red stains in the sheets ~ but Descry was annoyingly fast. Almost as fast as him. His quick irritation didn’t help him when Descry intentionally pissed him off.

                          He glanced up at the sign again and pulled out a cigarette from his pack. He’d need a cigarette to handle this. There was really only one reason he bothered going near Descry and his whores. And that was to pick up Kota—his self-claimed little ‘brother’. In reality, they worked together ‘recruiting’ new members for NERO. Disposable dogs really, nothing ever stood out from the groups they found. “******** queens, all of them.” He muttered, rolling his eyes some. Kota was the ‘beauty’ behind the operation; he reeled them in Ryder roughed them up, made sure they didn’t escape and generally gave them a taste of what was coming for them. Toughen them up. Teach them to stop bitching at the door. That was his job. And while he didn’t hate it, he preferred quick operations so he could enjoy his free time away from ******** Descry.

                          He clicked the lighter wheel once, twice, but nothing but a soft click. [********] He rolled his eyes and smashed the lighter into the side of the club. Once. Twice. Then flicked the wheel and bam, lights on. He lit the cigarette lazily. Why was it always such a bother?

                          He didn’t take long with the cigarette. He didn’t have the ******** time. He had to get Kota out of here. He didn’t understand why Kota ended up here almost every night and as pissed off as he was with Ryder for it, he ended up kicking the door and getting him anyway. He smoked the cigarette halfway through before crushing it underneath his foot and entering the club.

                          Upon first glance, it was a club. But Ryder knew better. He weaved his way through the facade and into the back area. The ‘guard’ gave him a once over but didn’t do jack s**t to stop him. The one time he had Ryder’d given him a souvenir for his trouble. He had to wonder if he still had the scar from it.

                          The back area was the same as it always was. He had to ignore the sounds of the ‘working girls’; he had to ignore the ‘working girls’ in general. He’d never hurt one—he wasn’t that heartless—but sometimes the ‘newer’ ones tried getting places with him that they shouldn’t have. Disinterest. He could’ve cared less about the actions going on here, as long as they didn’t affect him. Step two. Weapons check before entering the main arena. He’d never had a problem with that—his body was the weapon; of course there was the pen knife in his pocket but he’d kill anyone that tried to take it away from him. It wasn’t like it was beneath him or anything. He’d long gotten used to hearing screams and breaking bones—some devil was almost excited by that. Like some bad calling.

                          He paused before the door—a split-second, no noises. Were they not awake yet? That’d be lucky. He could kick the door in—or have some fun spoiled when the door was opened for him. “I think I know how to open a door, thanks.”

                          Settle down, Ryder. Dakota’s made his way safely here. He grit his teeth at that voice. Staring at him lazily from near the window was Descry. Was he waiting for him? “That. Would be the ******** problem now wouldn’t it?” The room smelled of smoke—it was his ‘classy’ way of doing things. Laughable. If only he could strangle that skinny neck…he snorted in reply as Descry gestured at the bed behind him. Ryder wasn’t interested in games. He had no time for this. He was here to grab Kota and—

                          A split second of surprise settled on his face, quickly turning into aggravation. Sleep? “That’s not my problem is it?” There was a flash of silver in the corner, his gaze never left it. Securely fastened around the bedpost was a handcuff, the other chained to pale wrist he knew. It wouldn’t have bothered him—no, it would’ve drawn a sarcastic remark if it wasn’t Kota. If it wasn’t someone he gave a damn about. The marks alone were enough to piss him, but this? Icing on the cake ~ He almost laughed. He was going to kill him. He was going to tear his head off for this. Kota just had to get out of the way. He had little doubt that his idiot of a baby brother would get in the way if he made a move.

                          Don’t fall for it. Everything he did, every time he moved, it was like he was testing, teasing, him. Descry moved across the bed; some slap shot claim that he ‘forgot’ as he unhooked the handcuffs. The bed creaked; suggestive, like Descry’s lack of clothing but Ryder never played ball with him anyway. Quick words were exchanged between Descry and Kota. A caress. For his benefit no doubt. Ryder almost seemed bored by the exchange; he didn’t watch. That’d be what he wanted, wouldn’t it?

                          Kota curled up wearing only a shirt that had to be Descry’s. Disgusting. “Only if it involves killing you at the end.” His lips twitched up in a bored sort of smirk. His nerves were tired of this place. How long would it take for the guards to come if he—Kota slid off the bed at Descry’s suggestion. It almost made him sick to see him following orders like some b***h. The door shut behind him and Ryder weighed the pros and cons of what might happen if he killed Descry while Kota was in the shower.

                          “Oh, was I interrupting? I apologize for not giving a ******** and a half.”

                          Why? He was here to—ugh, there was some other business there, wasn’t there? He’d almost forgotten. He threw a phone from his pocket at Descry; shame he caught it. “Damn, missed.” He commented idly. On it was only one thing, some sort of sex tape that Ryder could’ve had no interest in whatsoever. He had little interest in the reward that accompanied it either. But NERO seemed interested for some reason. If he found anything out—which would probably be by accident—then he was supposed to report it. He was supposed to pass that message along when he went to grab Kota. Descry watched it with about as much interest as Ryder had.

                          “Too bad the world doesn’t work like that.” Or rather good. He’d have problems in a world that worked according to Descry’s whims. The biggest one being in what manner to kill him.

                          The door opened again and Kota slipped out. That was a short shower. Ryder raised a brow slightly. “We’re going.” He said simply; he was getting edgy, ready to leave the damned place. The longer he stayed here the more his body itched to snap Descry’s neck. But he just had to have the last say didn’t he?

                          Do you have a death wish?

                          Ryder didn’t like thinking about the things he did. Thinking held a person back and what good was that? Ryder just did things. Ryder didn’t usually give a damn what consequences came from those things either.

                          His fingers had curled themselves up into a fist and he lashed that fist out at Descry without a second thought.

                          “Whoops. Fist slipped.”

                          ooc: ugh, I ******** hate this post. I'm sorry guys.

the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

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                          !N THE END IT ALL CLLIDES `◞
                          zlkdjlkJklfajsklfjskdlkjs you're the ◟anti.dote to everythingXX . but ━me)
                          zlkdjlkjs KEYBOARD SMASHSOLIGHTEMUP
                          ................... .... . .. ............... ........... .......... ................. .......... . ... .. ...... ......... ..

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                  xxxxxxIT'SxTHE LONELINESS THAT'S THE¹ KILLER:x)x»
                  ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

                  xxxxxxxx■ ■ ■x ■ ■ ■x ■ ■ ■x ■ ■ ■ x■ ■ ■x ■ ■ ■x■ ■ ■x■ ■ ■x■ ■ ■x■ ■ ■
                  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxIS THERE STILL A PART OF YOU THAT WANTS TO LIVExxxxxIS THERE STILL A PART OF YOU THAT WANTS TO GIVExxxxxSOLITARYxxxxxSOLITARY
                  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx `there is no◞ other love* likeours!

                  insert random s**t here!
                      If there was one thing he was going to singularly regret for all of his days, it was that he was—yet again—headed outside somewhere with Claire Rodel. As much as he enjoyed her company, there was always something about her that was going to get him in trouble or dead in a ditch somewhere. Maybe not that drastically but close enough. Bad things never followed suite for him whenever she asked him for a favor. The most recent occasion was, of course, the blind date she’d set up. He was still trying to put the event out of his mind for a bit. Wasn’t entirely working—and if it wasn’t for the fact that drinking might actually help with that he probably wouldn’t be here.

                      “Why are we here again?” She hooked her arm around his, practically dragging him towards her favorite club in the area Myth and the only one he bothered to go inside every once in a blue moon. Not that he didn’t clubs—but things tended to get heated quickly at them and he was on hiatus from all that. Not that she seemed to give a flying ******** and a half.

                      “Because if I don’t drag you out for air every once in a while, I’m afraid you’ll melt into the couch.” The red-head grinned as she continued dragging him down the street away from her car. He probably wouldn’t have gone if she hadn’t driven the two of them herself.

                      “That’s not true. I’ve got pets, they wouldn’t let me melt.” Claire rolled her eyes. She was, perhaps ironically, his closest friend—the closet person he had to an annoying older sister.

                      “You need to get out of the house every once in a while, Kaybear.” She teased lightly. “It’s good for you; you need to unwind a little, working with all those crazies.” It was his turn to roll his eyes.

                      “I don’t work with them, I just type. I’m the non-existent person in the courtroom.” He stared up at the flashing lights outside the club. Technically, it was more of strip joint than a club but it didn’t seem to matter most of the time. “And as I recall, the last time I listened to you and ‘went outside’ it ended up with a date that didn’t end well who magically lives in the same complex as me, which makes it awkward to avoid. Which is about what expected. So I shouldn’t owe you anymore.” She made some scoff-like disapproving noise as they both flashed ID’s to the bouncer and went inside the club.

                      “You never really owed me anything to begin with. And from what I could tell, it wasn’t a bad date until the end…when he kind of freaked out a little. Which, for your info, I didn’t think would happen when I set it up. I figured Ty would have a little more class about it since you actually match together quite well.”

                      He returned the noise but was almost entirely drowned out by the racing club music that assaulted them when they trekked inside. “I think your match-making skills are seriously skewed, Claire. About as much as your judgment. There’s nothing ‘well’ about him and me. We have nothing in common at all.” She grinned; the blue lights in the background made it almost eerie to see.

                      “That’s exactly why. You keep going after people that are like you and you keep getting hurt. So it’s time to try something different.” She let go of his arm for a moment but kept him at the wrist—as though he going to wander off like a five-year old. She probably expected him to make a break for it. Which was really tempting now that he thought of it. But she kept her grip on him like a death trap.

                      And as much as he wanted to continue the riveting conversation about his trust issues and horrible pick of dates, he was getting tired of hearing it from her. “So where’s my illusive brother tonight and does he know where you are?” He leaned over and practically yelled over the music; they’d situated themselves across the bar and near the stripper pole stage. A group of newbies—at least faces he didn’t quite remember from the last time he was here—hit the stage and started their show. “I’d like to know in case I have to put my guard up tomorrow morning when I see him.” She stuck her tongue out.

                      “Well don’t you sound like a babysitter tonight.” She teased, rifling out her wallet from her purse. “Damon’s got a big case tomorrow; he’s going over his work for it now. And yes, he knows where I am and he knows I’m taking the baby for a spin this time.” Of course, Damon wouldn’t care that she was at the gay bar and he certainly wouldn’t care that she was with him. This his little brother was a ‘f**’ in his book. Kay rolled his eyes a bit. The things his brother knew or actually cared about that didn’t involve himself could fit into a thimble.

                      “Two years isn’t that big a difference.”

                      She smiled as she dug some ones out of her purse. “It’s a big enough difference. Now I’m going to go tip some strippers, if you want to grab a drink. I know that’s all you do here. So behave while I’m gone, okay?” She toddled off, disappearing in between a couple of guys, seating herself on one of the stools. He rolled his eyes a bit as she leaned up to deposit one of her dollars in someone’s skirt. Only Claire. He thought.

                      “Didn’t think I needed a warning to ‘behave’.” He muttered as he took another seat a bit farther from the pole dancing. She was right about that; he didn’t generally care to dance. At least, not anymore. Most of the time, he would drink with some of the others from work but sometimes it was just nice to sit and drink, enjoy the strippers, then go home for the night. Every once in a blue moon.

                      Too bad he forgot who else he was going to find here. He’d almost completely forgotten that he worked here until he saw him. And where he should’ve been surprised, he was strangely neutral. He shouldn’t have been. Claire was still trying to work at him. “When is she going to give it a break?” He shook his head, glancing once down at the end to see if she was still there. She was and she hasn’t spared a glance towards him yet.

                      He leaned his head against his hand. It was going to be a long night, he already knew it.

                      “You want to grab me a rum and coke, while you’re back there?” There wasn’t going to be any point in avoiding Tyler; he was just going to find him and tease him about something stupid later—or if he tried to disappear, Claire would just drag him back anyway. So, he decided to just get it over with. He didn't really have any other choices. The most stinging part about this awkward situation was that Tyler practically told him they'd be seeing a lot more of each other. And he couldn't get it out of his head. He practically hated himself for it.

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I'm not sure ~
                                      DO SOMETHING QUICK SOMETHING██xxx██xxx██xxx██xxx██
                                      heeeey lover boy!
                                      nemo sailing home! sail!( HEYxxxYOUNGxxxBLOODxxxI'LLxxxRAISExxxYOUxxxLIKExxxAxxxPHOENIX )
                                      la l al a ~!
                                      ▬▬▬▬ & I'LL BURN YOU TO THE GROUND
                                      xxx/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /
                                      lonely hearts club ~
                                      annie are you okay? smooth criminal ~strike¹ a match! — ║SET FIRE TO THE SKY

                                          The same scenery all the time. Ruins in his hindsight and bleakness ahead. Tragedy and misery pounded in each ear as the wind whipped around him. Every blade of grass he saw in yellow, fizzling out against the wind. Every city was decrepit, falling apart at the seams. He saw broken concrete and blood stains along every wall. Little hints of the massacre that could come at any moment—though they’d say he was hallucinating it all. Humanity didn’t understand how little time it had left and he was watching the clock tick. In all honestly, he’d have let them all go down with the ship. What was morality to him? Nothing more than a little bug on his shoulder. Pinocchio was right to crush his conscience—it only got in the way. A little lesson from his father, years ago. This world isn’t nearly as black and white as they’ll teach you. Learn it now and save yourself the heartbreak. He’d saved himself by never learning such simple colors at all. Though, now, even such simple, important, memories seemed useless and distant now.

                                          He couldn’t quite count the days he’d been on the road. At one point, he’d marked each one off—like a daily reminder—but somewhere he’d grown tired of that. Now everything blended into one from the scorch marks along his arms, the bullet dents engraved in his bones, to the mad obsession bleeding through his brain that always hurled him forward again. It got bad enough some nights to cause restless nights—and he’d roll out onto the road again without bothering to sort out his restless nerves. Drinking didn’t solve the issue anymore nor a quick race with some back-water idiot—the adrenaline couldn’t serve as his fix anymore. It wasn’t for lack of trying according to the dents and scratch marks on the sides of his bike. Each dent he hadn’t pulled out, each scratch and peeling paint chip told another callous story. He hadn’t been this careless in bike repair in a long time. He hadn’t been this careless with himself in a long time.

                                          This bike wasn’t his baby, fortunately—he could be rough with it. He’d wrecked her nearly a year ago, was it really that long ago?—during the initial incident. If he’d been able to, he would’ve searched the wreckage for her. But searching an entire fallen city? That was impossible, even for him. Though if more pressing matters hadn’t occurred, he might’ve tried anyway. He’d torn apart that bike and realigned it more times than he could count—it was his “baby”. Now she was gone. Iacet was gone. What was left? Obsession.

                                          He’d run her off the edge. A desperate attempt really but it’d seemed so casual then. The tire tracks and the sequential collision—all a great idea. But he’d caught the villain by surprise. He couldn’t even recall the pain from the collision when he’d been thrown against the concrete anymore. He remembered the growling whine his baby made when she slammed on her side but not the damage done to him. Pain seemed to fall away from his memory quickly. Perhaps because there was always pain.

                                          He felt the blood rush in his ears as he leaned heavily into the next corner like some wild drum. He wore a helmet now—before he hadn’t bothered much. With his power and thick skull, he hadn’t really needed one. Even now it was less for protection and more for zipping through streets unnoticed by passerby’s. He was sure they were hunting for him now—he hadn’t been able to lose them easily in the desert states. Nothing to hide behind really. It was a maddening game of tag and he was tired of being it. Hunting down Iacet took enough active effort, dodging the government wasn’t something he could play anymore—he was too worn out. It was dangerous, it was risky, he could get them both killed now but that was preferable to the game of hide and seek Iacet was playing. Pulling his heart as far as it could go, he didn’t know when the moment occurred to him that he couldn’t take sleeping alone anymore when he’d been so good at it before. That he couldn’t take playing the martyr or the puppet anymore. He only knew that the notion kept him from sleeping at night, kept him moving forward like a soldier coming home from war. He was tired. It was time to go home. But home kept moving.

                                          He’d been dodging bullets ever since New York City fell trying to hunt after Iacet, keep them away from Iacet, and yet hunt them at the same time. The government now considered any super worth his salt as a dangerous enemy. It was like a world-wide witchhunt and he was definitely on their radar. He didn’t know how many were dead or running. He’d heard some stories from underground safe points but that’s all they were. New York City. What a bitter memory. A sharp pain crawled up his chest along a jagged rust colored scar where the metal skeleton of a building had pinned and carved out his insides. It caused him to lean heavily against the bike handles as he darted around another car. He was taking every effort not to crash into the ever busy traffic of Los Angeles. Even though the fall of New York City was only a year ago, humanity was taking every precaution to throw the memory into its rearview mirror. The only active reminder was the hunt for supers and the ruins of the city itself. No effort had been made to rebuild it but rather the entire area turned into a monument. Everything he’d ever owned he’d lost then. Both property and not—unfair compared to the effort he’d wasted trying to save it.
                                          He grimaced as pain burned from his chest through to the tips of his fingers. The crash of concrete sounded like thunder against his ears. Building after building collapsed from the bottom up; the shrill of screaming barely poured out over the thunder of gravel. His arm was twisted back in an odd position stuck in a half shift revealing winding cracks along his bones until it was replaced by flesh at his elbow. Every nerve was burning alive; he couldn’t feel anything but pain anymore. How he was still standing, he didn’t know anymore. “Get out of here, Iacet.” He heard a startled reply but didn’t put together the words. “I said, get out of here!” He swallowed blood as he tried to summon hell fire to devour his flesh alive. But he couldn’t focus. His vision was brimming with red, he swallowed down a pained cry. With sluggish reaction times, he barely managed to move his good arm to deflect an oncoming blow. There wasn’t anything he could do to break his own fall. He skidded against the concrete, landing in a pile of rubble. He spat out more blood. “Good-bye, Judgement.” He heard a voice whisper. “It was a fun match, wasn’t it?” His reply was drowned out by the groaning of metal as it collapsed over him, a broken beam nearly impaled him, causing a jagged gash along his stomach. Everything went black.

                                          He veered away from an oncoming car, his breath resorting to shallow pants as he slid into a parking garage, nearly throwing himself into the nearest parking space two floors up. “Goddamnit. How did they catch up so fast?” He grunted as he threw off his helmet and catapulted himself over the barrier onto the sidewalk two stories below. He half-shifted both his legs to break his fall; a trick he’d mastered over the recent years was controlling his hell-fire so it devoured only the parts he wanted it to. He landed with a sickening crack in the pavement and darted into the nearest crowd without much thought. He continued at a sprint until he couldn’t see any police units or a trace of the plain red car that had been following him for half a mile into the city. He was so close too. So close. He’d tracked Iacet to a dead-end in Los Angeles and they chose now to catch up with him? He almost tasted blood. At this rate, he was going to have to loop around the city again before he tracked down Iacet’s back-water job. He’d start there, then work his way out if he wasn’t there. Still, that was going to waste time. He was growing antsy, restless, agitated from being so close and yet having to play it safe.

                                          Until that moment. He caught his breath at a traffic light, swept up completely in a crowd. He intended to play along with the masses’ whims for a few blocks before he changed direction and looped around. Iacet. Iacet was staring directly at him, stuck at the light on his bike. His feet had never felt more like lead; he just stared, caught up completely in the actual sight of him. He didn’t need to see his face to know it was him. He just knew. And it was maddening how much he wanted to touch him, touch every part of him no matter what he said or how he fidgeted. Maddening how much he needed him when he’d always told himself he’d never fall like that. It didn’t matter now. A semi zipped through his line of vision and broke the spell as he caught a flash of a familiar face and dashed into the crowd again. Someone’s blood was about to be on his hands before nightfall.

                                          He looped around and around again before he dared following Iacet again. He didn’t have to follow him really; he’d tracked him down beforehand. But he had to be sure he wasn’t being followed—and he wasn’t. For now. He caught his breath again outside a shitty motel. The place was old, every hinge falling apart, it felt like he was breathing in paint and semen stains. He hardly even glanced at the greasy man working behind the counter. “I need a room number and you’re going to give it to me if I have to bash your brains out over this counter.” He remarked coolly, neutral and hardly caring towards whatever life he had. He didn’t even register the fear as he rattled off a quick description of Iacet and retrieved the room number. “Feel free to call your local police but you’ll be dead before they get here.” He wasn’t in the mood for games anymore.

                                          The door was open slightly ajar; he pressed it open farther hearing the sound of running water from somewhere else inside the tiny little room. Messed up bed, thrown helmet…his attention turned to the bathroom as he moved toward it. That door was wide open revealing a disheveled Iacet—and not the pleasant kind. He was gripping the sides of the sink like he was going to fall apart if he didn’t hold on. How many nights had he felt like he was coming undone as he patched himself up? One too many but he’d get blood for that later. He was thinner, Iacet was, like he wasn’t eating. Levit knew he looked no better, what with the weary dead-man’s gaze he was sporting but he didn’t look that dead. He merely felt it. He felt every bit hollow, nearly sick, with that obsession. To go home. There was a cut along Iacet’s hand, oozing a pale silver; he took that hand, drawing it—and him—away from the sink and against him, not caring in the slightest how dirty he was with blood and oil. He still demanded a rather sloppy kiss, kissing him until they couldn’t breathe anymore, while his hands resettling around hips much too thin.

                                          Iacet.

the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

Tenacious Plague

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                        xxxit’s all over in a flash
                        ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
                        xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxh e r exxi txxc o m e sxxn o wxxxxxxxh e r exxi txxc o m e sxxn o w
                        some p***s joke here
                        xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxW H A TxxxAxxxD O M I N OxxxM O T I O N;xxxI TxxxJ U M P SxxxW H E NxxxW ExxxT O U C H !
                        something in a foreign language! wheeee██xxx██xxx██xxx██xxx██
                              A BLACK OUT APPROACHES NOW WISH ME LUCK THE BLACK: OUT approaches*◟ now

                              Well this was escalating quickly, now wasn’t it? Really, he should have thought this through a little better. But when did Stefan think before he leapt? Never. That was part of the deal—all heart, little brain. But he could be insightful at odd moments.

                              But he’d waltzed right into the line of fire on this one and with Mrs. Danze around, it was becoming a real hassle. Stefan hated fighting anyway—but Ibzan, especially, seemed to love pulling him right into it. He couldn’t get by him without some sort of argument—sometimes spiraling out to fists. Boaz usually shot off some remark that he could laugh off; he had thick enough skin that he’d long since gotten over Boaz’s comments—since most of them seemed to revolve around the word ‘dog’. Which was, what he was. How could he be ashamed of that?

                              He grinned; almost tempted to roll his upper lip to flash off canine teeth but he refrained. “Well, when you learn to control the weather, you can do something about that, huh?” He shrugged at Boaz. “Until then, you can't b***h. And hate to break your heart here, but you do smell. I can identify you from a mile away, at least.” Of course, Stefan wouldn’t mention it was more the cologne he wore than anything else. It was ridiculously distinct and almost too strong. He could’ve gagged the first time he’d caught the scent of it. Now he couldn’t forget it.

                              Ibzan sneered something at him in kind—he guessed he didn’t like his brother getting all the attention here—but Mrs. Danze snapped at them again. Stefan shrugged, hands held up slightly like a white flag. Only Mrs. Danze could freeze up a room without actually changing the temperature. It made Stefan extremely grateful to whatever deities were out there that he was not related to her at all. His mother might’ve been a wolf right now but at least she was warm-blooded. Shame he couldn’t get his comeback in this time, it was actually a pretty good one.

                              He took the moment—as the pressure wasn’t on him now—to glance around at the first years. Some of them were fidgeting in their seats. It reminded him that he hadn’t meant to make it this far into the gym; if it hadn’t been for Jeremy, he’d still be outside in the hallway with Levit and Iacet, just poking his head in to see some of the fun. He never went to meet up with all his teachers anyway—that was too much work and since there was literally nothing else to do on the first day…well, it didn’t seem to matter now, he was already in the gym, should he stay or try to retreat?

                              The gym door was shut behind him and even with the sharpness of wolf-vision he didn’t see Levit or Iacet—they must have wandered away somewhere. Well, it was sink or swim so he guessed he better sit down for now since he was already here. It would probably be too much of a distraction to leave now anyway. He shrugged and passed by Ibzan in order to sit down like he’d been commanded. But not without the “I know what you’d like to do, and I’m flattered, really, but keep it in your pants, ‘kay?” as a sharp remark under his breath as he did so. And with that, Stefan crawled into the bleachers; whether Mrs. Danze decided to use him for anything, he doubted, but at least this way, he had something to kill a bit of time with.

                              ooc: HAHA I DID IT. I FINALLY FREAKIN' POSTED. was gonna move Stefan out of the gym but there's really nothin' for him to do anywhere so he can just chill here 'til I get un-braindead.

the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

Tenacious Plague

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      so dance alone!
                xxxxxxx( THE ONES YOU LEFT BEHIND ) • •
                thank you for nothing thank you for nothing!━━ don'txxxtellxxxusxxxhowxxxtoxxxlivexxxourxxxlives
                alkfjklasjdfkj
                ██ xxx ██ xxx ██ I like to think'CAUSE WE'RE BREAKING ALL THE RULES
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                      They should’ve been long gone by now. They were supposed to be long gone by now. One more day won’t kill us, Thanos. We’ll leave bright and early tomorrow, I promise. His step-mother, Alisa, told him the other night as she was making dinner. Astra, his little sister, had been sleeping on the couch. She’d been sleeping more and more lately—it worried Alisa. That had been the final straw for her, the end-game—the local doctor couldn’t find anything wrong with her but Alisa swore up and down it wasn’t normal. She finally let Thanos convince her it was time to move out of town.

                      Of course he’d been feeling the heat for years now, ever since his father “disappeared” leaving Alisa responsible for an eight-year old and a teenager. That was four years ago, he was twenty-two now, and the ‘stable’ point in the household. At least, sort-of stable. Relative to his father, of course; he’d been mentally degrading for years, paranoia all but eaten away his psyche. And convenient timing…when psychotic breaks became common, he disappeared and Thanos become responsible. The breakdown and ascension seemed too coincidental—did he wander away? Did Thanos kill him? Did Alisa?—none of them really said. Alisa was the queen of hedging a conversation, Thanos simply refused to answer, and no one dared to ask Astra for fear of what she’d say. The silence only made the heat worse. He could take it, the dodgy looks, the callous whispers, the occasional question; he had thick enough skin, but after four years of it, the town was grating on his nerves. First the stories, then the ridiculous marriage contract—enough was enough. If there was one thing he’d picked up from his father it was the restlessness. The run and never look back. But it’d taken until this point to convince Alisa. He couldn’t leave without Alisa—who’d convinced herself that without his father, the town was safer—not when he was the ‘man of the household’ now. But the town wasn’t safer; Shalebridge couldn’t be safe.

                      He’d wanted to leave yesterday but Alisa hadn’t been ready. He couldn’t blame her—after all the running they’d done already, who wanted to be running again?—but it irritated him to no end. The sooner they left, the sooner they’d find somewhere else. Something else. Everything they could take with them had been packed up and set aside when Alisa decided to make dinner one last time in that house. That had been their downfall really. Now they were leaving today instead.

                      “I’m surprised Venecia didn’t come by to see us off.” Alisa mused, as she gathered everything up. He glanced outside. The day was clear, missing clouds; Shalebridge was moving about at its normal leisurely pace—like nothing in the world was going to happen. You wouldn’t think that a few years ago, nearly the entire population of America had been wiped out.

                      “I asked her not to. Didn’t want to make it anymore sentimentally awkward than it needed to be.” Venecia. His ‘wife’. At least that’s what the city ordinance called her. He called her Ven. Unlike some of the ‘contracts’, he and Ven didn’t have the most romantic relationship or romantic anything, really. They kept separate houses—it was only allowed because the house Thanos lived in was small, too small to add Venecia and her sister, and he refused to leave Alisa and Astra. They kept an appropriate distance then, because they were much too busy playing parents to do anything else. It was a strange relationship they kept up. The ‘powers that were’ didn’t approve—another section that gave him grief—but Thanos could’ve cared less. He was tired of putting on shows for those people.

                      But he wasn’t heartless. He’d told Ven he was leaving town. ‘It’s time for us to go.’ He’d asked her if she wanted to come with, they wouldn’t be ‘married’ then; they could see whoever they wanted, that was probably better anyway since Thanos would’ve been the first to admit he was a horrible husband. But she’d declined; she had reasons to stay where he didn’t. Too many bad memories. Well, you can blame me at least. Maybe they won’t give you another husband. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t a legal government that could count them as married anyway.

                      “It would've been nice to see her, I rather liked her.” Astra came up behind them, dragging her little backpack as she did. Thanos rolled his eyes. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Venecia. They were ‘friends’, maybe. But that was about it. She didn’t have to see him off.

                      “Are we leaving? Are we leaving?” She bubbled up and down, her hair shimmering from the sun pouring through the window. Astra didn’t look a thing like Thanos, she looked exactly like Alisa. Slim, short, and blonde with bright eyes.

                      Alisa laughed and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “Yes, we’re leaving, honey.”

                      About time. But he didn’t get to say it.

                      Astra ran ahead of them both as soon as Thanos opened the door. Alisa smiled a bit. “Well, she doesn’t seem as tired today at least.”

                      He nodded slightly. “Yeah, that’s good. We should go while she still has the energy. Hey, brat, get back here!” He called when Astra got too far ahead. She spun around and stuck her tongue out and his step-mother laughed behind him.

                      They’d nearly made it to the edge of town when disaster struck. Their progress had strangely gone unnoticed. Maybe they thought they were going hiking, since Thanos often took Astra outside the city, showed her how to track and what not. But this time they wouldn’t be coming back.

                      “I put Dad’s weapons in a cache outside of town; I’ll grab them on our way out.” He muttered and his step-mother nodded. There was no way in hell that they were going to travel outside of town without a weapon for the infected. Survival lesson number one from his father. He had to commend his step-mother though; she wasn’t as fragile of a woman as she had been years ago. She was tougher now, still the kindest person he’d ever met, but tough. And she could shoot a gun.

                      They’d just made it to the edge when Alisa stopped cold in her tracks. Thanos turned and looked at her, Astra, who had been wandering ahead, slowly wandered back. “Something wrong?”

                      Alisa shook her head slightly with a frown. “I left something back at the house.” She set her pack down. “I’ll be right back, I’ve got to go get it. I’ll meet you at the cache, don’t worry.”

                      He tilted his head slightly at her like she was crazy. “What? We just left—what could possibly be so important…” But Alisa shook her head.

                      “Really, it’ll just be a minute. I’ll be right back!” And she wandered back into town without further complaint from Thanos.

                      “Where’d Mom go?” Astra appeared behind him.

                      He shrugged. “Back to the house to get something I guess.”

                      There was a faint whoosh from the air and his blood turned cold. The glint of metal reflected off the sun before it fell to Earth.

                      “ALISA!” He yelled in the twenty seconds it took for him to realize there were missiles overhead. But his voice was swallowed by a thunderous clamor. He barely had time to grab Astra when the lingering shock wave tumbled over them. The force knocked him to his side and he was just barely gripping Astra when shadows covered his vision.

                      Thanos was a bloody mess when he came to again. Well, mostly. The force of the explosion had only been powerful enough to knock him over, it hadn’t done any damage. What had taken its toll, however, was the rock bed he’d landed on. Part of his shirt was torn, bits of blood trickled off his side, his arm was caked with torn skin, and a small gash formed along his temple. He was lucky he didn’t have a concussion. Not that he felt real lucky. He groaned as he forced himself to his knees to inspect the damage. His knees were sore and his entire arm stung—the fire of it grew worse as he brushed out the dirt and little pinpricks of stone. [********] He gritted his teeth throughout, then wiped blood off his forehead onto his jeans.

                      He forced himself into a wobbly standing position only to realize Astra wasn’t in the vicinity. Seconds ticked by from frantic looking but only the smoldering town lay in the background with the smell of charred flesh soon following after. But no Astra. At least not from any direction he could see.

                      “Astra? ASTRA!”

                      Nothing. Just the crackle of flames as it licked the town clean and the hiss of smoke. He stared at the town as a thick smoke rose up like the devil and covered it. He hoped he’d taught Astra enough sense to not go that way. But then again if she went to look for Alisa…his bag had been knocked several feet away. He wandered toward it and grabbed the Carry Nightmare, one of his semi auto pistols. It was the only weapon he carried in town; he preferred a shotgun when he was outside but he always put it back in the cache when he was done with it. He grabbed the ten and a half inch knife that was in there as well while he was at it. He left the rest of the bag alone, he wouldn’t need it. Alisa had been carrying most of the food and Astra had bandages and other light equipment with her. He’d been carrying the heavy stuff but now it was only going to slow him down. He checked the ground and slowly backtracked his way into town.

                      The prints were faded from the explosion but he could barely make out Alisa’s shoes when they went back into town and a smaller set of prints near them. Astra. He picked up his pace. “Don’t be dead, you can’t be dead…” He refused to acknowledge that Alisa was dead, even though he knew she had to be. She’d run right into that blast. There was no way she was going to make it out alive. But if he paused to think about it, he’d crumble. He couldn’t do that, he had to find Astra. He had to find Astra.

                      The prints faded exponentially as he headed back into town, wiped away by the blast, and partially hidden by the smog but the smaller tracks barely remained to indicate that Astra had at least gone that way. At least until they just…stopped. He knelt on the ground for a moment, rechecking. The prints were faded did that mean—a noise drew him away; he glanced up as a creature crawled out from the debris with a familiar look etched on its lips. [********.”

                      Thanos drew himself up quickly, hardly aiming before he fired two rounds into the zombie. It fell back into the debris it just crawled out of. He wiped blood off his forehead where it trickled down from his head, trying not to think about who he just shot. They’re dead now, boy. Don’t think of them as people because they aren’t. his father’s voice drifted in his mind and he shut down completely. He didn’t have time for this. He had to find his sister.

                      He let out a breath as another zombie lumbered into view; he fired another shot and backed up when the realization hit him that the noise was only going to draw other zombies to him. He had to get out of here. He grit his teeth when another appeared but didn’t shoot. He had to find Astra but now he was doubting whether those tracks were hers going back or going through. He thought they were backtracking but—he shut the thought down and bolted. Astra would’ve seen those things and ran. He’d taught her that. He had to believe it now. So Thanos ran.

                      He kept running for as long as he could, diving into the thick of the woods where the zombies couldn’t amble quickly enough to catch him. The smog covering parts of the forest helped to hide him further, though he had to be wary of the flames that called them. When he finally slowed down again, his lungs were burning and his leg felt like it was going to give way. “s**t…I really have to clean this off.” He muttered, checking out the worst damage along his arm. He still had the pistol in his other hand. He put the safety back on and holstered it, hiding it against his leg.

                      If he had to guess, he was ten paces from the lake. He’d been there several times with his father—makeshift fishing. That would work. At least he could clean up a little, get the smoke out of his wounds. He’d just barely made it to the lake shore when he noticed two figures he recognized; Exie was lying across the ground with Tre next to her. That…didn’t look good. He grimaced as he glanced back at the burning forest before taking another couple of steps towards them and dipping his hand in the lake, splashing water over his arm.

                      “We can’t stay here. It’s only a matter of time before some of them amble this way.”

the wicked butterfly's Significant Otter

Tenacious Plague

                              User Image
                              when I die! when I die!
                              ihateit!GOTTAXXGETXXOUTTAXXHEREihateit!GOTTAXXGETXXOUTTAXXHEREihateit!GOTTAXXGETXXOUTTAXXHERE
                              ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀ ▀
                              XXX ░░░░░░ ░░░░░░░ ░░░░░xxx& cut -tiesRUN!
                              xxxCHANGE !xxx`xxNEVER GONNA ( CROSS ) MY
                              █████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
                              never gonna change
                              never gonna chIxxH O P ExxT H A TxxW H E NxxIxxD I ExxIxxW O N TxxG OxxA L O N ExxxxxIxxH O P ExxT H A TxxW H E NxxIxxD I ExxIxxW O N TxxG OxxA L O N ExxxxxIxxW O N TxxG OxxA L O N E

                                    He didn’t register anything until pinpricks of light bled through the curtains and woke him up. Couldn’t even remember the dream he had last night. Something to do with a pool? Vodka? A pool of vodka? Well that was really gross sounding. He groaned a bit and rolled over on his side, shaking off the arm that was draped across his shoulders. …wait, what? Rewind. The red-head cracked one eye open finding a strange blonde next to him and the curtains at a weird angle. Well now he knew why the sun woke him up; he generally had the curtains and a sheet covering the windows in his apartment to avoid waking up before he needed to. It’s an easy way to block the windows and the cops can’t say a thing. His mother used to say when he was younger.

                                    “Mm, s**t…” He gently picked up his arm and placed it next to him, sliding out of bed. His head spun slightly—like he was getting up too fast. Well, that explained the random guy and the random bed and the random lack of clothing. Little flashes of light and memory surfaced as he woke up, trying to remember everything; he remembered jumping in the pool sometime after midnight. He remembered the water being cold enough to kill off his buzz. He remembered smoking with a coworker, Riley, in the alleyway behind his apartment before they hit Amanda’s house for the “pool” party. And he barely remembered dive bombing into bed with—Nate? Yeah, Nate. Well now, it was time to get the hell out of Dodge. He’d gotten on his boxers—at least he thought they were his, his head was still a bit fuzzy—when his phone rang. He pulled on a pair of jeans—hey, look they fit!—and scooped up the phone along with his keys from the floor. It was a good thing that he never brought more than his phone or keys with him when he went out partying.

                                    “Ma, stop lying to me. You must be sleeping with someone to get this many phone calls.” He chuckled as he checked around for his shoes. Or any shoes really.

                                    “Aw, baby, aren’t you sweet? Thinking I still got it at my age.” He heard her chuckle on the other end of the line and then another noise coming from the guy still in bed. Whoops. The goal was usually to do the walk of shame in silence. That wasn’t happening today.

                                    “What, Jason—?”

                                    Jason? s**t. He must’ve gotten hammered last night. Sometimes he mixed everything up and handed out one of his aliases instead. He’d only had to learn a million and one of them growing up. Not that he needed them anymore after his mother finally got caught in Kansas City, three years ago. It’d been a surprise, honestly. He’d been in New York then for school when he got a call out of the blue that his mother had been arrested for fraud, identity theft, among other things. She’d only been at it for twenty years, it seemed like a dream that she’d gotten caught now. And he’d had to drag himself down there, at least the trip had been fun, the lawyers? Not so much. “Hang on, Ma. Gotta get my shirt on.” He shifted the phone in order to pull on his shirt as he was walking toward the door. He glanced back at the blonde. “Sorry, I’m sure it was a nice night and all, but I gotta go, ‘kay? I’ll just, leave my number on the mirror or something if you want a repeat. Yeah, see ya!” He opened the door offering some kind of awkwardly, nonchalant, sympathetic smile. “And that’s not my name.” He popped his head back in, then out again until the only thing that was heard in the hallway was akin to, “Hey, Ma? Yeah, yeah, I’m back, just about to get out of here—what? Nah, no idea…”

                                    ***


                                    Well that had been an awful and long walk home. He had to remind himself not to get picked up but if he’d driven that drunk anyway he would’ve crashed off the pier or something. All in all, the walk back to his apartment hadn’t killed him so no harm no foul. He’d spent most of the trip talking to his mother anyway. He didn’t know how but she’d conned one of the guards somehow into giving her more phone time. He knew better than to ask, she was already in trouble as it was, he didn’t need to transfer any of it over to him. She called whenever she could; he guessed she was lonely, edgy, hated being stuck in one place for too long. And he was the only one that understood the wanderlust.

                                    He unlocked the apartment door as he hung up the phone—she ran out of minutes—and was greeted by the silence of unopened boxes. He’d lived in this apartment for almost a year, the lease was almost up and once it was, he’d probably get out of here again. Though he wasn’t sure where he’d go this time but Seattle was getting old and that’s when he knew it was time to go. His mom had moved them around every year or two when anyone got even a whiff of what she was up to. Ever since he was little, he’d learned how to live out of a box; most of his life was still in boxes, so he never opened them. There wasn’t much of a point when he’d disappear again to another city in a year. All he needed was a job that made ends meet and access to a couple of card tables. The longest time he’d ever stuck around anywhere was Boston and he could hardly remember that. His mom had stuck around with him for five years after he was born because of his dad, but she’d never admit to it. Then she’d up and vanished with him out of the blue one day with only an apology and an address in Michigan.

                                    He tossed the keys on an empty end table with a clatter as he wandered to the kitchen, turning the iHome on and the entire apartment was filled with Paramore’s Ain’t it Fun. “Don’t go cryin’ to your mama ‘cause you’re on your own in the real world ~” He’d had more noise complaints per year than anyone else probably. He couldn’t help it, music was in his blood the same as traveling. He had better memories with his mom in her half-dead Chevy with the tape player on and all the way up, singing to Joan Jett and Pat Benetar at the top of her lungs. It was like he’d grown up on an endless road trip.

                                    Wait, wasn’t he supposed to go somewhere today? The invite was on the edge of the counter; he tapped his fingers to the song as he went to grab it. That was right. California. Good thing it was just south—but hell, that was going to be quite a drive. “Guess I better get to it then.” He shrugged slightly, turning the invite over in his hand before going to go pack a few things.

                                    His room was bare except for a few identifying markers; the most obvious of them was the giant map of the United States hanging off his bedroom wall with more than a few darts sticking out of it. Each one was color coded or striped or somehow different from all the others. It was a game his mother would play. Whenever she got bored of a city or had to move on, she’d grab a dart, close her eyes and throw it. Whatever big city was closest to the mark, she’d move there. As he grew up, she’d let him throw the last ones. She’d label all the darts with the city and date so when she repeated cities, she’d put at least five years in between them. He kept all her darts even after she was caught, though the prosecution hadn’t been keen to let him have them or the map. But once they’d caught her they didn’t need the evidence anymore. He’d take out all her darts when he threw his though because hers didn’t count. But he liked looking at them all.

                                    He stuffed some clothes into a bag, some other electronic related stuff, some other junk, basically anything he’d need to go somewhere on the fly. Some beer? If he hid it in the front. All he had to do was buy a large soda, either drink it or dump it, then put the beer in it instead and he’d be fine. It was stupid easy to do. Now where was his necklace? The only thing of “value” that he owned was his eighteenth birthday present from his mother. It was a silver pendant with a black rhodium bow, a yellow gold plated arrow, with a black crystal. Sagittarius. His mother didn’t believe in all the nonsense but she loved a good con. She’d read the zodiac profiles in the newspaper every morning to joke around with him. They’d poke a little fun at it while he’d eat some cereal before school. It was a ritual they’d done up until he moved out of the house. She’d bought him the necklace to remind him to check every morning and let her know what he thought. She had her own too, for Gemini. When the cops dragged him down to Kansas City, they’d confiscated his necklace as evidence trying to bring her up on theft charges as well. But they’d had to return it when they found out, she’d paid for his necklace legally. With money she’d earned from a cashier job at a grocery store. His mom had always had a million accounts for her cons but she always kept one that she used for her funds from low-level customer service jobs. His mom did some illegal stuff, hurt a lot of people but he’d never let anyone say a bad word about her as a mother. He hid the necklace under his shirt like always. Then he stuffed a plastic bag with some snacks and s**t, grabbed his wallet, iPod, and keys and disappeared out the door.

                                    ***


                                    Well, he’d been right about the drive being hell. He’d nearly spent all day driving. But the weather hadn’t been rough; he’d rolled the windows down through most of it with his iPod blaring out of the stereo as he passed through, tapping his fingers against the wheel. Every so often he’d switched to one of his mom’s old cassettes; he’d inherited everything of hers once she’d been put in jail and he loved listening to them, if nothing for the odd looks and good memories. And he’d managed to only drink one beer during the trip. Eventually he managed to put the miles and hours behind him. It was nearly 8:15 when he rolled into town. He turned the music down but only slightly. Eureka was a small town; he’d only passed through towns like this. His mom would never set foot in them. Small town, cult mindset. Bad for business, baby. They don’t like outsiders. She’d tell him. She’d only hit bigger cities or suburbia’s.

                                    He stopped at a small shop. Locals eyed him but he was used to looks, good or bad. He asked the shop owner if he could leave his car for a few days, with compensation of course and the man jabbed his finger to park it behind the shop. So he did so. But not before asking a few questions about the villa, where it was, etc. Standard questions. The shopkeeper shooed him out of the store after he claimed he wasn’t a cop of any sort. In a few more minutes he was wading through a mini-jungle. Well, this was going to be fun. He had his iPod in his pocket, one headphone in, the other somewhere along his shirt, as he trudged along a well-worn path. He didn’t have a map, but that was fine. His phone had signal, he checked, so he’d call for help if he needed it. There were few things that scared Blair and exploring was one of his favorite things. Who the hell needed a map? The trip was always the best part.

                                    Only another fifteen to twenty minutes of walking and wandering slightly off and on the path again, and the red-head had wandered into a clearing with the villa situated into it. He started humming as he walked in. “Looks like I found it just fine.” He grinned slightly, making note that he wasn’t the only one hanging around. “And I'm not the only one with an invite; that’s good. Maybe this was a good idea, after all.” He remarked as he sauntered up with Italobrother’s This is Nightlife bleeding out of the headphone at his hip. So far, he made note of three people outside, not including the old man in the tux, who he pegged as the caretaker. He turned around, walking backwards as he surveyed what he could in the dark. “Not a bad place, so far. I’ll have to get my feet wet in the morning.”


                                    !!LA LA LAINEY FOREVER THE SICKEST KIDS
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