Part Four: The Forge of Darkness
Chapter 16
Location: On the way to the next Azathanai settlement.
POV: Arathan
Draconus and Arathan are riding side by side. Draconus is trying to impart some of his wisdom to his son. He says belief is like an iron stake set into the ground. As long as the ground remains firm, nothing can move it. Arathan doesn't respond and Draconus says that all fathers fail to give their wisdom to their children. It is the nature of youth. Arathan says he has no beliefs, no anchor, and can be blown about by the wind. Draconus says he believes Arathan seeks his mother. Arathan says he can't seek what he doesn't know. Draconus responds that he will still try and if he finds what he seeks he will be disappointed. Thus he will have learned nothing from his father. Arathan asks why he sent her away. Draconus says out of love. Arathan responds that that makes no sense and that Draconus has no wisdom to give. His father asks if this is how he baited Sagander. Arathan says he never baited him. Draconus says every word is a weapon to Arathan and it worked on Sagander since he thought Arathan no more than a child. But if he continues with real people, he'll be known as dissembling and treacherous. Arathan says he doesn't dissemble. Draconus responds that when he pretends to not understand the wounds he delivers it is dissembling. Arathan asks if he always sends away those he loves.
Draconus cuts him off and continues to talk about belief. Saying that it creates goals and you can spend your life fulfilling those, and still end up in the same place, old and broken. He says he's trying to warn Arathan. He thinks strife is coming and will go beyond the borders of Kurald Galain. He says Mother Dark was also young when he gave her his gift and she is on a path of belief that makes her think the direction is forward. Arathan asks if he gives love as his gift and then steps back to see if the recipient is worthy. Draconus says his gift wasn't love, but power. Arathan responds that power should never be given. A gift becomes an expectation. Draconus says the gifts he gives he seems to carve from his own flesh. Arathan says the wisdom he has gained from his father wasn't the wisdom intended and that is indeed a precious gift. Draconus says he begins to pity Sagander and not because of the leg. Arathan said Sagander's iron stakes were set long ago. He will never change. Draconus says Arathan is quick to judge. Arathan says he expects to never see Sagander again. Draconus wonders if he has wronged the tutor as Arathan is not easy company.
Draconus points out a house. It seemed to Arathan to not have been there before. He asks if it was conjured. Draconus says more like suggested. Arathan says that belief seems to be more important than discussed. Draconus responds that he never said belief didn't have power, just dubious charms and it reinforces intractability. Arathan surmises that belief is required for sorcery, so sorcery cannot be examined too closely or it wouldn't exist. Draconus tells Arathan, ‘With each day, son, I see you grow more formidable.’ Arathan is startled by this and regrets his brutal words to his father as if he knew anything about love. All he understood was possession and he regrets treating Feren the way he did. He says he but flails with weapons too large to hold. Draconus says they all do.
A man climbs out of the window of the house. Not much older than Arathan. His clothes are bloodstained. Father and son dismount and approach the house. The Azathanai comes forward and wears a mocking smile for Draconus. Arathan fantasizes about punching that smile off of his face. The Azathanai snaps his gaze to Arathan and asks if he wouldn't rather kiss it off of him. Draconus tells his son to yield nothing to this man. The ground shifts beneath him. Errastas says that his gift is ready. Draconus says he didn't know it would be him who made it. He wants whatever binds them together to be done with. He says hand it over. Draconus asks about the blood stains. Errastas says making the gift was difficult. Draconus says it shouldn't require blood. Arathan senses the growing tension and decides he does not like Errastas. Errastas holds out a small black disc slightly larger than his palm and says, ‘Behold, Suzerain, the folding of Night.’ Draconus demands it. Errastas asks if he understands the precedent of this object and that maybe he is blinded by love. Draconus grabs the disc out of his hand.
Errastas says Draconus requesting and him making this object will change things. ‘Our kin who kneel before the Azath, and so make deities of insensate stone, will find new assurance in what they worship, because like it or not, we have made true their faith. Power will find those places now.' Draconus asks if the gift is singular. Errastas says yes. Draconus says if he has deceived him, he will hunt him down. Errastas says he hasn't made anymore. The ordeal was too great. Draconus looks up and understands. At that moment Errastas disappears. Wounded Draconus says 'Karish'.
Arathan tells him his gift to Mother Dark is soaked in blood and Errastas enjoyed it and likes the power that comes from it. He will do it again. Draconus says Mother Dark will make the gift pure. Once it unfolds it will scour that poison from it. Arathan comments that he's not going to tell her the cost of the gift is he. Draconus asks if Arathan will hold this truth over him. Arathan shakes his head. He says Kurald Galain, Mother Dark, and his father are not for him. He would scrub the secret from his mind if he could and if Errastas could read his thoughts now, he might have cause to fear. Draconus tells him he is not ready to hunt Errastas. Someone else does, but he doesn't know who. Arathan doesn't trust this answer and wants to know who lived in that house. He would know more of Errastas's psychology. Draconus tells him to leave it. Arathan asks if he will lie to the Lord of Hate as well. Draconus mounts his horse and doesn't answer. Arathan follows.
Arathan's image of his father now shrinks in his mind. He broke the women he loved and feared getting broken by Mother Dark. He was only her consort. He built an army of Houseblades and is now beset on all sides by enemies. He did not give Mother Dark a gift of love, but one of power. He didn't understand love as well as Arathan thought. Arathan wonders if his father had loved Karish once and if the blood of one lover would feed another. In the days past he would have rode beside his father and spoken to him. Now he just wanted to be alone. He thinks about Feren and how she will raise their child. If he was older or his father wasn't so formidable, he would have defied him. He vows to one day return to Feren and find a world for their child that did not feed on blood.
Location: Close to the Jaghut city Omtose Phelack.
POV: Korya
As they make their way to the city, Haut does his best to avoid the towers that may be inhabited. There was no evidence of industry, or farming, or manufacture. Korya isn't sure how these Jaghut had survived. Korya is exhausted. Haut continues to walk and makes no effort to engage Korya. He heads straight for a square tower, so Korya assumes it must be uninhabited. She longs for Kurald Galain. Haut tells Korya they will sleep in the tower as there will be rain. Korya looks up at the cloudless sky. Haut asks if she will doubt him in all things. She says, ‘I trust, that was rhetorical.’ He points to what appears to be a dead tree and says that's ilbarea and for Korya to gather it's leaves. She asks why. He says, ‘I see that you are in discomfort and ill-humour and so would remedy that. Not as much for your sake as for mine, since I have no desire to dodge barbs all night.’ She says they are questions, not barbs. She says she thought they were hunting murderers, but instead they just walk and walk and get nowhere.
She tells him the leaves will make a wretched tea. He says yes it would. He tells her there is wood behind the tower and to build a fire. He has wine. He says she will thank him for it once her mood improves. She tells him not to hold his breath. He says he gave her too much shelter and she can't thrive in the wild. She says this isn't wild. It's collapsed civilization. He agrees. She asks if he would argue with a woman. He says she is correct she is a child no longer. She wanted to dislike him, but she couldn't. They continue their debate on civilization. She is surprised to see new shoots of leaves on the tree. They looked just as dead as the rest of the tree. She says the tree is ridiculous. Haut says death is it's disguise. She says, 'I wonder, if I am to be a mahybe, a vessel to be filled, why fill it with mundane tasks and seething frustration?’ He says he wants her to have basic skills in this world. She goes behind the tower to gather the wood and finds a deep hole. She's not sure what it's for, but grabs the wood and starts a fire. Haut pulls out 3 goblets and sets them down in a row.
Korya hears a sound from the tower and sees a Jaghut standing in the doorway. He was taller than Haut and had an old and savage scar diagonally across his face. He wore only a loincloth that did not cover all of his manhood. The newcomer says he kills trespassers. Haut responds, ‘We shall warn any who come near. Korya Delath, this is Varandas. I thought he was dead.’ Varandas responds, 'Hoped, I'm sure.' Varandas sees death in their fire. Haut tells him to join them for a drink. Varandas says Korya is too young to drink. Haut says, ‘She has known wine from her mother’s tit.’ Haut tells him to open the bottle. He asks if Haut's hands are still so useless. Korya snorts. Varandas says that's the laugh of a woman. Haut tells him that she is Tiste and could be a thousand years old and he wouldn't know it. He may be useless with his hands, but he points out Varandas's stupidity. Varandas responds that he wrote a treatise about his stupidity, but that no one has read it.
He pours the three goblets to their rims. Haut asks why. Varandas says so they can marvel at the perfection of his measure. Haut says, '‘I fear Korya was able to gauge that some time ago.’ Verandas says, ‘Oh?’ Haut finishes, ‘Your diaper is too small, Varandas.’ He says that's a matter of opinion and he'll not hide his famous prowess. He tells Korya to drink first. Korya says as far as she knows her mother's tit contained no wine and she isn't responsible for what Haut says. Varandas says her mood is foul. He asks how Haut puts up with it. Haut says he usually hides, but in present circumstances that is difficult. He says he has a solution though and pulls out his pipe. He says ilbarea leaves from Varandas's tree. Varandas says, ‘Oh? I thought it was dead.’
POV: Haut
Haut frowns and picks up the pipe that had fallen from Korya's hand. He sniffs the bowl and his head snaps back. He asks Varandas how long the leaves had been ripening on the vine. Varandas says decades or centuries. He never picks them. He asks Haut why he asks such difficult questions. Does he delight in pointing out his stupidity. It makes him want to fight. Haut says hopefully she wakes up tomorrow refreshed and full of vigor. Varandas says maybe the day after or the day after that. In any case her attitude no longer bothers them, so it's a win. Haut says the bottle is empty and he's no longer hungry. Varandas tells him they must walk to the back of the tower and that they have things to discuss. Haut throws a blanket over Korya as they walk past.
They stand at the edge of the hole and look down into the darkness. Haut says he fears for Hood. Varandas says he fears the precedent, ‘An Azathanai now truly stands apart, and would make a bold claim to godhood.’ Haut asks what is to be done. Varandas says, everyone is asking that except Hood who is chained up by the Lord of Hate. It was deemed an act of compassion. They now all await Hood's word. Varandas says he will listen to Hood and, "give him the openness of my judgement until I can weigh his words.’ Haut says that's honorable and wonders how many more will join Varandas in this. Varandas says a handful. He asks what Haut will do. Haut tells him that Korya is a Mahybe. Varandas says that it is unprecedented and bold. He asks Haut what he thinks of the hole. Haut asks Varandas how he came by it. Varandas has no idea.
Location: An unknown Jaghut tower
POV: Sechul Lath
Errastas is watching Sechul pull rocks from some rubble. Some of them are still blistering hot and he cursed whenever he touched one. Errastas talks about the worship of stone and it's longevity. He was arranging broken slate tiles in stacks. Errastas says that worshippers of stone claimed that the buildings grew by themselves into massive towers. In different places the towers were different. Some of wood like the Tiste would make, some of huts like the Dog-Runners. Sechul rolls aside a large boulder and studies the hole underneath. He continues to make the hole bigger by moving rocks. Errastas says these buildings are called Azath and that is how the Tiste name the Azathanai even though not all of them worship stone. Sechul says Errastas seems to have won the argument. Errastas says, ‘Not even a Jaghut tower could withstand half a hill of earth and rock descending on it.’ Sechul thought of the terrible sorcery Errastas had unleashed. He says this could begin a war. Errastas says he has purpose. Murder may seem like madness, but the table he sets, 'will see multitudes gathering to the feast, dear brother of mine.’ Sechul corrects him and says half-brother. Sechul asks if they will thank him. Errastas says he doesn't care. It only matters that they will feast.
Sechul stands away from the hole and stretches. Errastas goes in and comes out with the crushed body of whatever Jaghut had lived in this tower. Errastas says, ‘I felt his death, like a hand on my cock.’ Sechul looks away in disgust at the sky. He notices that there are no searchers. Errastas says they have time. ‘K’rul gropes. He has not yet seen our faces. He does not yet know his quarry.’ Sechul says he won't welcome K'rul's discovery and that he's already tired of running. Errastas says their flight is about to get more frenzied. Draconus comprehended what he had done at the end of their meeting and he now goes to the Lord of Hate. Errastas wonders if he will confess his role in the first murder. Sechul says that if he doesn't he will make the Lord of Hate his enemy. Errastas says, ‘Do you not relish the thought of those two locked in battle? Mountains would break asunder, and seas rise to inundate half the world.’ Sechul says it's just as likely that they ally and seek out K'rul and then all three will chase them. Errastas says he doesn't think so. The Lord of Hate is unlikely to care about his murdered kin and Draconus has to get back to his precious Mother Dark.
Errastas pushes a piece of slate tile into a wound on the Jaghut's body. ‘There is no ritual beyond repetition and a chosen sequence, yet we deem ritual to be a vital component to sorcery. Well, this new sorcery, that is. Of course, ritual does not create magic – all we do with ritual is comfort ourselves.’ Sechul asks if Errastas can keep hiding them. Errastas says no. They must flee Azathanai and Jaghut lands. Sechul asks if it will go to the Jheck or he Dog-Runners. Not the Thel Akai certainly. Errastas says they must cross the sea so they don't share any borders with the Azathanai. Sechul says, ‘Whither fled Mael? He will not welcome us.’ Errastas says no. Beyond this realm, even. Sechul asks the High Kingdom? Their borders are closed to Azathanai. Errastas says they must find a way to bargain themselves in. There must be good reason why the King is so beloved among his people. Let us make this our next adventure, and discover all the hidden truths of the High Kingdom and its perfect liege.’
Sechul sees Errastas continue to put tiles in the Jaghut's wounds and arcane symbols begin to form on them. He asks Errastas where all that earth and rock came from. Errastas says no idea.
Location: Varandas's Tower
POV: Korya
Korya awakes to the sound of rain on stone in an unfamiliar place with the smell of animals. She struggles to find her memory and sits up. Varandas is at a table working on something. Haut is nowhere to be seen. She finally remembers smoking the leaves and then nothing else. She asks where Haut is. Varandas says out, why? Korya says she will kill him. Varandas says get in line and that Haut meant no harm. She allows that it was a good night's sleep. Varandas says and a day. He muses about oblivion and how some people like it. Korya says she didn't think it possible that Haut was exceptional among the Jaghut, but listening to Varandas she must rethink that. Varandas agrees and asks if Haut had told her why the Lord of Hate is called that. She says no and leaves to pee. On the way out she sees what he is working on and asks what he's doing. He says he's playing with dolls. Why? Korya says she recognizes them. Varandas says, ‘Of course you do. Your master bought a dozen for you the week you came into his care. I make them.’
She begins to cry and rushes out the door. 'Korya lifted her face to the sky. Oh, goddess, they were not your children after all.' At the doorway Varandas says, ‘He deems you his last hope.’ He says Karish's killer set them on the path and Varandas wonders if it was Korya and not Haut. Korya says that no one knows she exists. She's not important. Varandas tells her that being she is the only Tiste to live among the Jaghut that she is the topic of debate among the Jaghut and the Azathanai both. She asks why. Varandas says, ‘He has made a sorcery for you—’ She says who Haut? She is but his made, cook, and slave. Varandas says, no not Haut, Draconus. She says she's never even met him. Varandas says by you I mean the Tiste. Draconus has given the Tiste the sorcery of Darkness. 'They saw the precedent of the Suzerain’s manipulation of power. By the path you were set upon, there at the Spar, you were mocked. Draconus was too patient. Mother Dark is lost within his gift to her. The Tiste are blind to their own power.’ She says she didn't know cooking and cleaning could awaken sorcery.
Varandas says the greatest gift of education is not learning facts, but learning how to live in society in a safe environment. When this is lost, the civilization is in trouble. She says the Jaghut are obsessed with civilization, but you threw it away! He responds, ‘We rejected civilization, but so too we rejected anarchy for its petty belligerence and the weakness of thought it announced. By these decisions, we made ourselves lost and bereft of purpose.’ She says that every Jaghut must live in despair. Varandas says they would if not for the Lord of Hate. She says he's the cause of it all. Varandas says she is right and in so doing took all of their despair and hate and called it his penance. Korya says she does not understand Jaghut.
She asks where Haut is. He tells her he is on the roof watching the battle. She says what battle? He says they can't tell in this rain, but tomorrow Haut will take her to the Lord of Hate. She says, ‘What for? Another lesson in humility?’ He responds, ‘Oh, an interesting thought. Do you think it is possible?’. She frowns and asks if Haut can see down here. She still has to pee. He says no and that he is to blame for boring him with talk of his dolls. He says, 'They please me immensely, you see, and soon I will set them free to find their own way in the world.’ Korya says she locked hers away. Varandas asks why? She shrugs and says maybe to keep watch over her childhood. He says that is a worthy post, but hopefully not forever as we all deserve our freedom eventually. She wondered if he was mad and asked him when he would set his free. He says they need to wake up first. She thinks that he is definitely mad. ‘Skin and flesh, blood and bone,’ Varandas said, ‘sticks and twine, leather and straw are all but traps for a wandering soul. The skill lies in the delicacy of the snare, but every doll is temporary. My art, mahybe, is one of soul-shifting. My latest dolls will seek out a rare, winged rock ape native to the old crags of a desert far to the south. I name this series Nacht.’
She asks what he named the ones he gave to her. He says Bolead, but he thinks he made too many and they were flawed, but creation involves risk. 'what is done is done, and by these words one can dismiss all manner of idiocy and atrocity. I utter the epigraph of tyrants without irony, are you not impressed?’ She says very and moves around the tower out of his sight. A tower erupts almost directly below her. Varandas tells her not to go far. She finally crouches down to pee and another concussion sounds. Varandas tells her to hurry as the argument approaches. She finishes and gets back to the doorway. She heard loud thumping as if a giant was walking up the hill. Haut was at the doorway with Varandas. He had put on his armor and held his axe. A massive shape was coming directly for them. Haut yelled Ware. The figure halts and looks up. Varandas tells the Azathanai that he lives here and has guests and that the Azathanai is not one of them. 'Begone, unless you would see Captain Haut displeased unto violence.’ The figure stopped, but Korya thought she heard sniffles. Varandas tells the Azathanai that he understands it is angry at being forced out of the valley and wounded, but there are plenty of unoccupied towers to unleash it's anger on. The giant shuffles away through the rain.
Korya says, ‘Your name alone scared off a giant who’s been knocking down towers with his fists,’ Haut says her, her fists. Varandas says he will make a fire and that Korya can thank Haut for fending off Kilmandaros. She asks who drove her from the valley? Haut says he should be commended for his courage in twice standing fast before a woman's fury in the last couple of days. As for who forced her out, he thinks they will find out soon. Korya notices something small dart out of the tower like a hare. She asks Haut what it was. Haut sighed. ‘Varandas has been playing with dolls again, hasn’t he?’
POV: Arathan
Arathan and Draconus rode through a city of several Jaghut towers. It began to rain heavily and visibility reduced to mere feet in front of him. He could only barely see his father's form. Hellar slowed down as the ground became treacherous. Arathan fought the desire to slip away and explore this strange place. Ahead he sees Draconus dismount and lead Calaras through the doorway of a tower. He goes to do the same, but as he dismounts he feels a presence nearby. A woman larger than even Grizzin Farl stomps into view. She had no weapons or armor. She reached out to pull the strap of his helm bringing him closer to her. She lifts him in the air and looks at him. Before he begins to choke she puts him down and walks past him into the tower. Neck and back hurting he follows her with his mounts. Draconus looks up. The giant says, ‘Of all your spawn, Suzerain, I sensed no madness in this one. I trust you killed all the others.'
Draconus names her Kilmandaros and says she is far from home. She says no one ever visits for long. She asks if Arathan is awakened. Draconus says no and yes. She comments, 'Then you did not save him for me.' Draconus says they encountered her husband on the way. She says probably her son and his wretched friend too, who did what you asked of him. Draconus turns to Arathan and tells him to build a fire. Draconus says they also encountered her sister in spirit. Kilmandaros says hopefully the Forulkan will determine that they are entitled to Dog-Runner land and then Olar Ethil and her can be at war again. Draconus asks if she would sacrifice her followers. She says what else are they good for. 'Besides, the Forulkan do not worship me. They have made illimitable law their god, even as they suffer its ceaseless corruption at their own hands'. Draconus says that's foolish and ‘I am told that there are Jaghut among the Dog-Runners now, assuming thrones of godhood and tyranny.'
Naked she stalks around Arathan and grabs his crotch from behind. Draconus tells her to stop. She says she knows his desires and would satisfy them. Draconus need not be involved. Draconus says he has words to drive her away. She asks Arathan what he thinks. Arathan tells her she may well be the goddess of love. Kilmandaros says she will have him tonight. Draconus says no. 'His is the longing that afflicts the young. You offer too much and he yearns to be lost.’ Arathan is embarrassed because his father is right. He is an open book to everyone. He vows to himself, 'One day, I will make myself unknown to all. Except Feren, and our child.' Draconus says that Sechul and Errastas have committed murder. She asks him what right he has to make this accusation. Draconus says they killed Karish and found power in her blood and they wear it proudly. He tells her that they used that power to create the gift in his possession. She asks him why he doesn't flee. Hood will blame him as much as the others for his wife's death. Draconus says he will face him at the Tower of Hate. She says he'd better hope the chains hold.
Draconus asks what she will do. She says she must find her son and turn him from this path. Draconus says it is too late. 'even now Errastas weaves a web around K’rul, and the sorcery once given freely to all who would reach for it is now bound in blood.’ She says Sechul and Errastas are poisoned by their father's uselessness. Draconus tells her if she finds them to kill them both. He tells her she has to leave as they cannot stand against her grief. She stands to leave and says she will punch her grief and rage across this valley. When she leaves, Arathan turns to his father and says, I wish you left me at home. As he prepares the evening meal a thought strikes him and he asks, "‘Father? Have Azathanai moved and lived among the Tiste?’ Draconus tells him that Azathanai live wherever they want and in any guise they wish. Arathan asks if Mother Dark is an Azathanai. Draconus says no, she is a Tiste.
POV: Korya
The morning after the encounter with Kilmandaros Haut led Korya down into the Abandoned City of the Jaghut. She had dreamed of trapped dolls. Varandas had left before she woke up. She told Haut that she didn't want to visit anyone named the Lord of Hate. Haut agreed, but said they must anyway. She asked why and he angrily said to answer he must tell a tale and he hates tales. He asks her to tell him why he hates tales. She says because a tale has a unity that is impossible in life. It is only told from one universal perspective. She says he doesn't have to explain why he's bad at storytelling. She says just get on with it. He tells her what they know of the Azathanai which isn't much. They are powerful in ways no one understands. They are contrary and ill-inclined to society. He says they can choose any form they wish. Korya says he is describing gods, or demons, or spirits. He says yes. She asks if they can be killed. He doesn't know, but knows some have disappeared.
There is one Azathanai who now names himself K'rul. She asks what he was named before. Haut says Keruli and that that transformation is the heart of the story. The word Keruli among the Dog-Runners is of the present. But if it's not present, as in past or dead it changes to K'rul. Korya says, so they can be killed. Haut says yes and no. Not even the Azathanai understand what he did to himself. Korya asks what he did. ‘He bled, and from the wounds he opened upon himself, in the blood itself, he gave birth to mysterious power. Sorcery. Magic in many currents and flavours. They are young still, vague in aspect, only barely sensed. Those who do sense them might choose to flee, or venture closer. In exploration, these currents find definition.’ She says that the Jaghut, Dog-Runners, Thel Akai and Forulkan all have their own sorcery. Haut asks about the Tiste. She says that Varandas told her they did, but she's never seen anything like that. Keruli's blood leaves him and becomes something left behind, so he becomes K'rul. She understands that the Dog-Runners expected him to die and so his name changed. But that he lives on. Haut says yes and now the other Azathanai are beginning to understand the consequences of what he has done. Haut asks her why they might be alarmed. She says because he is giving anyone access to the power they held only among themselves.
Haut says, 'What value being a god when each and every one of us can become one?’ She says that gods are bullies, pathetic and venal. Haut says they are all selfish right. Except this one time. K'rul has set precedent where he has given a gift without expectation. He analogizes it to a merchant who suddenly gives everything away for free. Society collapses. Korya asks if the Lord of Hate is K'rul. He says no. She asks if his story is over. He says it is. She says, ‘But you ended nowhere!’. He says he warned her and now they must leave.
POV: Arathan
Arathan followed Draconus into a clearing and beheld a high Tower of what looked like white marble. He tells Arathan to hobble his horses. They have arrived. Arathan says he doesn't understand why something so beautiful could be called the Tower of Hate. Draconus motions for him to come into a different structure. He does. There is a desk in the corner of the room with stacks of vellum and countless quills. There is an open trapdoor as well. Draconus tells Arathan to wait and he will find chairs. Arathan asks if they are in the gatekeepers tower. A sound from the trap door directed Arathan's eyes to a Jaghut climbing into view. He had never seen one before. Ignoring Arathan the Jaghut walks to the desk. He is wearing a purple robe and his fingers are very ink stained. He says he writes in ink, not blood and his only excess is moderation. He asks Arathan what he thinks and Arathan tells him that they seek audience with the Lord of Hate. The Jaghut responds, ‘That fool? He bleeds ink like a drunk pissing in the alley. His very meat is sodden with the bile of his dubious wit. He chews arguments like broken glass, and he bathes all too infrequently.' He writes a suicide note, and it is interminable. His audience blinks, too filled with self-importance to choke out a laugh. Death, he tells them, is the gift of silence.'
The Jaghut says he looks like a Tiste and that no one doubts Draconus's power. The Tiste should be wary of his temper. He should warn them. Arathan says he will not return and that he means to stay in the Tower of Hate. The Jaghut asks where that is and Arathan tells him the tall one of white marble where the Lord of Hate dwells. The Jaghut says a secret awaits you. He asks Arathan what material would you use to build an edifice of hate. Arathan says something pure. The Jaghut says very good. And the tower should shine bright as well right? Yes. The Jaghut says, so white marble or in this case opal. He says that no Jaghut could build a tower like that. It would require an Azathanai mason. One with a sense of humor. He asks Arathan how many levels should it have. Arathan says hatred is a thing that blinds. The Jaghut asks him what he thinks of a suicide note that never ends. Arathan says it's a joke. He says he appreciates the irony. The Jaghut confirms that hate blinds and that there are no levels to it at all. What about windows and what manner of door should be used. Arathan says no windows because all that is outside matters not to the one within. Arathan looks at the Jaghut and says it's solid stone isn't it. But there must be a way in. The Jaghut says, but no way out. Arathan says but if it's solid none can live within it. The Jaghut responds that none do at least not what any sane person would call living.
Draconus walks in and says that you've burned every piece of furniture in every home nearby. The Jaghut says the winters are cold. He tells Draconus that he was just discussing Gothos's folly with his son. He points to a trunk and says there is wine in it. Draconus says he wants to speak with Hood. He grabs a clay jug out of the trunk. The Jaghut says it's an excellent choice. Draconus says it's the one he gifted to the Jaghut the last time they met. Draconus asks if Hood is still below. The Jaghut says he can't get rid of him. He tells Draconus that his son wishes to remain in the keeping of the Lord of Hate. Draconus says he would make himself a gift to you. The Jaghut says for what purpose? Draconus tells him that he is trained in letters. He then asks, ‘How many volumes have you compiled thus far, Gothos?’ Gothos responds a dozen stacks of papers written in his execrable hand. Draconus asks if he wrote it in Old Jaghut. Gothos says that that language is terrible. It is for tax collectors and unimaginative people. He would have killed himself after the first three words. If only. Then he confesses that he has indeed written in Old Jaghut.
Draconus tells him to teach the script to Arathan and he can translate it into a more suitable language like Tiste. Gothos says he will go blind and his hand will fall off translating it. Does he actually want to do it. Draconus says it was his idea. Gothos asks Arathan why. Arathan answers, ‘Because, sir, an unending suicide note cannot but be a proclamation on the worth of living.’ Gothos says he will argue against him and assault him with his wisdom at every turn. Gothos asks, 'What have you that dares to claim the strength to withstand me?’ Arathan responds, ‘I have youth.’. Gothos says that he will lose it. Arathan says eventually yes. Gothos says, ‘Draconus, your son does you proud.’ Draconus agrees. Gothos gives Draconus a key and tells Arathan to never doubt his father's courage. Arathan says he never has .Gothos asks for his name. Arathan tells him. Gothos asks, ‘And do you?’. Arathan says what? Gothos says do you walk on water because that is your name's meaning. Arathan says no and that he broke through ice and almost drowned. Gothos asks if he now fears ice or water. Arathan says no.
Gothos tells him his father wants to free Hood. It's dangerous. Do you know why. Arathan says for some sort of redemption. Gothos now confirms for himself that it was Errastas who killed Karish and others. He says that Draconus doesn't understand Jaghut. He thinks Hood will hunt down Errastas. He wants the legendary Jaghut rage to be unleashed on Errastas. But that won't happen. Arathan asks what Hood will do. Gothos answers, ‘He grieves for the silence she now gives him, Arathan. I fear, in truth, that he will announce a war upon that silence. All to hear her speak again, one more time, one last time. He will, if he is able, shatter the peace of death itself.’ Arathan asks how that is possible. Gothos doesn't know. He flees death, so he isn't the one to ask. He only hopes other Jaghut do not heed Hood's summons. Arathan asks why they would. It's madness. Gothos says it is audacious. Arathan looks at the trap door. Gothos says it's not a good sign that you already tire of my company. Go ahead and look.
Arathan makes his way down the trap door stairs. At the bottom there is a pool of water and an island in the middle. Hood is chained up on this island. Draconus is telling Hood that he plans to cleanse the gift and that other Azathanai are also horrified by Errastas's crime. K'rul is seeking justice. He tells Hood, he plans to release him. Hood laughs and says, ‘Ah, Draconus. You sought from Errastas a worthy symbol of your love for Mother Dark. To achieve that, he stole the love of another, and made from blackwood leaves the gift you sought. By this we are all made to bow before your need.’ Hood says he doesn't blame Errastas or Sechul or even Draconus. He tells Draconus, 'Be a sword if you will, but do not expect me to wield it.’ Draconus responds, ‘My fury remains, Hood, and I will curse Errastas for his deed, and for my own role in it. I will forge a sword and make of it a prison—’ Hood cuts him off and calls him a fool. Draconus continues, ‘Quenched in Vitr—’ Hood tells him to stop his description. He says, 'What I will do, once I am freed, will unwind all of existence.' He tells him to give him the key and begone.. Draconus tells him that he cannot defeat death. Hood tells Draconus that he doesn't know that. He will have allies who have their own grief and no one will doubt their resolve. ‘Gothos chained me out of love,’ he said, eyeing the key he held. ‘And here you seek to free me in its name, but I am dead to such things now. One day, Draconus, I will call upon you, in Death’s name, and I wonder: how will you answer?’ Draconus says they will both find out.
Hood says they are done, but Arathan tells him of his faith. Hood laughs but says go on. Arathan tells him that he thinks Hood will prove Gothos wrong. ‘His argument, sir. It is wrong. You all failed to answer him and so ended your civilization. But that argument never ends. It cannot end, and that is what you will prove.’ Hood tells Arathan that he is bold and asks if he thinks he will win his war. Arathan says no, but he will bless his attempt. This brings tears to Hood. Draconus sets his hand on Arathan's shoulder and says he regrets not knowing him better. Arathan tells Draconus he has been warned by all not to do what he is planning. Why does he still persist. Draconus says because he doesn't know any other way. Arathan says this is what Hood, Gothos, Kilmandaros, and Olar Ethil all said too.
Draconus says he has to go. He tells Arathan that there is an odd Jaghut who loves horses and will take care of his, but not to lose his bond with Hellar. He tells him to find somewhere to make a home, but do not isolate himself. There is a world beyond Gothos and the Jaghut. Arathan tells his father to be careful and that those in Kharkanas think they know him, but they do not. Draconus asks, ‘And you do?’ Arathan responds that he is an Azathanai. Draconus leads his mount into a clearing and darkness follows him. A moment later he is gone. No hug for Arathan. Arathan feels lost and free. He studies the figurine that Olar Ethil gave to him through his father. The last physical reminder of this entire trip. Another gift soaked in blood.
He hears a sound and looks up to see a Jaghut in armor and a young Tiste woman approaching. The Jaghut asks if he is within. Arathan says he is asleep in his chair. The Jaghut goes inside and yells at Gothos to wake up. The woman asks him what he's doing here and who is. The challenge throws Arathan off a bit. He tells her he is a guest of the Lord of Hate. She asks if the figurine he had was a doll. He says in a manner of speaking. a gift. She tells him it's ugly. He says nothing and is uncomfortable by her direct gaze. She asks, 'Do you always do that?’ He says what? She says, chew your nails. Arathan drops his hand and wipes it on his thigh. He says no.

╰┈➤ The Teenager Next Door ✎ by Mai Ki; alter of Sarah Fandoms ⇨ Warning; AgePlay Concept
⇨ Strict fantasy between consenting adults. ⇨ Characters written in this story have fully grown ADULT anatomy. ⇨ This is a fantasy roleplay.

 Attractive teenager named Kit had his attention stolen by the absolute stunning looks of the younger neighbor, Michael who lives directly next door…How can the Kit not notice Michael? Kit slips his way into Michael’s life. He just couldn’t help it…He just had to. It doesn’t take long for the neighbor boy to quickly take to the teenager who is up to no good…It takes even less time for the two to become inseparable. Everywhere one goes the other is surely there to follow. No one bats an eye because it seems as if the two have adopted each other as siblings. Everyone just assumes this is just innocent and cute…But it’s not. It’s far from cute and far from innocent. The horny teenager is slowly, but surely grooming Michael. Kit happens to be sexually abused by his parents. This has gone on and undetected for a very long time. This pro-longed abuse leaves the him hyper sexual, needy, and horny constantly. At this point even Kit’s desperate hand doesn’t help. Toys, random objects, parents, nothing is helping any more. He’s craving something different and new. He only has his parents to rely on. He needs a toy, a more human toy, to get the job done when Mom and Dad can’t play. That’s when the horny teenager meets the young naive little thing living next door. Everything starts off small. Kit introduces himself to Ma. He acts like the perfect older sibling by playing with the new found ‘little sibling’ as some may call them. Kit begins teaching Michael to cook, playing ball, letting Michael watch him shave, walking him to and from school, protecting him, etc. This young man is a pro at grooming cute little toys into being obedient sex objects to play with. He has done this plenty of times, but the next door neighbor is perfect. Especially since he is quite, shy, and most importantly directly next door at all times. Once this naughty teenager has his new found toy’s trust he starts to groom him heavily. Everything starts off small. Of course it does. It has to for this plan to go down perfectly. Kit asks to simply kiss Michael on the lips for a little bit. The teenager gently holds his face, gently caressing, just taking it slow. As the two grow comfortable he begins pressing his body against Michael, then guiding him to lay back. The two begin to passionately make out. Michael follows Kit’s every last move. This one session leads into repeated sessions every change the two are alone. When Kit sees Michael loving kissing and even going as far as getting eager to begin at any point in time he knows it’s time to push him one step further. Kit decides to try a bit of ‘wrestling’. Kit knows games are the way to slowly groom someone Michael’s age. After all he’s just a kid who wants to play games. The next time Kit and the neighbor boy are entirely alone, Kit wastes no time. He begins to explain today they should try to wrestle each other just to see who’s stronger. 

“Do you want to play a new game with me?” Kit asks. “I do! I do!” Michael replies excitedly. “Oh really?” “Mhm.” Michel nods. “I do.” “Okay.” Kit pauses. “But just like when we practice we can’t tell-” “Anyone, I know, I know. I’ll be good, I’ll be good. I-I swear. You know I don’t tell. Can we play now?” Kit softly laughs hearing how egar the toy has become to experiment with him. This little plan to work the toy into eventually having intercourse with him is falling into place perfectly. Kit begins to explain it’ll be up to Michael to fight back with all he’s got. “We need to practice wrestling because I kinda wanna try out for the team and I was hoping you’d help-” “I’ll help you.” Kit smiles with a soft laugh hearing Michael so excited. “What do I need to do?” “You’ll need to wrestle me with all your little might and don’t stop until we’re all done wrestling. Okay?” “Okay.” The teenager loves to lay Michael under him on the bed, floor, couch, doesn’t matter before the two begin a ‘wrestling match’. When the two begin to fake wrestle Kit will gently fight against the little one’s wrists, pushing them down while his hips gently rock back and forth. It feels good to take advantage of someone so much dumber than him. Kit will pin the neighbor's wrists above his head each time before humping the boy a little harder repeatedly. Kit always whispers icky things to him. “Quite.” “Hold still.” “You’re making me feel good.” “Try to fight against me.” “Well done.” “Keep going.” “Almost done.” Although wrestling fully clothed isn’t enough for the teenager. Of course it isn’t. He’s horny and wants to get the little one's pants off, or at least down around his little ankles. The teenager knew wrestling fully clothed would only be a temporary play. He gives it a few fake wrestling sessions before introducing less clothing. “Let’s uh..Let’s try to wrestle in our underwear.” “Why?” “Because wrestlers wear very little clothing and that’s what I’ll basically be in when I join the team. Okay?” “Okay.” “Same rules as-” “Always, I know, I know.” “Good boy Michael.” Kit smiles. He’s trained the boy well. “Now take off your pants please. I really wanna begin wrestling.” The teenager kindly asks the neighbor to maybe try taking his pants off. Of course the neighbor agrees. He’s too little to know better. Kit quickly falls in love with helping the toy take off his pants. Helping him slip down to his little undies. Actually Kit can’t even wait to see what little briefs Michel has put on for him today. He looks forward to perving on him after school. The two wrestle like this a few times, but the teenager grows impatient once more. Kit starts to wonder what’s under his little undies. He knows there should be a little tiny cock under there, but he wants to feel it. Maybe even put the little one in his mouth. So Kit starts to pin down Michael with one hand just like he always does, this time though he begins lightly touching him with the other. Fingers grope the boy trying to feel around his tiny growing privates. It’s little and nowhere near as big as Kit, but he likes it. The teenager’s finger caused the little member sitting in between the boy’s legs to stiffen up, letting Kit know he wants to play. “Is this your cock?” Michael nods, making Kit smile with a soft laugh. “You’re so little.” He says softly. “Is this okay? Like does this feel good when I rub a bit?” The boy nods with a smile. “Do it more please.” He asks. “Good boy Michael.” Kit kisses his forehead. “Touching privates is essential, especially if you want to be big like me.” Although he is grooming Michael, he alway asks if his privates feel good when he rubs a bit. This is to make the boy feel like he is in control when he really isn’t. Even if Michael asked to stop, Kit wouldn’t. Instead he’d convince Michael to let him finish first. It’s important the teenager gets to properly finish when he’s horny. After all this is a game designed for his pleasure. Kit often makes sure he is praising the boy. This is to keep the stupid toy from thinking this is wrong. He wants Michael to associate listening during his grooming as good behavior. Although Michael never protests, even when the teenager becomes brave. A hand slowly slipping down his underwear, feeling the area in between his fingers. The boy quickly gets used to being touched during ‘wrestling’ and even looks forward to being touched. There’s even moments where he asks the older boy to ‘wrestle’, practically begging even. Kit is doing a good job at ensuring the boy wants to be sexual and he’s doing an even better job at successfully grooming the boy. Kit wants to touch him even more than he already is. Touching becomes so normal that Michael doesn’t even think twice when being touched. It doesn’t matter what they are doing, Kit enjoys feeling Michael up, especially his front. It’s so little and Kit can hardly get enough of it. If they are watching a movie Michael gets used to Kit putting a blanket over and being molested. If Kit is cooking he gets used to being on the counter where Kit constantly rubs him from outside of his pants. If Michael wants to be on the swing, Kit tries to feel him a few times. Even when going to school Kit starts take a different path so he can pull down Michael’s pants to molest him a little. Then the horny teenager begins making the toy sit in his lap. Kit constantly slips a hand down his little pants to touch him more. Touching becomes a normal occurrence when alone. His fingers lightly feel, rub, and pull the tiny little boy’s cock that’s still developing. Kit makes comments about how pretty the neighbor is and how well behaved he is. “You’re such a good boy.” “Look how pretty you are today.” “Already rock hard for me.” “Such a good boy Michael.” He’d say. Kit eventually has Michael take off his little underwear too. Touching wasn’t enough for him. He wanted Michael entirely exposed to him. He looked better with his little cock hanging out, sitting up ready to play anyway. Kit started off by asking if they can compare themselves. “Wanna compare privates?” The teenager asks so casually. Of course Michael eagerly agrees. He wants to compare himself with the older boy. He’s never seen him before. They waste no time stripping out of their underwear, showing off what sits in between their legs. Kit places them beside each other explaining how they will get much, much bigger. “One day we’ll both have much bigger privates, like the grown ups have, but right now we should enjoy what tiny length we have while we are still little.” This only leads to the teenager teaching Michael to start masturbating, touching each other, watching the older one masturbate, sucking, learning to hump when they're pressed together, drinking cum, and even learning to lay down for sex. They get into all sorts of icky situations that the teenager leads. Kit is smart. He knows Michael will learn about rape soon or later so he beings teaching his toy into believing boys can’t be forced into having sex so the two are just having consensual sex, even if it’s a little uncomfortable for him. Kit isn’t very nice or gentle with Michael’s little bum, but he knows he has to listen and take it. Kit won’t stop either way and he doesn’t want Kit to stop hanging out with him, so he doesn’t tell either. When it’s time for sex Kit lays the little boy down, mouth gets covered, and lastly feeling the tiny hole forced open. Kit behind shoving fully inside, never giving any adjustment time. Why let him adjust when he feels tighter this way? The teenager says it’s important for him to feel everything with no help or preparation. Kit will then begin forcefully using the tiny hole for his own pleasure. Often Kit will tell the tiny sex toy; “Shh, it’s okay. I know, I know.” “It isn’t that bad, sweetie. Relax.” “I know it’s a bit uncomfortable and hurts, but we need to do this.” “Hurts doesn’t it? Yea? Good, I like when it hurts you, baby. It means you’re still tight.” “Relax and it’ll hurt less, alright?” “God I love when you cry.” “I can’t help it, you’re just so pretty I need to mark you, baby.” “I’m almost done, just hold still for me.” “You’re doing such a big stretch, good job.” “When you’re bigger you’re going to touch yourself to all of this. I know it hurts now, but you’ll love it later on. I promise it. You’re going to be so happy you got to experience this.” “Ah you making pretty cries for me sweetie? Good, that’s good. You keep making pretty cries for me.” “Shh, shh. I’m almost done having sex with you. I’m close, we’ll be all done with sex soon. Just a little more sex than all done.”

After that night, Kay and I did become friends, best friends even. However, the death of the child gave us two different goals. Kay believed the child had to die because we angered god. The death of the child inspired her to attempt the Sisyphean task of pleasing this mad god. It hurt her over the years. Her hair grew small strips of gray. Her eyes had crow’s feet before she was 18. She always smiled, lighting the room, but if she was a candle’s flame she was one gust away from disappearing forever. It hurt to watch.
The death of the child erased my trust in our god. I wanted nothing to do with him. But I couldn’t break free, physically. So, I broke free virtually. I bypassed the parental block on my phone, and the whole wide world was at my fingertips via the internet. That’s where I learned about you people, dear reader, and what the outside world believes. I want to say this brought a great sense of enlightenment to me, but it made me depressed, anxious, and to be honest self-centered; I spent a lot of time on Twitter.
I amassed more knowledge than anyone else in my group, even the adults blocked about 99% of the internet on their phones but none of this knowledge made me happy or a better person. I became a fraud, a wise, self-centered deviant who explored all corners of the internet at night and pretended to worship this strange god in the morning. I believed I was getting away with it as well until it was time for discipline.
At our tiny private school, occasionally the secretary would come in and announce she needed students for discipline. That meant students had done something wrong and now they needed to be punished for it, anything was allowed for punishment. Discipline came at random. How could you know if you did something wrong with rules such as talking without permission, or being too loud at lunch? How could you ever know if you were safe? And do you think the teachers stopped taking notes once class was over? No, if they saw you commit any disciplinable action at church or even in your neighborhood you can be sure it was reported.
Before discipline, it was another lazy day in American history class. Our teacher sat on the far right and watched clips of his beloved Dallas Cowboys. We left our books open, notebooks on our desks, and pencils in our hands as we talked to one another in case Mr. Foyer told us to quiet down and actually do work.
Chatter and mischief filled the room. Students bounced from desk to desk gossiping and scheming. Who did what to who and where? Guys untucked their uniform shirts. Girls pretended to be annoyed with guys’ flirtations. I freely scrolled through my phone. This was our playground. Understand, Mr. Foyer was a terrible teacher, but his lack of interest in teaching gave us freedom. So much of our lives was monitored not there though.
Mrs. Dana stepped into the room.
Without a word spoken, we sat in our seats. I felt smaller. The room felt tighter. I could not read my classmate’s minds, but I knew what they were thinking. They were thinking the same thing as me.
Was it my turn to be called?
I could feel our previous sins in the air. They came down on us like an itchy antique blanket. Every action we had done previously was questioned. Why were we up without permission? Why were we talking without permission? What did she see? Was it my turn to be called?
Mrs. Dana was a pretty woman and so sweet, so much of the time. She was also the woman who announced who would be disciplined today. She exhibited professionalism and grace unlike so many of our authority figures. Great smile, beautiful brown skin, and a reassuring voice, until it wasn’t. When she was not asking us to rise to be tortured every sentence she said almost always ended in a laugh. This was the woman who helped us find our ways on the first day of class, who would compliment any fashion decision we made that still followed our strict dress code. I know she was a shoulder to cry on for Kay.
Mr. Foyer rose from his seat, “Alright, class I told y’all to settle down.” Of course, he hadn’t told us to settle down earlier but like many of the adults, Mr. Foyer was a coward and refused to look like he was doing anything wrong.
I’ve read people’s comments to cult leaders; “How could an adult be a part of hurting a child?”
If you asked Mrs. Dana, I think she’d say, “You turn the switch in your head that thinks off. You follow a script.” We all saw her do it with astonishing results.
“I need to call a couple of students in for discipline,” she said in a dry authoritarian baritone in front of the whiteboard at the head of the classroom. An American flag hung in the left corner and a Christian flag in the right.
Mrs. Dana scanned the classroom. Her gaze was not still and patient like normal. Her eyes wandered and were expectant. Maybe, this wasn’t the part she had to turn off but was the part that was finally free. Did she enjoy that?
I always felt she would say my name. I always felt guilty. Still do. There’s always another sin isn’t there? I went over mine in my head and wondered if a teacher was there observing me when I thought I was alone.
“Toni, Jake,...” She didn’t bother with last names. We knew who everybody was, small school. It was always the same kids and I was clever enough to hide my flaws. My name was seldom chosen.
“Jez, Canaan...” It was almost over. I never got called so I shouldn’t get called this time.
“Assayria, …” Reflexively, I found myself thanking my god again under my lungs for keeping me safe for… “Sath.” I didn’t move. It felt too real and too cruel. I grabbed my desk and looked straight ahead at the whiteboard at the front of the class. It blurred and became hard to read. Random facts about American presidents were on there and all smudged together in my view. My heart was running, speeding. Of course, I didn’t look at any other student there was too much shame in having my name called.
“Come on, let’s go.” Mrs. Dana said and melted into her role as a villain. There was no bend in her voice. How could she be so resolute considering what they could do to us? That was her faith I suppose.
“Sath, get up,” she commanded me now. Each child was in line. I was the only one still seated.
“Go on up now, Sath. Take your medicine,” said our teacher Mr. Foyer. He’s still in the cult to this day. Most teachers leave and come back or die shortly after leaving. Not Mr.Foyer he is a short pathetic man who went along with this cult because he’d go along with anything that patted his ego.
I rose from my seat and followed. We were like a funeral procession or ghost children who could not acknowledge one another. We walked in the empty halls past the lockers into the main office and spread out around it. We circled a single chair, the one piece of furniture in the office, and cringed around it waiting for the principal to come to deliver our punishment and state our crimes. Many of us visibly cowered. My chest pulsed, the girl beside me cried quietly, and the boy beside me kept saying ‘fuck, fuck’. It’s odd, I don’t even feel comfortable saying their names now. I would never tell you who cried before they were punished or who said one of the bad words. There was a certain code we all lived by. What happened in discipline, stayed in discipline. The waiting was not the worst part.
And yet, I felt we were waiting a long time. And the fear in me was subsiding. Could I really be that lucky that discipline was canceled today?
Mrs. Dana pretended to busy herself around her desk. She held a folder of whatever our crimes were and smacked it against the desk.
“Where is Principal Fredrick?” she asked the air. She then turned to us and the glimmer came back in her eye. “Maybe he’s giving everyone mercy today?” And I could see she wanted that. She didn’t want to see us hurt. I’ll never forget how her smile stretched from cheek to cheek because it contorted right after.
“Oh, Principal Fredrick,” she said and the sternness returned. Then came the fear. I never knew someone could stand so still.
Principal Fredrick appeared at the end of the office, seemingly, out of nowhere. His eyes were closed. Shut tight. They reminded me of the effort an honest kid puts into closing their eyes while playing hide and go seek. His black suit and tie were soaked. I assume with sweat because that’s what his face was covered in.
“Principal Fredrick,” Mrs. Dana said as we scattered, not bold enough to leave the room, but bold enough to squish ourselves into corners of the small office. Something was not right. This was not normal discipline. “How’d you get here? There’s only one door.” Mrs. Dana looked behind her as if that would confirm this magic.
“Yes,” Principal Fredrick confirmed and then touched his chest and moved his fingers across his wet, white shirt until he found his tie and adjusted it. “Yes, uh normally. I have- -” he sputtered and tears ran down his face.
“Principal Fredrick?” That’s all Mrs. Dana could do, repeat his name dumbly.
“I looked through a door I was not invited to go in,” he cried without remorse. With a freedom I have never seen a man cry with. Like a newborn’s baby cry. He stepped forward and behind him, I saw the impossible. A grey wooden door that had not been there before.
Principal Fredrick strode forward. Tears flowed down his face and made his cheeks glisten. Snot poured from his nose into his mouth which polluted every word he said.
“I have been told Sath must go through the door,” He opened his eyes and his two eyeballs dropped out of their sockets. They plopped down. They thud like rocks. Eyes do not thud like rocks. Nor could they just fall out of a face. One rolled forward and the other backward. One crashed into the door and sounded like a marble hitting solid oak. The pupil faced us, faced me.
Everyone in the room screamed. We were brainwashed in our cult to witness so much of the unordinary, bizarre, and evil. But this was out of the ordinary. We froze. I think someone pissed themselves beside me. Every kid in there cried freely.
“I apologize. I apologize.” The Principal said. “I saw something I should not have seen so I was given another pair of eyes. Where is Sath?”
“Where is he?” the principal asked and dropped to his knees. No one answered. Thank everything, no one answered. On his knees he slid forward and groped and sniffed, grabbing the first kid he felt and pulling them close to his nose.
“Where is he? I can smell him,” he said.
“Sath go in the door,” Mrs. Dana asked. She still had kindness in her. It was a request.
I shook my head at her, a desperate and pleading no. The other one of Principal Fredrick’s eyes stopped rolling and landed at my feet. It was not an eye. It was more like a rock expertly painted to imitate an eye.
“Sath, for us please,” Mrs. Dana said. Principal Fredrick pulled at another student, gave them another sniff, and disregarded them against the wall.
Again, I shook my head no.
And that set her off.
“Get off the wall and go in!” she screeched. A demonic, ear-drum popping, and vocal cord-violating screech.
Maybe she was as scared as I was then, and her scream to me was the plea of someone who was trying to save her own life.
I do know one thing though. She followed her faith. She believed with 100% certainty that she was doing the right thing. She rushed to me, clapped her hands, and screamed.
“He’s here, Principal Fredrick. He’s here,” she yelled and Principal Fredrick leaped on me. His knee slammed into his own eye on the floor
CRACK!
It exploded with more vigor than a bug under a foot. It burst open on my legs and feet.
“The door, Mrs. Dana. The door!” he bellowed. And Mrs. Dana ran for it. Opened the door and closed her eyes. She refused to look where she damned me to go. I clawed for anyone. The other kids deserted. Their screams echoed off the halls. Principal Fredrick squeezed me tighter. His wet arms constricted against my throat. I wanted to rebel against all I was ever told then. I wanted to kick an adult. Bite an adult. I wanted to free myself. But I couldn’t… Maybe, it was my home training. I just couldn’t. I don’t know how Principal Fredrick felt during the ordeal and for some reason that concerned me. He was crying when he picked me up and he kept crying. The last thing I saw before Principal Fredrick tossed me inside was Mrs. Dana stepping on his other eye.
CRACK!

Part 1
After that night, Kay and I did become friends, best friends even. However, the death of the child gave us two different goals. Kay believed the child had to die because we angered god. The death of the child inspired her to attempt the Sisyphean task of pleasing this mad god. It hurt her over the years. Her hair grew small strips of gray. Her eyes had crow’s feet before she was 18. She always smiled, lighting the room, but if she was a candle’s flame she was one gust away from disappearing forever. It hurt to watch.
The death of the child erased my trust in our god. I wanted nothing to do with him. But I couldn’t break free, physically. So, I broke free virtually. I bypassed the parental block on my phone, and the whole wide world was at my fingertips via the internet. That’s where I learned about you people, dear reader, and what the outside world believes. I want to say this brought a great sense of enlightenment to me, but it made me depressed, anxious, and to be honest self-centered; I spent a lot of time on Twitter.
I amassed more knowledge than anyone else in my group, even the adults blocked about 99% of the internet on their phones but none of this knowledge made me happy or a better person. I became a fraud, a wise, self-centered deviant who explored all corners of the internet at night and pretended to worship this strange god in the morning. I believed I was getting away with it as well until it was time for discipline.
At our tiny private school, occasionally the secretary would come in and announce she needed students for discipline. That meant students had done something wrong and now they needed to be punished for it, anything was allowed for punishment. Discipline came at random. How could you know if you did something wrong with rules such as talking without permission, or being too loud at lunch? How could you ever know if you were safe? And do you think the teachers stopped taking notes once class was over? No, if they saw you commit any disciplinable action at church or even in your neighborhood you can be sure it was reported.
Before discipline, it was another lazy day in American history class. Our teacher sat on the far right and watched clips of his beloved Dallas Cowboys. We left our books open, notebooks on our desks, and pencils in our hands as we talked to one another in case Mr. Foyer told us to quiet down and actually do work.
Chatter and mischief filled the room. Students bounced from desk to desk gossiping and scheming. Who did what to who and where? Guys untucked their uniform shirts. Girls pretended to be annoyed with guys’ flirtations. I freely scrolled through my phone. This was our playground. Understand, Mr. Foyer was a terrible teacher, but his lack of interest in teaching gave us freedom. So much of our lives was monitored not there though.
Mrs. Dana stepped into the room.
Without a word spoken we sat in our seats. I felt smaller. The room felt tighter. I could not read my classmate’s minds, but I knew what they were thinking. They were thinking the same thing as me.
Was it my turn to be called?
I could feel our previous sins in the air. They came down on us like an itchy antique blanket. Every action we had done previously was questioned. Why were we up without permission? Why were we talking without permission? What did she see? Was it my turn to be called?
Mrs. Dana was a pretty woman and so sweet, so much of the time. She was also the woman who announced who would be disciplined today. She exhibited professionalism and grace unlike so many of our authority figures. Great smile, beautiful brown skin, and a reassuring voice, until it wasn’t. When she was not asking us to rise to be tortured every sentence she said almost always ended in a laugh. This was the woman who helped us find our ways on the first day of class, who would compliment any fashion decision we made that still followed our strict dress code. I know she was a shoulder to cry on for Kay.
Mr. Foyer rose from his seat, “Alright, class I told y’all to settle down.” Of course, he hadn’t told us to settle down earlier but like many of the adults, Mr. Foyer was a coward and refused to look like he was doing anything wrong.
I’ve read people’s comments to cult leaders; “How could an adult be a part of hurting a child?”
If you asked Mrs. Dana, I think she’d say, “You turn the switch in your head that thinks off. You follow a script.” We all saw her do it with astonishing results.
“I need to call a couple of students in for discipline,” she said in a dry authoritarian baritone in front of the whiteboard at the head of the classroom. An American flag hung in the left corner and a Christian flag in the right.
Mrs. Dana scanned the classroom. Her gaze was not still and patient like normal. Her eyes wandered and were expectant. Maybe, this wasn’t the part she had to turn off but was the part that was finally free. Did she enjoy that?
I always felt she would say my name. I always felt guilty. Still do. There’s always another sin isn’t there? I went over mine in my head and wondered if a teacher was there observing me when I thought I was alone.
“Toni, Jake,...” She didn’t bother with last names. We knew who everybody was, small school. It was always the same kids and I was clever enough to hide my flaws. My name was seldom chosen.
“Jez, Canaan...” It was almost over. I never got called so I shouldn’t get called this time.
“Assayria, …” Reflexively, I found myself thanking my god again under my lungs for keeping me safe for… “Sath.” I didn’t move. It felt too real and too cruel. I grabbed my desk and looked straight ahead at the whiteboard at the front of the class. It blurred and became hard to read. Random facts about American presidents were on there and all smudged together in my view. My heart was running, speeding. Of course, I didn’t look at any other student there was too much shame in having my name called.
“Come on, let’s go.” Mrs. Dana said and melted into her role as a villain. There was no bend in her voice. How could she be so resolute considering what they could do to us? That was her faith I suppose.
“Sath, get up,” she commanded me now. Each child was in line. I was the only one still seated.
“Go on up now, Sath. Take your medicine,” said our teacher Mr. Foyer. He’s still in the cult to this day. Most teachers leave and come back or die shortly after leaving. Not Mr.Foyer he is a short pathetic man who went along with this cult because he’d go along with anything that patted his ego.
I rose from my seat and followed. We were like a funeral procession or ghost children who could not acknowledge one another. We walked in the empty halls past the lockers into the main office and spread out around it. We circled a single chair, the one piece of furniture in the office, and cringed around it waiting for the principal to come to deliver our punishment and state our crimes. Many of us visibly cowered. My chest pulsed, the girl beside me cried quietly, and the boy beside me kept saying ‘fuck, fuck’. It’s odd, I don’t even feel comfortable saying their names now. I would never tell you who cried before they were punished or who said one of the bad words. There was a certain code we all lived by. What happened in discipline, stayed in discipline. The waiting was not the worst part.
And yet, I felt we were waiting a long time. And the fear in me was subsiding. Could I really be that lucky that discipline was canceled today?
Mrs. Dana pretended to busy herself around her desk. She held a folder of whatever our crimes were and smacked it against the desk.
“Where is Principal Fredrick?” she asked the air. She then turned to us and the glimmer came back in her eye. “Maybe he’s giving everyone mercy today?” And I could see she wanted that. She didn’t want to see us hurt. I’ll never forget how her smile stretched from cheek to cheek because it contorted right after.
“Oh, Principal Fredrick,” she said and the sternness returned. Then came the fear. I never knew someone could stand so still.
Principal Fredrick appeared at the end of the office. Seemingly, out of nowhere. His eyes were closed. Shut tight. They reminded me of the effort an honest kid puts into closing their eyes while playing hide and go seek. His black suit and tie were soaked. I assume with sweat because that’s what his face was covered in.
“Principal Fredrick,” Mrs. Dana said as we scattered, not bold enough to leave the room, but bold enough to squish ourselves into corners of the small office. Something was not right. This was not normal discipline. “How’d you get here? There’s only one door.” Mrs. Dana looked behind her as if that would confirm this magic.
“Yes,” Principal Fredrick confirmed and then touched his chest and moved his fingers across his wet, white shirt until he found his tie and adjusted it. “Yes, uh normally. I have- -” he sputtered and tears ran down his face.
“Principal Fredrick?” That’s all Mrs. Dana could do, repeat his name dumbly.
“I looked through a door I was not invited to go in,” he cried without remorse. With a freedom I have never seen a man cry with. Like a newborn’s baby cry. He stepped forward and behind him, I saw the impossible. A grey wooden door that had not been there before.
Principal Fredrick strode forward. Tears flowed down his face and made his cheeks glisten. Snot poured from his nose into his mouth which polluted every word he said.
“I have been told Sath must go through the door,” He opened his eyes and his two eyeballs dropped out of their sockets. They plopped down. They thud like rocks. Eyes do not thud like rocks. Nor could they just fall out of a face. One rolled forward and the other backward. One crashed into the door and sounded like a marble hitting solid oak. The pupil faced us, faced me.
Everyone in the room screamed. We were brainwashed in our cult to witness so much of the unordinary, bizarre, and evil. But this was out of the ordinary. We froze. I think someone pissed themselves beside me. Every kid in there cried freely.
“I apologize. I apologize.” The Principal said. “I saw something I should not have seen so I was given another pair of eyes. Where is Sath?”
“Where is he?” the principal asked and dropped to his knees. No one answered. Thank everything, no one answered. On his knees he slid forward and groped and sniffed, grabbing the first kid he felt and pulling them close to his nose.
“Where is he? I can smell him,” he said.
“Sath go in the door,” Mrs. Dana asked. She still had kindness in her. It was a request.
I shook my head at her, a desperate and pleading no. The other one of Principal Fredrick’s eyes stopped rolling and landed at my feet. It was not an eye. It was more like a rock expertly painted to imitate an eye.
“Sath, for us please,” Mrs. Dana said. Principal Fredrick pulled at another student, gave them another sniff, and disregarded them against the wall.
Again, I shook my head no.
And that set her off.
“Get off the wall and go in!” she screeched. A demonic, ear-drum popping, and vocal cord-violating screech.
Maybe she was as scared as I was then, and her scream to me was the plea of someone who was trying to save her own life.
I do know one thing though. She followed her faith. She believed with 100% certainty that she was doing the right thing. She rushed to me, clapped her hands, and screamed.
“He’s here, Principal Fredrick. He’s here,” she yelled and Principal Fredrick leaped on me. His knee slammed into his own eye on the floor
CRACK!
It exploded with more vigor than a bug under a foot. It burst open on my legs and feet.
“The door, Mrs. Dana. The door!” he bellowed. And Mrs. Dana ran for it. Opened the door and closed her eyes. She refused to look where she damned me to go. I clawed for anyone. The other kids deserted. Their screams echoed off the halls. Principal Fredrick squeezed me tighter. His wet arms constricted against my throat. I wanted rebelell against all I was ever told then. I wanted to kick an adult. Bite an adult. I wanted to free myself. But I couldn’t… Maybe, it was my home training. I just couldn’t. I don’t know how Principal Fredrick felt during the ordeal and for some reason that concerned me. He was crying when he picked me up and he kept crying. The last thing I saw before Principal Fredrick tossed me inside was Mrs. Dana stepping on his other eye.
CRACK!

Part 1
After that night, Kay and I did become friends, best friends even. However, the death of the child gave us two different goals. Kay believed the child had to die because we angered god. The death of the child inspired her to attempt the Sisyphean task of pleasing this mad god. It hurt her over the years. Her hair grew small strips of gray. Her eyes had crow’s feet before she was 18. She always smiled, lighting the room, but if she was a candle’s flame she was one gust away from disappearing forever. It hurt to watch.
The death of the child erased my trust in our god. I wanted nothing to do with him. But I couldn’t break free, physically. So, I broke free virtually. I bypassed the parental block on my phone, and the whole wide world was at my fingertips via the internet. That’s where I learned about you people, dear reader, and what the outside world believes. I want to say this brought a great sense of enlightenment to me, but it made me depressed, anxious, and to be honest self-centered; I spent a lot of time on Twitter.
I amassed more knowledge than anyone else in my group, even the adults blocked about 99% of the internet on their phones but none of this knowledge made me happy or a better person. I became a fraud, a wise, self-centered deviant who explored all corners of the internet at night and pretended to worship this strange god in the morning. I believed I was getting away with it as well until it was time for discipline.
At our tiny private school, occasionally the secretary would come in and announce she needed students for discipline. That meant students had done something wrong and now they needed to be punished for it, anything was allowed for punishment. Discipline came at random. How could you know if you did something wrong with rules such as talking without permission, or being too loud at lunch? How could you ever know if you were safe? And do you think the teachers stopped taking notes once class was over? No, if they saw you commit any disciplinable action at church or even in your neighborhood you can be sure it was reported.
Before discipline, it was another lazy day in American history class. Our teacher sat on the far right and watched clips of his beloved Dallas Cowboys. We left our books open, notebooks on our desks, and pencils in our hands as we talked to one another in case Mr. Foyer told us to quiet down and actually do work.
Chatter and mischief filled the room. Students bounced from desk to desk gossiping and scheming. Who did what to who and where? Guys untucked their uniform shirts. Girls pretended to be annoyed with guys’ flirtations. I freely scrolled through my phone. This was our playground. Understand, Mr. Foyer was a terrible teacher, but his lack of interest in teaching gave us freedom. So much of our lives was monitored not there though.
Mrs. Dana stepped into the room.
Without a word spoken we sat in our seats. I felt smaller. The room felt tighter. I could not read my classmate’s minds, but I knew what they were thinking. They were thinking the same thing as me.
Was it my turn to be called?
I could feel our previous sins in the air. They came down on us like an itchy antique blanket. Every action we had done previously was questioned. Why were we up without permission? Why were we talking without permission? What did she see? Was it my turn to be called?
Mrs. Dana was a pretty woman and so sweet, so much of the time. She was also the woman who announced who would be disciplined today. She exhibited professionalism and grace unlike so many of our authority figures. Great smile, beautiful brown skin, and a reassuring voice, until it wasn’t. When she was not asking us to rise to be tortured every sentence she said almost always ended in a laugh. This was the woman who helped us find our ways on the first day of class, who would compliment any fashion decision we made that still followed our strict dress code. I know she was a shoulder to cry on for Kay.
Mr. Foyer rose from his seat, “Alright, class I told y’all to settle down.” Of course, he hadn’t told us to settle down earlier but like many of the adults, Mr. Foyer was a coward and refused to look like he was doing anything wrong.
I’ve read people’s comments to cult leaders; “How could an adult be a part of hurting a child?”
If you asked Mrs. Dana, I think she’d say, “You turn the switch in your head that thinks off. You follow a script.” We all saw her do it with astonishing results.
“I need to call a couple of students in for discipline,” she said in a dry authoritarian baritone in front of the whiteboard at the head of the classroom. An American flag hung in the left corner and a Christian flag in the right.
Mrs. Dana scanned the classroom. Her gaze was not still and patient like normal. Her eyes wandered and were expectant. Maybe, this wasn’t the part she had to turn off but was the part that was finally free. Did she enjoy that?
I always felt she would say my name. I always felt guilty. Still do. There’s always another sin isn’t there? I went over mine in my head and wondered if a teacher was there observing me when I thought I was alone.
“Toni, Jake,...” She didn’t bother with last names. We knew who everybody was, small school. It was always the same kids and I was clever enough to hide my flaws. My name was seldom chosen.
“Jez, Canaan...” It was almost over. I never got called so I shouldn’t get called this time.
“Assayria, …” Reflexively, I found myself thanking my god again under my lungs for keeping me safe for… “Sath.” I didn’t move. It felt too real and too cruel. I grabbed my desk and looked straight ahead at the whiteboard at the front of the class. It blurred and became hard to read. Random facts about American presidents were on there and all smudged together in my view. My heart was running, speeding. Of course, I didn’t look at any other student there was too much shame in having my name called.
“Come on, let’s go.” Mrs. Dana said and melted into her role as a villain. There was no bend in her voice. How could she be so resolute considering what they could do to us? That was her faith I suppose.
“Sath, get up,” she commanded me now. Each child was in line. I was the only one still seated.
“Go on up now, Sath. Take your medicine,” said our teacher Mr. Foyer. He’s still in the cult to this day. Most teachers leave and come back or die shortly after leaving. Not Mr.Foyer he is a short pathetic man who went along with this cult because he’d go along with anything that patted his ego.
I rose from my seat and followed. We were like a funeral procession or ghost children who could not acknowledge one another. We walked in the empty halls past the lockers into the main office and spread out around it. We circled a single chair, the one piece of furniture in the office, and cringed around it waiting for the principal to come to deliver our punishment and state our crimes. Many of us visibly cowered. My chest pulsed, the girl beside me cried quietly, and the boy beside me keep saying ‘fuck, fuck’. It’s odd, I don’t even feel comfortable saying their names now. I would never tell you who cried before they were punished or who said one of the bad words. There was a certain code we all lived by. What happened in discipline, stayed in discipline. The waiting was not the worst part.
And yet, I felt we were waiting a long time. And the fear in me was subsiding. Could I really be that lucky that discipline was canceled today?
Mrs. Dana pretended to busy herself around her desk. She held a folder of whatever our crimes were and smacked it against the desk.
“Where is Principal Fredrick?” she asked the air. She then turned to us and the glimmer came back in her eye. “Maybe he’s giving everyone mercy today?” And I could see she wanted that. She didn’t want to see us hurt. I’ll never forget how her smile stretched from cheek to cheek because it contorted right after.
“Oh, Principal Fredrick,” she said and the sternness returned. Then came the fear. I never knew someone could stand so still.
Principal Fredrick appeared at the end of the office. Seemingly, out of nowhere. His eyes were closed. Shut tight. They reminded me of the effort an honest kid puts into closing their eyes while playing hide and go seek. His black suit and tie were soaked. I assume with sweat because that’s what his face was covered in.
“Principal Fredrick,” Mrs. Dana said as we scattered, not bold enough to leave the room, but bold enough to squish ourselves into corners of the small office. Something was not right. This was not normal discipline. “How’d you get here? There’s only one door.” Mrs. Dana looked behind her as if that would confirm this magic.
“Yes,” Principal Fredrick confirmed and then touched his chest and moved his fingers across his wet, white shirt until he found his tie and adjusted it. “Yes, uh normally. I have- -” he sputtered and tears ran down his face.
“Principal Fredrick?” That’s all Mrs. Dana could do, repeat his name dumbly.
“I looked through a door I was not invited to go in,” he cried without remorse. With a freedom I have never seen a man cry with. Like a newborn’s baby cry. He stepped forward and behind him, I saw the impossible. A grey wooden door that had not been there before.
Principal Fredrick strode forward. Tears flowed down his face and made his cheeks glisten. Snot poured from his nose into his mouth which polluted every word he said.
“I have been told Sath must go through the door,” He opened his eyes and his two eyeballs dropped out of their sockets. They plopped down. They thud like rocks. Eyes do not thud like rocks. Nor could they just fall out of a face. One rolled forward and the other backward. One crashed into the door and sounded like a marble hitting solid oak. The pupil faced us, faced me.
Everyone in the room screamed. We were brainwashed in our cult to witness so much of the unordinary, bizarre, and evil. But this was out of the ordinary. We froze. I think someone pissed themselves beside me. Every kid in there cried freely.
“I apologize. I apologize.” The Principal said. “I saw something I should not have seen so I was given another pair of eyes. Where is Sath?”
“Where is he?” the principal asked and dropped to his knees. No one answered. Thank everything, no one answered. On his knees he slid forward and groped and sniffed, grabbing the first kid he felt and pulling them close to his nose.
“Where is he? I can smell him,” he said.
“Sath go in the door,” Mrs. Dana asked. She still had kindness in her. It was a request.
I shook my head at her, a desperate and pleading no. The other one of Principal Fredrick’s eyes stopped rolling and landed at my feet. It was not an eye. It was more like a rock expertly painted to imitate an eye.
“Sath, for us please,” Mrs. Dana said. Principal Fredrick pulled at another student, gave them another sniff, and disregarded them against the wall.
Again, I shook my head no.
And that set her off.
“Get off the wall and go in!” she screeched. A demonic, ear-drum popping, and vocal cord-violating screech.
Maybe she was as scared as I was then, and her scream to me was the plea of someone who was trying to save her own life.
I do know one thing though. She followed her faith. She believed with 100% certainty that she was doing the right thing. She rushed to me, clapped her hands, and screamed.
“He’s here, Principal Fredrick. He’s here,” she yelled and Principal Fredrick leaped on me. His knee slammed into his own eye on the floor
CRACK!
It exploded with more vigor than a bug under a foot. It burst open on my legs and feet.
“The door, Mrs. Dana. The door!” he bellowed. And Mrs. Dana ran for it. Opened the door and closed her eyes. She refused to look where she damned me to go. I clawed for anyone. The other kids deserted. Their screams echoed off the halls. Principal Fredrick squeezed me tighter. His wet arms constricted against my throat. I wanted rebelell against all I was ever told then. I wanted to kick an adult. Bite an adult. I wanted to free myself. But I couldn’t… Maybe, it was my home training. I just couldn’t. I don’t know how Principal Fredrick felt during the ordeal and for some reason that concerned me. He was crying when he picked me up and he kept crying. The last thing I saw before Principal Fredrick tossed me inside was Mrs. Dana stepping on his other eye.
CRACK!

Living in a suburban area of Europe, we had gotten us a pair of cute long hair Chihuahuas, which absolutely adored us. However, from time to time, my wife and me also wanted or needed to go to the movies or the theater without the dogs, sometimes even for a whole day, when we traveled to a city further away. To help us in these situations for a long time, we relied on relatives. However, as they were not directly around we decided, that we should get a dogsitter from the area.

So we setup a short ad in a local Facebook group as well as other local websites, looking for a dogsitter. Just a couple of days later, I received a WhatsApp message. A young woman from the neighboring village wrote she would be interested. She had experience with small dogs and availabilities on many weekends, as she was studying and needed time to learn and could use the cash. I talked to my wife and we decided to invite her for the next evening for an interview. She asked, whether we could time it according to the train schedule, because she did not have a car, and we were happy to oblige.

The next evening, just when I got home from work, the doorbell rang, and I opened the door to see a maybe 20 year old, roughly 1.7m tall sporty black women outside. Due to the summer heat she only wore jeans shorts and a tight fitting belly open top. This of course could not hide her D/DD breasts. "I am Becky, I'm here for the dogsitter position" she said, so I invited her in and took her to our deck, where my wife waited with our little fur babies. I immediately noticed, that Becky's eyes widened, when she saw my wife on the deck. As it was, as already mentioned, summer, my wife wore a black Bikini below a light, black beach dress. None of this could really hide her G-Cups and her petite but chubby/bbw figure. At first I thought she found my wife's dress to revealing, but closer examination showed, that it was more like she was checking her out.
While my wife asked Becky if she wanted something to drink, I excused myself for a second to get out of my work clothes into something more appropriate to the heat. I decided for a pair of beach shorts and a muscle shirt. When I got downstairs again after a few minutes, the two women were chatting and already the dogs seemed to like Becky. When Becky saw me she also seemed to have a closer look at my upper body and legs. (The regular swimming pays of nicely).
When we all were sitting around the table we asked Becky a couple of questions regarding her past experience with dogs and her general availability. She said, as she wasn't much of a party girl and preferred to focus on her studies, she is generally available most evenings and weekends. However of course she also has other clients as well and it's first come first serve with her. As we tend to plan our weekends often a couple of weeks in advance, this was not a problem for us. We also agreed on a per hour salary and agreed, that she could use our TV and everything whole she was at our place. Food however would be her own responsibility and she of course could not bring other friends into our house. As these were acceptable terms for everyone, we made a short contract everybody signed and we agreed on a first evening in two weeks time, when I needed to be on a business trip and my wife had a cinema evening with some of her friends .

Two weeks later, my wife called me in the evening after her cinema evening. She told me, that everything went well with Becky and the dogs. Unfortunately she had come home just a little to late for Becky to catch a train, and she would have had to wait for another hour for the next one. So she offered to take her home. As she had been out with the scooter, she had handed Becky a helmet and one of my motorbike jackets and away they went. At the beginning, Becky had held her around the waist, but my wife told me, that during driving, Becky's hands had slipped higher, so by the end it almost felt like she was holding her at the boob. But of course this could also be just a coincidence due to both of them wearing motorbike jackets and gloves. I jokingly suggested she had been groped and should think of appropriately punishment which she dismissed while turning on the TV. "Did you watch one of the porn channels?" she asked me out of the blue. "No I didn't, at least not in the last couple of months" I told her. We talk about stuff like this pretty open. "Interesting" she said. "That means it must have been Becky, who left it on. Maybe you were right about the groping after all". As it was already late, we told each other about our day and went to our respective beds.

For the next couple of months, nothing special happened. We booked Becky about once or twice a month, but when we came home, the TV was always set to normal channels and she also approached neither me nor my wife.
About half a year after we first hired her, my wife an me went on another date night. Unfortunately while still at dinner, before we could make it to our movie, I got an emergency phone call, that I needed to help in a really urgent situation in one of the nearby lakes. My wife didn't want to go to the movies alone, so I drove her home, loaded my diving gear in the car, kissed the wife goodbye and went on. While driving to the lake, I got a text from my wife: "Becky is naughty, I need to punish her." "Go for it" I answered without giving it to much thought.

When I was back from the emergency about 4 hours later, my wife was still awake, as she always is nervous and can't sleep, when I'm diving. But this time she also looked quite smirky. Then she told me the story.
She had entered the house, and was greeted by the dogs, but she did not see Becky, nor did Becky answer her calling through the house. She then went upstairs, just to find Becky watching porn a porn scene on our TV set, with two women pleasing each other while being fucked in turns by a sporty guy. Becky's trousers and panties were lying on the floor, as was her top. She was completely naked. All the while she was wearing noise canceling headphones and fucking herself with my wife's favorite vibrator, with my wife's buttplug in her ass. My wife was angry and turned on at the same time and after short hesitation she approached her.
I would have given anything to see the shock on Becky's face when my wife tapped her shoulder. She was so far in her own world, that she hadn't realized my wife was already home. "Please madame, please do not fire me, I'll do anything, anything" she stumbled. Anything?" my wife said, "We'll see about that". Now get my plug out off your ass and my vibrator out of your pussy and clean them thoroughly in the bathroom. And don't you dare putting on any clothes before I tell you. Becky did as she was told, and cleaned my wife's toys, while my wife made her way to the bedroom, removing her panties and here bra below her dress. Lying on the bed as if she was still fully clothed, she called in Becky: "Get your ass in here and close the door behind you little slut" she demanded and Becky obeyed, naked as she was. My wife grinned internally, her bisexual urges slowly taking over. "What were you thinking, masturbating with my toys in my living room" she asked and Becky got really defensive. "One of the dogs lost something below the bed, and when I looked down I found the vibrator and I git really horny. I don't have a boyfriend right now and my female friend I sometimes have sex with is on holiday, so I searched a little more and found your stuff, and then it all just happened to me, I did not know I was so needy, I already came 3 times and still couldn't stop."
"Did it occur to you, this stuff was none of your business?" my wife wanted to know, with Becky getting even more defensive. "I didn't mean to, I just got so horny…" "Get your face down between my legs" my wife demanded. Becky looked irate, "Do you want to keep your job?" Becky moved towards the bed pushing up my wife's dress and only now realizing, there was nothing underneath, and my wife's pussy was already starting to get wet. "Lick it or do you need another invitation" and Becky started licking. My wife had to admit she was really good at it and after a couple of minutes my wife came into her face. My wife got up, tossed the dress away and demanded "Now massage and lick my boobs" This time Becky instantly obeyed, got to her side and started pleasing my wife's G Cups. My wife meanwhile was a lot less gentle with Becky's Double Ds, slapping her nipples and massaging her rather hard. Becky moaned. "You like that? " my wife exclaimed, let's see about this. She inserted two of her fingers into Becky's pussy without further notice. Becky moaned once again, and my wife started fingerfucking her. "Put the vibrator into my pussy" she advised Becky who one again obeyed. The two of them went on for a couple of minutes before both of them came very hard. After they catched their breath again my wife told Becky: "You keep your job. But next time, you will come dressed as I say. " "Okay said Becky, got her clothes together and left.

I already got a huge boner, when my wife told me this scene , which she of course saw. She got it out of my pants started blowing it and said: "You like me fucking this young bitch?" "I do, I would have loved to watch and join in" I answered while she was getting on her knees. "Fuck my ass" she pleaded, and boy was I down for that. I got behind her, lubed my cock with a few thrusts into her pussy which already sent her moaning, before slowly sliding into her ass. Once in, I started fucking her slowly, while bending forward and also massaging her huge tits with my hands, making sure I got here nipples between my fingers. I wasn't to gentle. I was horny. I was massaging her tits with hard strokes of my hands while fucking her ass with passion and it took us just a few minutes till we both came.

We asked Becky in for the week after, telling her, my wife and me wanted to redo our date from the week before. However our real plans were a little different. My wife told her to wear a black nylon stocking, a maximum knee length black leather skirt and a black leathelatex top. She was not to wear a bra or panties. This was also a test, onto whether she was still willing to go down the route started the week before, or whether to drop this point for the future.
Also we on our side dressed a little more daring this time. My wife wore knee high leather boots together with a long black latex skirt, a black silk blouse and a black underbreast corsage, pushing her already large breasts even further up. With the blouse not fully closed you could almost see her nipples as she too was not wearing a bra or panties. Her dark hair combined with black lipstick and dark mascara, this style made her look like a queen of the night.
I myself went for a skintight black shirt, combined with a skin fit black leather jeans. To avoid accidents with the zipper, however I also wore black boxers below.
Becky ringed at the door on time as always. When I opened the door, I saw, that she had obeyed to my wife's instructions and she was looking hot. I also recognized, that she was looking at me, my outfit and also the developing bulge in my midst longer than necessary and definitely not disgusted but aroused.
I asked her in as always and she went into our entrance hall. My wife came downstairs looked at her and ordered her to lift the skirt. Becky obeyed and it was clear, she followed the instructions not to wear panties. "Okay" my wife told her. Becky's eyes had widened, when she saw my wife in her outfit. "You know the drill with the dogs. We already fed them, so just do the usual walks with them." Becky did not even flinch at the idea of walking through our neighborhood in these clothes. But well, she had been coming to our place on a train dressed like that.
Becky seemed almost disappointed when we left the house, but we wanted to go to dinner to rise our anticipation and we also wanted her hanging on the edge for a little longer. Instead we flirted with our waitress who seemed to be more interested in my upper body than my wife's. In low tone we traded some ideas, how to deal with Becky afterwards. We finally settled on a plan and after a good steak dinner and a bottle of wine, made our way back home. In the garage I took out my phone and checked on our bedroom cam, we sometimes use for "life shows" when one of us is on a business trip.

My wife then told me, she would wink at me, when I should come in, and made her way into the house. After the hello of the dogs had ended I could hear her "You, bedroom, now" in a harsh voice to Becky. It seemed like she obeyed instantly because just a few seconds later she appeared on my phones screen. My wife appeared behind her. "Judging from your dress, I think you want to hold your part of the deal?" "Yes, madame" was Becky's answer. "You know, we can just drop it, you continue as our dog sitter, and we play it like none of this ever happened. I am not mad at you" my wife checked to ensure Becky's consent to all of this. "Madame, this was the hottest night I had in months. I don't mind if we go on like this." "And are you also okay with my husband watching and joining in? He can see and hear you, but he is not recording" "Oh please, I would love that" Becky said. "Well, in that case, get rid of those stockings and lick my boots" my wife ordered and Becky obeyed. She started licking the boots and in that process of course her skirt fell onto her back and I had a perfect camera view of that surprisingly wide chocolate ass. I could hear a sound of surprise from below my wife's skirt, when Becky realized, my wife did not have any panties on.
My wife bent down a little and slapped Becky ass "You like that?" "Yes madame" Becky exclaimed. "Good, now get up and get me out of this blouse." When Becky started to get up my wife pulled Becky's top over her head, revealing her upper body. As she was standing with her back to the camera, I was not able to see her breasts. She wanted to open the corsage when my wife slapped her as again, this time s hard it left a handmark behind. "I told you the blouse, not the corsage." "Sorry madame" was all Becky said and she pulled the blouse out of the corsage, opened the buttons and freed those breasts I cherished so much. My wife turned herself and Becky around by ninety degrees, so I could start examining Becky's breasts as well. They were a lot smaller, but given her much skinnier, taller figure, the overall look of this young woman with enough ass and DDs was almost as arousing as my w's looks to me. "On your knees and lick my tits" my wife now commanded and Becky once more obeyed, only her short skirt just barely covering her ass and pussy. My wife pushed her upper body onto Becky's face, her head almost disappeared in between my wife's big milkers, only her long black hair visible. My wife moaned in anticipation and pulled her face back, pushing it to make her face the camera while still on her knees. "Last chance, If you want my husband to join, tell him now. If not, you can still say no, and nobody will be mad at you." My wife said in a much more soft voice, while still pulling Becky by her hair. "Please come and join us, Mister" Becky said into the camera.

I took that as the wink and turned down the camera, left the car and entered the house. By the time I entered the bedroom, Becky was still on her knees, but my wife's skirt now lay on the floor. Only in boots and the corsage, my wife with a slight bush around here pussy looked extremely hot. Becky was licking my wife's pussy like her life depended on it, and I already saw, that my wife's knees were about to get weak. A couple of seconds later a gasp left my wife's mouth, as she orgasmed and let herself fall backwards onto the bed, her breasts falling to both sides of her chest. What an arousing view. Becky also stared from her viewing point below. I grabbed here below her arms and pushed her onto my wife "Nobody told you to stop" I said with faked anger in my voice and Becks started to lick my wife's pussy again, kneeling in front of our bed. I walked over to our toy collection and grabbed a medium size buttplug and some lube. I made sure to lube it properly, while my wife pulled up Becky and made her lick her boobs once more. "I was told you like your ass stuffed" I said to Becky and her eyes widened when she saw what I had prepared for her. "Get that ass up in the air and pull the cheeks aside. But get rid of that skirt firs" I commanded. Becky obeyed while continuing to suck on my wife's tits. I could feel her body shiver from arousal and anticipation, when the tip of the plug touched her ass. It only took a slight push and in it went. My cock was now pushing against the trousers and my sweat started to get wet from my sweat, but I did not want to spoil anything for my wife. Both women were now on the bed and I placed myself behind Becky, and besides my wife's legs and started to carefully insert my left middle finger into my wife's pussy, searching for just the right point. With my right hand i was much less gentle and pushed two fingers at once into Becky's pussy. Both women gasped. "Nobody told you to stop licking my tits" I heard my wife's voice and Becky's head went down again. I could feel her hands searching for me. "Use them on my wife" I commanded and now Becky was gently massaging my wife's tits while she continued to suck her. I continued to fuck both women with my fingers and my wife started harshly playing with Becky's tits. It did not take long, and my wife exhaled loudly screaming out her second orgasm and only seconds later Becky collapsed over her, her orgasmic screams damped by my wife's breasts, as her head lay in between her.

I grabbed her by her shoulders an pulled her up. "No time to rest, now it's my turn. Get your mouth round my cock asap!" She turned around to me, unzipped my pants and pulled them down. The sudden release of outside pressure felt really good and I stepped out of my pants next my boxers were going down and I heard her gasp, when my 20 cm of thick meat jumped into her face with everything containing it now gone. She grabbed it with one hand and started licking it from below before cautiously taking my tip into her mouth. After a few seconds as she started to release it again I started to get impatient, but my wife had already recovered from her last orgasm and grabbed the back of her head. "You call that a blowjob?" She said and pushed Becky's head onto my cock until it was fully inserted. I felt her gagging but she did not protest. My wife forced her head to fuck my cock and after a few strokes we could see, that Becky now did it on her own, so she let her head free again. She went behind me, got on her knees pressed her tits into my ass, and started massaging my balls while with the other hand forcefully massaging Becky's tits again. That was to much. I gasped and unloaded into Becky's throat without warning. However she was a good girl and swallowed as much of the load as she was able to.

I stepped back from Becky and rested myself and my cock on the bed. But my wife took control again. She got up and went out of sight. After a few seconds I heard a bottle opening and she came back in my view, oiling her huge breasts and making sure I saw all of it. And she did not forget to squeeze a nipple and boy, was that a good show. She then proceeded to go behind Becky, also oiling her young tits. The show of those huge, oiled white tits pressing against Becky's back while my wife oiled her big black tits got me going again quickly. And boy, was I in for a treat. After both woman had their tits properly oiled, my wife positioned Becky to my left and herself to my right and they started to take turns titfucking me while not forgetting to play with each other's asses and pussies. I was rock hard again after just a few minutes. But that was just the beginning of this second round. My wife advised Becky to continue titfucking me, while she went and got herself a buttplug, which she made a show for me and Becky inserting it. All the while I had positioned Becky above me now, in a way I was able to fingerfuck her, while she continued with her titfuck. My wife went again, and came back with one of her vibrators. She positioned herself to our side, so I could watch her starting to fuck herself with it while she had a perfect view onto Becky an me. This continued for a couple of minutes before she stopped, crawled over to us and removed Becky's buttplug, only to replace it with the vibrator.
She fucked Becky's ass with the vibrator while her tits were dangling above my face. I did not need a second invitation. I grabbed one of her tits with my free hand and positioned her nipple onto my mouth, so I was able to lick, suck and gently bite her. Afterwards I grabbed the second one and I started to squeeze the breast with my hand and her nipple between my fingers. My wife moaned with excitement. Becky's titfuck however got more and more sloppy while her moans got louder and louder until she screamed out her orgasm and collapsing on top of me.

My wife did not really give her time to catch her breath. She rolled her down from me and placed her on her back, immediately placing her lap above Becky's face. The good girl knew what to do and started to eat her out. My wife meanwhile cleaned the vibrator with a wet wipe and threw it over to me. I took it, got up and got behind her, pushing the vibrator into her pussy for a couple of strokes. My wife meanwhile slapped Becky's pussy and said sharply: "Put these hands to use and pleasure my tits!" This was followed by a second, harder slap when Becky did not obey right away. After a few strokes with the vibrator, I removed it from my wife's pussy and also removed her buttplug. I replaced the buttplug with the vibrator and started fucking her ass with it, while inserting my cock into her pussy. The three of us quickly found a rhythm which led to Becky not only licking my wife's pussy, but also to bottom of my cock and my balls when I pushed in. My wife could not resist this very long and screamed out her orgasm, collapsing forward her head onto Becky's belly. I also couldn't last any longer, I left the vibrator sticking in my wife's butt and grabbed her hips with both hands and after two or three more strokes I also came.

We arranged us in bed when we heard scratches at the door. The dogs wanted in. Becky was absolutely tired. We let the dogs in and the five of us went to sleep. The next morning we were awoken by the dogs. We quickly dressed and let them out. We set down for breakfast and Becky thanked us for the night. She stayed our go to dogsitter for three years and while not every time, from time to time she also joined us in bed afterwards (and sometimes we invited her for this sole purpose). We also got to know some of her friends and I also got to fuck her. But those are tales for different times.

Piliavin put forward the cost–reward arousal model which aims to explain why people are less likely to help when others are present, considering various factors such as the perceived danger of the situation and the costs associated with helping.

Piliavin Subway Study (1969)

Also known as the "Good Samaritan" study. The aim was to focus on factors that influence whether people help a stranger in distress. The study was conducted on the New York City subway. A ‘victim’ staged an ‘emergency’ by collapsing. The observers recorded how many people helped, and how long it took them to help. Researchers wanted to look at things at what motivates people to step in.
Specifically, they wanted to investigate the following:

• Would an ill person get more help than a drunk person? (the type of victim)?
• Would people help others of the same race before helping those of different races?
• If a model person started helping the victim, would that encourage others to also help?
• Would the number of bystanders who saw the victim influence how much help was given?

The results showed that passengers were more likely to help the ill victim with the cane than the drunk victim. Race had little influence on helping behaviour, although same race helping was more common when the victim was drunk.
Males were more likely to help than females (60% of travellers were male, but 90% of first helpers were male.
There was no significant diffusion of responsibility. Help was generally offered quickly, often within the first few minutes.
The Piliavin study highlighted the importance of situational factors in determining whether people will help in an emergency.
Good Samaritanism: An Underground Phenomenon? (1969)

Real Life Test: CCTV Study (2020)

Richard Philpot and his team compiled a set of more than 200 real-life public conflicts from surveillance video in three cities: Lancaster, U.K.; Amsterdam, the Netherlands; and Cape Town, South Africa.The video cameras tracked spots that hosted crowds of people, such as public transit stations, storefronts, and busy streets. To be included in the study, video clips had to show an aggressive incident without any police or emergency personnel present at the outset.
Philpot and his colleagues were surprised at just how often people stepped forward to defuse tense situations. At least one person in the vicinity came forward to help about 90% of the time.
The high intervention rate was very similar in the three urban locations studied, suggesting that it may persist across cultures to some extent. This suggests that humans have a strong desire to resolve conflicts and help those in need.
While the new research—contrary to some earlier reports—does not disprove the bystander effect, it does reveal that people intervene in certain dicey situations more often than we assume.
“The bystander effect is an individual measure,” he says—it gauges the chances that a single person will intervene to help someone else in trouble. What he and his colleagues did, on the other hand, was test the collective likelihood that anyone in a crowd would help, which will naturally be higher. The new work, Franco says, should be considered in light of decades of psychology research that confirms an individual bystander effect.
“There are various factors that go into people acting and reacting, but for the most part, if the crime is clear, and it’s a serious crime, in almost all cases people will intervene.” Explained Elizabeth Jeglic, a professor of psychology at John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City.
Would I be helped? Cross-national CCTV footage shows that intervention is the norm in public conflicts

Social Identity

Research has demonstrated that we are more likely to intervene when we see signs of common group identity with a stranger in distress.
In a 2005 study, Manchester United fans were more likely to help the stranger who had an accident when he wore the Manchester United shirt than when he wore a different team's shirt. Signs of shared identity with a stranger increased the likelihood of help being offered.
More importantly, in a second study using the same design, but this time making a more inclusive “football fan identity” salient, Manchester United fans were as likely to help the victim when he wore the Liverpool FC shirt as the Manchester United shirt—but helping levels remained low if the victim showed no signs of being a football fan.
The study demonstrates that being an in-group member is important for being helped in public places—but that the boundaries of who is seen as in-group are not fixed. The more open and inclusive the boundaries of the shared identity, the greater the range of people who are likely to be afforded care and protection.
Identity and emergency intervention: how social group membership and inclusiveness of group boundaries shape helping behavior

The Black Sheep Effect

This willingness of in-group bystanders to challenge in-group anti-normative behaviour which threatens the positive identity of the wider group has been referred to as “the black sheep effect”. It explains situations where group members are prepared to be even more punitive towards a poorly performing in-group member than they are to an out-group member.
Lowe, Levine, Best, and Heim (2012) found that women are more likely than men to intervene to stop female–female fights—particularly when they fight in front of bystanders that include men.
"The women talked about feeling shame and embarrassment when watching women fight and worried male observers would see this kind of behaviour as an opportunity to sexualize or trivialize women in general."
Similarly, Stott, Hutchison, and Drury (2001) describe an intervention by Scottish football fans against a fellow Scot who behaved aggressively towards a Tunisian fan:
“Scottish fans feared that the actions of the in-group member would make people think that Scottish fans are no better than English football fans—who already have a reputation for racist and violent behavior. There is nothing more aversive and identity threatening for a Scot than to be mistaken for somebody who is English.”
Although an apparent contradiction of ingroup bias, people respond negatively to those who act in ways that threaten their group’s identity, particularly when they affiliate strongly with their group.
Conversely, shared group membership with a perpetrator may also result in a positive in-group bias, in which the adverse behaviour of an in-group member may be more readily justified or permitted than similar behaviour by a non-group member.
Identity and emergency intervention: how social group membership and inclusiveness of group boundaries shape helping behavior

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Warning: these are incidents where bystanders did not intervene. Please skip if you are not in the right place to be reading right now.

The phrase bystander effect was coined in the 1960s after people watched or heard a serial killer stalk and stab a woman in two separate attacks in the Queens neighborhood of New York.
- Kitty Genovese, New York, 1964.
Though the number of people who saw or heard Genovese struggle was eventually disputed, her case still became symbolic of a kind of crowd apathy that psychologists and social scientists call the "Genovese syndrome."
There have been some more recent media cases:
- Richmond, California, 2009
Investigators say as many as 20 people were involved in or stood and watched the gang rape of a 15-year-old girl outside a California high school homecoming dance Saturday night in what authorities described as a 2½-hour assault. As many as 10 people were involved in the assault in a dimly lighted back alley at the school, while another 10 people watched without calling 911 to report it, police said.
Criminology and psychology experts say there could be a variety of reasons why the crime wasn't reported. Several pointed to a problematic social phenomenon known as the bystander effect. It's a theory that has played out in lynchings, college riots and white-collar crimes.
Criminologist Jack McDevitt says he believes the California gang rape was too violent -- and lasted too long -- to be the result of the bystander effect alone.
McDevitt, who specializes in hate crime research, says the male witnesses may have kept quiet out of fear of retaliation. In his research, witnesses who live in violent communities often fear stepping forward because snitching isn't tolerated.
Snitching could also bring dangerous consequences to their friends and family. "They don't believe the system will protect them from the offender," he said. "They think the offender will find out their name."
Police: As many as 20 present at gang rape outside school dance - CNN.com
Gang rape raises questions about bystanders' role - CNN.com
- Septa Train, Philadelphia, 2021
Passengers failed to intervene as a woman was raped on a train in Philladephia. Original reports stated that observers filmed the attack on their phones instead of helping.
Again, the story was proven to be not entirely accurate. The Delaware county district attorney said this portrayal of bystanders callously videoing the crime was “simply not true”.
While the alleged interactions with the victim took place over 40 minutes, starting with unwanted talking and then groping, the rape lasted about six minutes. Other riders were not on the train for the entire duration of their interaction, and might not have known what was happening.
Surveillance video from the train revealed two passengers raised their phones toward the assault, and that one of those provided their video to authorities.
But to dismiss the story would also be a mistake, say the people who actually live in the communities served by Septa and who ride its trains.
Septa passengers in Philadelphia and the suburb of Upper Darby didn’t find the notion of uncaring bystanders all that implausible, based on their own concerns about safety predating the rape. When presented with the fact that initial descriptions of uncaring bystanders appeared to be untrue, the consensus was that it made little difference.
“There’s no way you cannot see a sexual act,” said Victoria Evans, 38. “I would have rather taken my chances intervening than not saying anything.”
Evans, a certified nurse’s assistant, said that body language should have made people think twice about what they saw. “It would look uncomfortable. You can tell the difference. There’s no way nobody knew something was wrong.”
Why accounts of Philadelphia train passengers not intervening in a rape spread US crime The Guardian
- London Tube, UK, 2023
A 20-year-old woman was raped on a tube train in front of a horrified French tourist and his young son.
It was broad daylight, and there were other people in the tube carriage. She should have been safe. She’d fallen asleep, missed her stop, and ended up at the end of the Piccadilly line. But still, on a weekend morning in a bustling city, she should have been safe. And yet, hauntingly, she wasn’t….Something about this story, which unfolded in the space of just two tube stops, punches through all women’s comforting illusions about when and how we are safe.
How could anyone not intervene in a rape unfolding in front of them?
Yet the judge noted that the fact that the French father had returned to Britain to provide evidence that helped secure a conviction suggested it wasn’t because he didn’t care. Which leaves the uncomfortable and more morally complex possibility of a parent alone with a young child, facing someone evidently dangerous enough to commit an unthinkable crime, forced to decide whether intervening to help someone else’s daughter would put his own child at risk…
The whole thing stirs memories of a notorious attack on a woman on a train in Philadelphia in 2021, where initial reports suggested none of the other passengers came to her aid and some even callously filmed it on their phones. But later more nuanced versions emerged of a slowly unfolding horror that began with the attacker trying to strike up an unwanted conversation, then groping his victim, before finally progressing to rape...
Research suggests that far from standing around gawping, people who witness violent crime surprisingly often intervene to help – and not always the people you might imagine.
The 74-year-old Conservative MP (and former SAS reservist) David Davis reportedly stepped in to prevent two men viciously attacking a homeless man on the street in Westminster.
When the soldier Lee Rigby was brutally murdered on a London street in 2013, it was a 48-year-old cub scout leader called Ingrid Loyau-Kennett who got off a passing bus to help and ended up keeping Rigby’s agitated, blood-soaked killers talking. (When asked afterwards what had given her the courage to intervene, she explained that she used to be a teacher: someone used, perhaps, to imposing authority and quickly assessing overheated situations.)
The author of the article tells her own story:
"Now that I am also a middle-aged woman, that surprises me less than it did. A man confronting a violent man must be prepared to fight, with potentially lethal consequences, but an older woman intervening might sometimes be read as less of a threat.
Or perhaps we’re quicker to recognise the danger signs: the man staring wolfishly at a young girl on the bus, pressing too close, pestering her into a conversation she clearly doesn’t want to have. Which is, of course, how the Philadelphia attack started."
If a woman can be raped in broad daylight on a train, there are tough questions for all of us Gaby Hinsliff The Guardian

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Conclusion

There are obvious humanitarian norms about helping the victim, but there are also rational and irrational fears about what might happen to a person who does intervene. "I didn't want to get involved," is a familiar comment, and behind it lies fears of physical harm, public embarrassment, involvement with police procedures, lost work days and jobs, and other unknown dangers.
Rethinking the Bystander Effect in Violence Reduction Training Programs - Levine - 2020 - Social Issues and Policy Review

What to do: Distract, Delegate, Document, Delay, Direct

Kelly Erickson trains people in bystander intervention for Hollaback, a national organization that teaches people how to disrupt violence and harassment.
She said people can take simple actions to interrupt the violence.
“You can ask a clarifying question, like ‘woah woah what’s going on here?’ or ‘hey when you said this, what did you mean by that?’” Erickson said. “And then you’ll know if you need to step in with another intervention or perhaps it wasn’t what you thought it was. It also alerts others. When someone does something, other people are listening.”
Once other bystanders notice action, it starts to build a support system, it might encourage someone else to have the back of the person who is trying to intervene.
The five Ds are not a linear progression. They are tools to have in one’s toolbox for emergencies:

• Distract: Creating a distraction to de-escalate the situation, such as dropping your coffee or sounding an alarm. “You could tell yourself a joke and bust out in laughter. Erickson said this one is great for people who are comfortable being a fool in public.
• Delegate: Finding someone else to help, maybe even the person next to you. You start to create a bubble of safety around you and around that situation by getting others to help.
• Document: Creating documentation of the incident and then giving it to the person who was harassed. If the violence is ongoing, make sure to get the person being harassed/assaulted help before documenting the harassment. The victim should decide what to do with the documentation or how to tell their story.
• Delay: Checking in on the person who experienced harassment and ask them what they need.
• Direct: Setting a boundary with the person doing the harassing, and then turning your attention to the person being harassed. If you find that stepping in directly would cause an outcome that would escalate the situation, then try something else.

I have an announcement about the future of this series. Some IRL stuff is taking up a lot of my time. It's nothing serious, so don't worry. As it stands, I simply don't have the time to write as much as I was before. This does not mean that I'm putting NiTH on hiatus. The series will continue. But, and there is a but. Since I don't have as much time to put into writing it, updates will likely be slower. As such, I won't be able to promise a consistent schedule. Or even a schedule at all.
I'll still try to keep it somewhat consistent. I just don't want people to freak out if there's a week with no update.
Many thanks to u/SpacePaladin15 for this universe.
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Chapter 16:
- Memory Transcription Subject: Meba, Venlil Computer Scientist
Date [Standardized Human Time]: October 20th, 2136
The boot was cool against my back. So was the rain, which was beating down again. Mud caked on my fur like resin, and the taste of dirt wouldn’t leave my mouth. The sound of wind beat on my eardrums like sticks on a drum. Gusts came in waves, bringing sheets of water careening through the air at an almost horizontal angle. I couldn’t see above the hips of our attackers with my head pressed to the ground. There was another sense that only Arlene was privy to, but that didn’t stop the experience from being thoroughly miserable.
I spit some of the grit out of my mouth. The only thing I could think of was how cold it was.
They must be warm, in their insulated suits.
“Why are you doing this?” I wanted to ask, though I didn’t.
Arlene was to my right, shivering. She would get hypothermia if she didn’t get out of the rain soon.
I was heaved to my feet, with a throbbing head, and shaky legs. I struggled in their grip, but that only netted me another blow to the face. My feet played hot potato with the ground, as it swayed out from under me, around, and back again. I almost wished it would open up and swallow me, swallow us all, just to be done with it.
One of the three brandished a baton, the others held Arlene and I. Were they the group from before? I couldn’t tell beneath the suits. My stomach exploded with pain, and I lost the fancy bunt leaf salad that Gram bought me.
The moment stretched on to infinity. My muscles clenching, my teeth chattering, and a bit of my drool getting to know the puddle on the ground. My wool helped a bit. Arlene didn’t have the luxury of padding.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
I looked.
Her usually white teeth were stained pink. The mask was lying in the mud, completely covered in it.
I looked away before I could glean anything else.
“Hey, buddy, you still with me?” Said the leader. Or, something along those lines; I couldn’t really hear him. He placed the baton under my snout and raised my head. Soon, he removed the baton and said something to his lackeys.
The ground started moving. No, I started moving. I was being dragged towards a tree, by my scruff. Arlene too. They pressed me up against the trunk; the wind was a little quieter under the canopy.
“There we go.” Said the leader. His voice sounded familiar. “Think you’re a tough guy, huh? Friends in high places? You gave us some real trouble, didn’t you!”
“Stop!” Arlene screamed.
Pain. Another blow. To my head. My vision blurred. I tried to stand. I couldn’t. Arlene. Was she okay? I couldn’t see. My chest lurched forward. Coughing. My coughing. I gasped for air. I tried to speak. I failed. He went for a kick. I was only partially able to block with my arms.
I fell to my side, gathering even more mud in my coat. I summoned every ounce of strength in my body, and raised my head. Arlene was there, struggling in their grasp. I don’t know how she could function through the pain.
She grabbed the exterminator behind her, and threw him over her shoulder, then slipped in the mud, and fell down… right on top of the him. He yelped in pain. The one with the baton turned their back to me. I groped around in the dark for something, anything. I found a rock.
“Freeze!” The exterminator yelled, barely audible over the storm.
NO!
I slammed the rock into the only vulnerable area I could reach: the groin. The suit had padding, but it wasn’t enough. He instantly dropped his sidearm, or rather, his sidearm dropped him, because he hit the ground first. I might have felt bad, if not—no, no I wouldn’t have.
Arlene struggled to her feet, blood still burning with alcohol. She stumbled towards us, hopped into the air, bringing one leg back behind her, and the other into the ground with all her weight. In an instant, her elevated leg swung forth with terrifying speed, boot blurring in the rain, mud flying off in an arc. I was lucky I wasn’t in the splash zone, because some would have gone into my mouth, which was hanging open like a faulty airlock.
It connected.
His head jerked backwards at an ugly angle, with such force that it might have snapped his neck, if he didn’t have the strong neck of a venlil. He fell over backwards, though so did Arlene, as inertia carried her leg higher and higher, until it was above her head, which soon found its place in the mud.
“Arlene!”
There was still one more exterminator. Arlene was down, and I was too far away. If the last one decided to pull his gun, one of us was going to die. I tried. I tried so hard to stand… but I couldn’t.
No sound pierced the rain.
I looked to the third, who was quite literally shaking in his boots. He didn’t pull any weapons, though he was cursing vehemently under his breath. He took a step towards Arlene.
“Don’t touch her!” I screamed, though he only froze for a moment before continuing.
He passed Arlene, and bent down by the leader. Both of the officers Arlene attacked were writhing in pain on the ground. The third looked to me, then to Arlene, and back to his squad. “Oh stars…” He heaved his boss up around his shoulders, and helped him limp away out of the yard.
“Dammit Lanek! Don’t leave me!” Said the one Arlene fell on, struggling to rise.
“I’ll be back!” Lanek replied.
While they were occupied, I crawled over to Arlene, clutching my stomach. “Arlene? Arlene, are you okay?”
She was pulling herself out of the mud. “Never better…” She growled. Arlene gave me a thumbs up; her face was discolored.
The second officer starting limping away, while Lanek returned to help him. Lanek offered his squad mate a shoulder, but he declined, only shuffling away faster. “Go brahk yourself!” He said, and Lanek was left standing near the gate.
He looked like a lost kid, glancing around the yard all worried. He locked eyes with me. I couldn’t think of anything snarky, or intimidating to say, so I just sighed.
Lanek bowed. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He said, voice cracking. He scurried away, but I could only relax once the sound of the squad car’s engine was drowned out by the rain.
Arlene stood up, dragging me along with her. “Fuck, I’m too drunk for this.” She slurred.
Getting inside in the rain was a group effort. The wind pushed us to and fro, and out combined strength barely kept us upright. I collapsed at the bottom of the staircase, gasping and shaking. She pulled me up by my scruff, causing a considerable amount of pain. I would have complained, if there was another way I was getting up those stairs.
“Sweet baby jesus, please tell me you have your key.” She panted.
I was too focused on digging through my belongings to ask about the nickname, adhering even more mud to my already mud-covered bag. At least I didn’t have to worry about ruining my datapad, since it was already dead.
“Found it.” I shoved the key into the door, and ripped it open with all of my might.
Arlene dragged me the rest of the way in, slammed the door, and collapsed on my couch. I was left to close the locks. As I did so, I found my door looking a little sparse.
A few more locks wouldn’t hurt.
I chewed on my thoughts for a while. Yes, more locks sounded good. Very good. The more exotic the better. A bio-metric scanner was a must. Hell, why don’t we throw in a vault door while we’re at it? Locks don’t do anything unless the door is impenetrable. An auto-turret would go nicely with my new vault. I had to discourage intruders somehow. Scratch that, fifty would be better. I needed an air filtration system as well, so people couldn’t smoke me out. The walls would also need to be reinforced. No, moving inside a mountain would be better. I wasn’t made of money after all, and stone is just as good as steel if you have enough of it. I could have a hydroponics area, and a water recycling plant, so I wouldn’t have to go out to buy food. The only problem was power. Brahk it, I could just sap some illegally. No one would notice, right? Who was I kidding? Everyone would notice.
I laughed.
A fusion plant would be required as well then. It couldn’t be that hard. I could just have robots manage it. Real people would be cheaper, but that would defeat the purpose. Maybe I could make fake people too? Make an artificial town? That would be great! Everything would be perfect. I could make everything stable and safe. No one would mess it up. Not even Uanta. And I wouldn’t even need to worry about raids because it would be hidden inside a mountain.
It was time to stop messing around. I needed to clean myself. I needed to get a blanket for Arlene. And, I needed to check both our injuries.
The blanket was the easiest, and was done in no time at all. Cleaning myself was a little more time consuming. Besides my everything hurting, I was falling asleep, and my bathtub was being difficult. After an inordinate amount of messing with it, I concluded the boiler had broken… again.
Lovely place I’ve got here. Cold water it is!
I lowered myself into the glacial depths, cursing everything I could think of to curse. I ended up scrubbing the mud out of my coat while standing, almost falling over more than once. After I was clean, I inspected my body. I was pretty sure nothing was broken, but lots of things hurt. My head especially.
Trudging into the living room, I found Arlene laying on the couch. She had removed her coat and boots, leaving them by the front door. She had also turned the blanket the other way around so the side without the mud was on her. Everything would need to be cleaned next paw. Everything. Now she was well and truly sleeping, so I didn’t wake her. I did take a closer look at her face, which was bruised with blotches of yellow and purple not unlike the human protecting his friend at the riot. At least her nose stopped bleeding.
My heart finally stopped racing, and I yearned for sleep. But I couldn’t rest yet.
I went to my computer, and booted it up. The scarcely opened desktop messaging app would finally get some use. One to Uanta, and one to Gram.
“Do you know anyone called Lanek?”
“I’ll do it.”
- Memory Transcription Subject: Meba, Venlil Computer Scientist
Date [Standardized Human Time]: October 21st, 2136
I awoke to the sound of running water, and to sore muscles. Peeling myself out of my chair, I found my living room devoid of humans. That explained the noise coming from the bathroom. Taking a look around, I noticed that the mud she tracked in was gone, and my couch was in a somewhat better condition. There was a note written on a paper towel laying on one of the cushions. I think she forgot I couldn’t read human script.
Well, I would just have to ask her about it when she finished in the shower. If I had the time, that is. Looking at the clock, it was already time to leave for work. I didn’t even have the luxury of groaning in annoyance if I wanted to get there on time. So I grabbed my bag, shoved some stuff in the muddy thing, and opened the door.
Sidewalk, station, tube ride, station, and sidewalk passed by in a haze, and I soon found myself standing outside the building. I passed by several coworkers on the way up, all of whom gave me looks on varying levels of ‘Who is this homeless guy and why is he in the building?’. The ones who recognized me asked me what happened, to which my only reply was: “Rain.”
That didn’t explain the bruises, but it didn’t need to. My tone assured them that no matter what they said, their questions wouldn’t be answered. I did not get enough sleep for this. Not that it would have been any better if I did.
At my desk, there was a note taped to my computer. It said something about a party after work, to which everyone in the office was invited. I couldn’t glean anything more before I ripped it off and threw it in the trash. I inspected the rest of the area for other disturbances. No one touches my work space. No one. I spent the next eighth of a claw removing the residue left from the adhesive, wondering how I would install a lock on a doorless cubicle.
Once my desk was restored, I booted up my computer in preparation for work. There was quite a backlog. My paws felt clammy, and so did my brain. I had never been so furious in my entire life. Every time I thought of those bastards, my paws shook, and my ears twitched with anger. I felt so powerless. I had to do something.
But they’re exterminators. What can I do against them?
Crush them.
And how?
There wasn’t time to be daydreaming; I needed to focus. Even if I could get back at them right that second, it wouldn’t matter if I was starving on the streets, so I was resigned to work. I took a deep breath and began, fueled by the promise of a chance to fix my situation. Despite this, I didn’t get through half of it before I was called to the meeting room. I grumbled to myself before stomping out of my cubicle. The denizens of the water cooler watched me as I walked past. It reminded me of the restaurant.
I entered the meeting room, and faced my boss. There was an arrangement of folding tables forming a hollow square, with chairs lining the outer edge. The room was a similar shape to the table, with good lighting and clear air. Almost like a hospital. Behind the spot he was standing, was a whiteboard with various incoherent scribbles that I had no desire, much less hope of deciphering. This particular room functioned as both a meeting room and his office. Even after almost 9 rotations of business, the place still hadn’t lost all of its tech startup quirks. I would have liked to see the way the place was before it became reputable.
“Meba, good. It’s good to see you.” He said. Everything was always ‘good’ with him.
I signed a greeting with my tail.
“Don’t be shy, take a seat.” He motioned to a chair.
Of course he wanted me to take a seat. Presumably while he remained standing, just to show me how below him I was. Well, I had no choice, it would be a faux pas to decline. My standing in the office was already low enough as the resident recluse. I sat down.
He sat down across the table from me and took a deep breath. I hated how calm he was.
“I have some concerns about your work.” ‘Some concerns’. That’s shorthand for ‘I don’t like you’.
My heart rate sped up considerably. “Such as? I’ve always been productive, and I’m never late to work.” I almost hissed, utterly failing to keep my cool.
“Yes, well…” He paused for a second, studying me, as if I was on display in a museum. “You have been having some trouble lately, haven’t you?”
My ears stood straight up. “Just some minor setbacks. It’s nothing.”
“Minor.” He echoed.
“Y-yes.”
“Meba, you’ve delayed five requests.”
“I was just finishing them up as we speak.” I snapped back.
He sighed. “You see, this isn’t helping anything. I’m not trying to attack you.”
I didn’t reply.
“Look, I like you. You’re good at what you do. But, you’ve been slipping lately.”
I gulped, and my ears twitched.
He put his paws together on the table, and leaned over to me. “I think you should take some time off.” He said softly.
What does he think I am, a child?
“Not a chance.” I replied.
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to take time off.”
He sat back in his chair. “You still have all of this rotation’s vacation time. You know it doesn’t stack, right?” I almost couldn’t believe he said that to my face.
“I am well aware of how this company handles vacations.” I growled.
“Then why don’t you take one?” He said, ignoring, or perhaps unaware of my anger. “You haven’t taken a single paw off the entire time you’ve worked here.” He signed false concern.
“There’s no reason to.” I explained.
“If it’s the office you’re worrying about, don’t. It won’t explode just because you take some time for yourself.” He retorted.
‘We don’t need you’, huh?
“I know.”
He ruffled the fur on his head in frustration. “I can’t let you keep working like this. Not in good conscience. Please, just go home for a few paws. Go home and rest up.” He flicked his tail towards the door to send me off.
“I can’t.”
He gawked at me, incredulous. “Why not?”
“I just can’t. I have to work. It’s part of my schedule.” I mumbled.
“Your vacation would be paid.”
“That’s not it!” I snapped, speaking frantically. “That’s not it at all. What will I do instead of working, then? What? There would be no balance. Don’t you get it? Does anybody get it? I need this, or else everything will be messed up.” I gasped after running out of air, placing a paw over my mouth before the regret spilled out.
He stared at me, mouth hanging open, but saying nothing.
I glanced around the room, considering flight, but instead mumbling. “Sorry…”
We sat in awkward silence for a few moments, until he began to speak, solemnly. “Meba. That was extremely unprofessional. However, I’m going to let you off the hook this time. I don’t want to see anything like that again. You may keep working if you wish, but if your poor performance continues, I will be forced to fire you. I highly suggest you take some time off. I’ve seen people, good people, drive themselves into the ground doing this. I don’t want to see it happen again.”
I replied with a meek ear flick.
“You may leave.”
I replied by doing just that, hopefully not to return anytime soon. The march of shame back to my desk was punctuated by more stares. Every eye was burning with curiosity. I tried to ignore them, to varying success. My injuries were becoming quite hard to ignore too, with all the attention brought to them. The pain only made me angrier.
They trespassed. On my time. On my friend. In my own home.
Flopping back down in my chair, I got back to work. I couldn’t make anymore mistakes. No getting manipulated. No getting coerced. No getting ambushed. Certainly no setbacks at work. I wouldn’t make anymore mistakes. After all, I had faced not one, but two humans. I had survived an exterminator attack. As long as I kept my head, I would be in control. I wouldn’t be powerless.
Not anymore.
---
I returned home, satisfied that I had just done at least warded off the deadlines for a while. There was still much to be done, but for now, I could relax. This tranquility lasted for a few minutes, unill it dawned on me that I didn’t do the homework. Yet again, I had completely forgotten.
It’s fine, isn’t it? What are they gonna do, arrest me?
A shiver crawled up my spine and whispered into my ear, that yes, that is exactly what they would do. I would be arrested under suspicion of predator disease, and rot in a cell for the rest of my natural lifespan.
I pushed that thought into the corner of my mind before it could start causing problems. Arlene would protect me if that happened, I reasoned, though that logic was faulty. It didn’t matter. As long as I kept my head on straight, I didn’t care if I was lying to myself.
In my apartment, the TV was playing reruns of some tacky game-show, while Arlene lay passed out on the couch. There was an unfinished bowl of fruit on the table, sitting next to another one of her felting projects. This one wasn’t a venlil. I wasn’t sure what it was exactly. It was quadrupedal, with a pointy snout, and ears that were even more so. There was a little bump that barely passed as a tail on the backside of the thing. The most noticeable aspect though, was the two piercing eyes… which weren’t so piercing because their scale was of cartoon proportion, but I suspect a venlil unaccustomed to front facing eyes might have found it disturbing. Some earth animal, probably.
Now that I was getting a closer look at her, it was pretty bad. Well, the lack of fur might have made it look worse, but I couldn’t tell. There were bumps on her face of varying colors, and her bottom lip had been split open. Around one of her eyes sat a nasty ring of discolored skin, that look particularly painful. I couldn’t get a look at the rest of her, unless I removed the blanket, and probably her clothes too. Like I was going to do that. They were furless, after all. I would do a verbal check up on her after she woke.
After gawking long enough to get tired of standing, I sat my bag down and went to go check my messages. It was annoying to go to the desktop to do so. I would have to get my datapad fixed sooner rather than later.
There were replies from both Uanta and Gram. I decided to check Gram’s first.
“Good to hear! I’ll meet you after work next paw, yeah? I’ll be at the park by the library. We can talk more then.”
“P.S. Be ready to start by the time you get there. Don’t be late.”
I replied. “Got it.” Then, I checked Uanta’s.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Also, you didn’t reply to my last message.”
I should have expected that response. There was no way I could tell her what actually happened, or she would know that I was interacting with a human. That would be a first-class ticket to the facility. So, I would have to lie. And she was amazing at discerning lies.
A cold spot formed in the back of my head. There were so many ways it could go wrong. What would I do if she found out? What would my cover story even be? I clenched my jaw.
Keep cool, this has to be perfect. She’ll catch onto it if I’m sloppy.
“We ran into each other at-
No, that won’t work.
“He was patrolling near my-
Neither will that.
“He-
My drafting was interrupted by a knocking on the door.
Arlene.
“Brahk!” I hissed, shutting off my computer as fast as possible, and rushing to the living room. A second set of knocks signified the intruder’s impatience. Arlene was sitting up, still dazed from sleep. I shook her awake and dragged her towards the closet.
“Who’s there?” She whispered, eyes wide with fear.
“I don’t know. Just hide.” I replied in a similar tone, while opening the door for her.
She scrunched into place, shuffling behind a vacuum cleaner, and cursing. “My mask.” Arlene hissed. It was sitting under the table.
Another set of knocks, these much louder, made it clear that the owner was at no shortage of knocks of all shapes and sizes. “Meba?” Uanta called from the other side.
“Coming!” I lied, yanking the mask off the floor and passing it to Arlene as fast as my limbs permitted. While I was at it, I shoved her coat under the blanket along with her boots. Now that the human presence was sufficiently obscured, I unlocked the door and opened it, panting.
“Oh, did I interrupt something?” Uanta asked. She was wearing her suit, but the helmet was under her arm. “Are you alright?” She continued, when I didn’t respond.
“Fine. I’m fine.” I stammered, heart pounding.
She glanced behind me, towards the TV, which was still blaring the game-show’s theme song, and then back to me, with a look that could only say ‘you look like shit’. “I’m sorry to intrude on your rest claw. I’ve got some down time, so I thought I’d check up on you.”
I flicked an ear, unsure of what to say.
She blinked. “May I come in?”
“O-oh. Yes, of course.” I stepped out of the doorway, and once she entered, closed it behind her. I very deliberately led her to the kitchen counter, rather than the couch, to keep distance between us and Arlene. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure.” She swayed her tail happily behind her, placing her helmet on the counter. It looked stuffy. “Nothing alcoholic though. I’ve got to get back on the job in a quarter claw.”
There wasn’t any alcohol to offer anyway. Juice was the only drink I had besides water, so that’s what she got. After pouring us both a cup, I sat down on the stool on the other side of the counter. Anything to put something between us. It made me feel safer, though it didn’t have any such effect.
“How have you been?” She signed concern in tail language.
“Fine.” I sipped on my juice, trying to stay calm.
She scoffed. “You don’t look fine. What the brahk happened to you?”
Speh. Speh, speh, speh. I am so brahked.
“I…” I tapped on the side of my cup. I had never noticed its texture before. They were from a garage sale, on the other side of town; some old lady had them, but she was… expiring, mentally; didn’t need them anymore. Since- no, I couldn’t think of this right now. What do old people do? “I fell down the stairs.”
She gave me a disappointed look. “Stars, Meba. You have to be more careful.”
I shrugged, though the inside of my head was a dance floor.
She bought it? She bought it! I did it, I did it, I did it!
Uanta glanced off to the side, staring at the couch for a second, then locking eyes with me. “You haven’t been replying to my messages. Do you have any idea how worried I was?”
At least I had an excuse for this. “S-sorry, my datapad broke. I um, got caught in the rain, and it got wet.” I gestured to my muddy bag.
“You still have your home computer, don’t you? You messaged me last paw.” Uanta tilted her head to the side, ever so slightly. She was talking to me like she did to her exterminator colleagues. It scared me.
“W-well, I’m not home most of the time.”
Uanta took a sip of juice, and rolled her eyes. “Speaking of which. What business do you have with Lanek?”
My mind went blank. I didn’t have a cover story yet. I gulped down the rest of my juice, resisting the urge to say any form of ‘um’. “Um,” Obviously, I failed. “h-how do I put this?” I let out a stupid chuckle. “I met him a-after dinner last paw. He helped me up after I fell down the stairs. I wanted to thank him.”
“That’s it? I’ll pass on the message.” She sipped her juice.
“I-I was actually hoping to tell him myself.”
“I’m sorry. Exterminators are very busy. He’s relatively new, so he’ll be busy with training for a while. It’ll be easier if I tell him for you.”
I couldn’t let this lead slip through my claws. “B-but, I thought it would be good to… t-talk to more people.”
She gave me a reassuring tail sign. “Okay. I’ll see if I can get his info for you. Providing he’s okay with it.” She paused, taking my paws in her own. “I’m really happy you’re reaching out.” This was the first time since she enlisted that I heard her so giddy. It made me feel homesick, but there was no home to be sick for. Not anymore. I’d have to settle for phantom pains, I guess.
“Thank you.” I refilled both our cups.
She was easier to deceive than I thought. She always seemed so perceptive, but maybe I had been blowing it out of proportion.
“What’s that thing on your table?” She inquired.
“What thing?” I snapped back, worried.
“That little figurine.” She pointed to the felted creature with her tail.
My whole body froze, and any confidence I had vanished in an instant.
“Meba?”
“I-I… made it.”
“Oh? I thought you weren’t interested in the arts.” Disregarding the irony of her calling a human made object art, this was bad. Very bad. “What is it?” She stared at me.
“A wool doll.” I stated reflexively.
She chuckled. “That doesn’t really explain much.”
“It’s a doll made out of wool…”
Uanta rolled her eyes. “No, you’re pulling my tail. It couldn’t possibly be that.”
“I don’t know how else to explain it!” I grumbled.
“What’s it supposed to be?”
This, I did not know. What did it look like? “It’s a… a shadestalker.”
“What are you making that sort of thing for?” She asked gravely.
I coughed. “I uh… I thought I could use it as a distraction if a human approached me.”
That was perhaps the dumbest thing you could have said.
Uanta clicked her tongue in a similar way to Arlene. It was uncanny. “I told you to stop with those stupid defense tactics. You’re gonna get yourself killed!” She jabbed a claw at my chest, and I flinched. “Stars… I’m sorry, Meba. It’s just, you worry me to death. I don’t know what I would do if you got hurt.”
“Y-yeah.” I put my paws on my thighs.
“I’m so tired. Of all this predator shit.” She held her head in her paws. “It’s only getting worse. The whole galaxy is going to hell. Just like home. I don’t want that.” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t want to see that again.”
“Me neither.”
Uanta composed herself “I’m sorry. I should get going. There’s work to be done.” She said, gulping down the last of her drink. “I’ll come by next paw. We’ll have more time to talk then.” She turned her gaze to the couch again, lingering there for a moment, then turning back to me. “Goodbye.”
She left, and I locked the door behind her with a sigh of relief.
“She seems nice.” Arlene said, crawling out of the closet.
I rolled my eyes.

Saigon lumber yard. 1968.
Bullets rang out as I watched one of the soldiers from the ARVN Unit, the Black Panthers dash across the lumber yard with his face bleeding all over. I took careful aim and fire. My gun made a pop sound and the bullet exploded in the gun giving me 3rd degree burns on my hands. I was so tempted to just scream in pain, but I steeled my nerves. Stupid fucking makeshift rifles. I quickly dashed towards a broken-down car in the yard as I heard an American screaming "We got a live one!". I could hear the ARVN and American soldier firing at me. I ducked and rolled behind the car. I pulled out my Walther P38 pistol and fire some shots behind my new cover at the Americans and ARVN troops, not like the pistol had the proper range to hit them but it at least deterred them. Firing the pistol with the 3rd degree burns on my hands was a nightmare. My hands were already bleeding badly. I then heard gun shots and saw the ARVN troops get gunned down by a passing car with our men inside. I thanked God for my luck. The Americas turned to fire on the car allowing me to rush the fence around the lumber yard and escape.
I rushed into an alley way and avoided ARVN and American patrols. I was one of the lucky few that had a radio on me. I could hear our units currently sustaining heavy fire by the Saigon horse racing track. The track had been used by those French fuckers to watch their horse races and bet money stolen off the backs of our people. For as much as I hate the Americans at least they aren't the fucking French.
Falmart. 669 Imperial calendar.
If there was one thing Molt Sul Agustus had to admire about his son was his sheer stubbornness. Once he set himself to a goal, he would go about whatever cost to achieve it. This would generally be a good thing had it not been for Zorzels lack of training in military matters. Well not lack of training more like he got bored easily. The empire was at its peak, there was no denying it but there was one thorn in the empire’s side. The damn Bunnys. Largely this was a thorn in his side cause during the signing of the treaty of longus forest in 665 which resolved the issues between the gold deposits in the forest Zorzel was there. While Molt generally was fine with his son attending these negotiations to his utter dismay the queen of the Warrior Bunnys Tyuule was there and the minute Zorzel set his eyes on her Molt saw that same fire in his eyes when he had his eyes on a prize. Negotiations had nearly gone horrible when his son had tried to grope the queen. Lucky cooler heads had prevailed that day and things went smoothly as the empire gained access to those sweet, sweet gold deposits.
The Empire invading the warrior Bunnys was inevitable. He had to remove this lose cannon from the board, but it had been to his disliking sped up by Zorzels lust for the Queen. Molt never liked his children. Pina was a Naive girl who played warrior with her rose order. Zorzel was an idiot and if he took power would spark several revolts most likely. Diabo was the only good option when it came to choosing a Heir. He was a decent administrator but he, like Zorzel lacked any real military talent. His ancestors were probably rolling in their graves at lack of good heirs. Was it his fault. Heavens no it had to be the fault of his deceased wife and those concubines for giving him God awful heirs. He should have honestly never invited Zorzel to the negotiations with the Warrior Bunny's. He hadnt he would have plenty of time to plan out his invasion in choose proper military commander but now Zorzel had spead up the process and was whinnying about wanting to lead the invasion. He sighed as he sat in his throne thinking to himself as Zorzel whined and whined about wanting to lead the expedition.
Ho Chi min city. 2004.
I found myself looking at the same Lumber yard I had fought in 36 years ago. The yard was being turned now into a new set of apartment buildings. I was 59 and would be turning 60 in just 3 months. After the war I was able to make my fair share of money selling textiles, from government compensation to our soldiers, and efforts made by our hard-working citizens to donate to veterans of the war. I had seen it all by this point. I was disappointed in not participating in the invasion of Democratic Kampuchi in our successful attempt to stomp out those Khemer rouge fuckers. I had been able to see action against the Chinese in their failed invasion of our nation. Looking back, it feels nostalgic remembering my time fighting off invaders not once but twice.
I had met a couple of American and ARVN veterans of the war. It was rather ironic me and the invading Americans had so much in common. We had always had a sense the Americas never wanted to be here but hearing it from the lips of an American soldier himself was a different story. We certainly influenced them. The American Veteran had described the crippling fear and paranoia that came with being a Tunnel rat. It was an appropriate name if your job was to clear out the many tunnels we had made under villages and in the jungle. I had been not paying much attention when I was thinking about my experiences and my talks with my American counter parts when I heard something fall on my head and the world when dark.
Falmart. 673.
Molt sighed as he saw Pina arrive with that rose order of hers. He had requested that she and her Rose order play a part in the future invasion of the warrior Bunny’s, but they had made the excuse that they were off fighting bandits to avoid military duty. He watched Zorzel and Pina berating each other, for Emory knows what. He was getting too old for this. He had already grown at his distinctive beard by this point. He utterly hated meetings in the senate as well. Those rich, fat, no nothing Senators acted like children. He hated how the pro peace faction generally believed there could be peace with the Warrior Bunny's. They seemed to act like Zorzels lust for the queen would go away along with Molts on plans to unite the continent. The Pro war faction was a little better. While Molt certainly wanted war, he didnt want those Senators trying to micromanage his armies. The pro war faction acted like they would be the ones leading the charge but those spinless cowards could honestly never lift up a sword and fight. It was annoying and disgusting to see them act like they are great warriors. But what kind of warrior is an obese pig. Not to mention their lack of creative ideas on how to launch an invasion.
It didn't surprise him that those pigs were off kissing Zorzels feet and acting like he would be this kingdoms savior. It should be him who they are praising not his idiot son. The only faction in the Senate he liked was the neutral faction since they had brains for once. While Zorzel after much whinnying would get to lead the invasion force, he placed generals Guyus Falmus, and Senfried von Jurgun of the Elbe to be Zorzels advisers and to help point him in the right direction. He had also made the 2 muster their own armies so they could support Zorzels so his son wouldn’t do anything stupid and get himself killed. Molt had purposely delayed the invasion by 4 months so the 3 armies would be at full strength when it began. He had no intention of his son rushing off with an underman army just because he thought the imperial legions even outnumbered were superior to the Bunny's. While the Bunnies may be inferior in terms of blood, they certainly were stronger and faster than the average imperial soldier. He didn't want a repeat of the battle of blood falls.
During the Warrior bunny border wars under emperor Lengus IIX a single imperial legion attempted to directly March on the warrior Bunnies capital. Stupid idea and mistake. They were ambushed at Pine Falls later renamed blood falls due to the massacre that ensued. The Imperial legion was forced down the falls and they fell to their deaths. This battle also brought an end to the border wars and was a bitter humiliation for the Empire. He needed to avoid such a massacre in his war against the Bunnies. His son dying in the war would arguably be a service to the empire, but he couldn't have his son dying in some humiliating defeat that would bring shame to the empire. Molt had to do whatever he could to minimize defeats in this campaign and to have generals who could retrain Zorzels urges to insure victory. Zorzel could land the final blow and take the capital sure, but he couldn't allow his son to run battles in the opening stages of the war by himself, that was a no, no. Molt for now had another task at hand. He would have to pull some strings and dragged the Haryo tribe into the war. Their shape shifting abilities would prove very useful in the coming war.

i was a child/teen and it made me veryyyy uncomfortable. i wanted to crawl out of my skin!!!! last year i saw him for the first time in 10 years and beforehand i almost had a panic attack because i was so scared he would do it again (he did). i ended up telling him i didn’t want to hug him because we haven’t seen eachother in so long and we are basically strangers. in photos i would keep my arm veryyy close to my side or simply proactively take his arm and physically put it around my shoulder (instead and standing next to him and him putting his arm around my waist).
one time, when i was ~10, my brother (12) and i went to visit my dad’s apartment (parents recently separated). he only had one air mattress in the living room apart from his actual bed/mattress in his bedroom.
he said to us both at the same time in a very serious way: “now, regarding the sleeping arrangements. there is only one actual mattress so we can take turns sleeping in it. me and you can share it one night and me and your brother can share it the next night”. he mentioned something about elders (for reasoning why he couldn’t/wouldn’t use the air mattress). and then he talked about how in “this country” this sleep arrangement could be looked down upon but “back home” it is normal, as often 4 or 5 children and adults had to share a bed because of lack of resources/poverty.
my brother and i looked at eachother (side eye) and one (or both) of us said we would just share the air mattress as siblings. our dad asked if we were sure and we said yes. i remember being so relieved. even at night i wasn’t scared sleeping on the air mattress and i didn’t wake up scared either.
i’ve seen multiple “uncles”, my dad and eldest brother (not the one mentioned above) all looking at my chest even till this day and it’s awful!!!! i have a larger chest but now that i think about it, i’ve never seen my other brother (air mattress one) look there or my brother in law.
during one visit to my dad’s apartment (this time i was alone), he tried to take me bra shopping and looked at my chest and mentioned something about me developing and i remember being so mortified and disgusted. i covered my chest and didn’t wear the shirt i wore that day again (it was a favourite shirt from my childhood and it was getting a bit small on me but it has sentimental value). mind you, my mom had already been taking me bra shopping but i hated real bras and would only wear sport bras or training bras. i think he wanted to act more involved in my life of something but it felt perverted. i think he said that because of how my shirt looked vs actually wanting to help.
one of my “uncles” groped me during a family photo right before we went to church (he grabbed my behind). i was so shocked and afraid especially because there were people around — both in the photo and taking the photo. but no one seemed to notice. i spent the rest of that week long visit scared he was going to rape me. and i was scared for the other children who lived in the house. i stayed in the guest bedroom a lot. he’s not biologically my uncle, more of a family friend. but we all call him uncle and his wife auntie.
does any of the above count as CI? this is my first time writing this all out together

I work at a bagrill and the owners gf role has been as a manager of sorts. She was running the schedule when I first started last year September and trained me [incorrectly] in the bar. She made passes early on and I am currently working a police report to see if I have enough to press charges for sexual harassment (the sheriff’s department has said they will present it to the DA when the report is finished and let me know). It’s been really effecting my mental health because I’m in a situation where I have to be nice but I also need this job. I am married btw. She has told me in the past that she doesn’t get paid/have paychecks so I am not sure if she actually works here legally. When she inevitably physically groped me while I was working (she was not working, just drunk per the norm) I pretended to not notice and ignored her albeit it was obvious the dynamic of our relationship changed because I stayed as far away from her as possible and pretended she wasn’t there most of the time. And my hours got cut, never told why, I asked the owner he said nothing was amiss. She hired on some crackhead who quit shortly after but I never got my hours back and I have believed for along time that it was because I didn’t reciprocate her advances. Throughout the following winter she was mostly absent and everything was fine. I was finally getting hours by January then she returned from wherever she went (I assumed rehab since she has a meth record). We needed a cook and I slowly moved into the kitchen. By March I had a regular set schedule, a key and had responsibilities that involved watching over prep oppoerations 2 days a week. My schedule was maxing out, I was getting over time then the hoe followed me into the kitchen and started messing with me again. The kitchen was not her territory the whole time I’ve been here. When she started cutting my hours I leveled with the owner and told him I don’t want to be messed with in the kitchen like I was in the bar. He seemed sincere and then all hell broke loose. She started up arguments and started dictating my job operations. I request to talk with the owner over several days which ended in him screaming at me and saying he has to talk to his lawyer. I finally squeezed 3 days a week out of him but I can’t live off of this. Luckily since he dodged me so much a lot of the conversations we had were over text. I should probably be able to take him to court to get my hours back but I don’t know how. I live in Wisconsin USA.

Hi all,
I’m a blind woman interested in bjj. I was first introduced by an ex who competes. He had faith in me but I couldn’t get over my nerves.
Recently, it’s been popping up everywhere and I’m taking it as a sign.
I am able to see centrally but it’s very constricted. Think tunnel vision. I am completely blind in low light.
Do you have any tips for me? Also, I’m highly sensitive to touch. I won’t bore you with the details but it’s borderline freakish. I have issues in my everyday life being groped (sadly) and it’s one of the things that I’m most stressed about.
Would it be offensive if I asked to only train with other women until I become more comfortable?
The thing is, I don’t really want to be considered as a diva, asking for too much out the gate.
Edit: Thank you! I definitely feel more at ease after reading through the comments. I now understand why my ex became obsessed and was always trying to recruit me. You have all been as welcoming as he promised way back then. He even moved from NYC to Oklahoma and said the community is great there as well.
As a blind woman, I can sometimes get really self-conscious about asking for accommodations but I’m working on it.

Im not sure if this is the correct sub to post something like this on, but since it is reddit this is one of the few subreddits where I wont be torn apart for posting this.
I hate how over romanticised Japan is, especially on social media. Now this isnt to say Japan isnt a cool country - I still do love Japan, its people, its nature, technology, and the country itself. I just hate how people think it is a complete utopia and the best place ever with little to no flaws, just like anime.
A good example of this is if you go on the UrbanHell subreddit and search “Japan”, in the comments youll see everyone trying to defend it saying its “oddly beautiful” and “oh but its cool!” etc in the comments. However if you go to another post that is in the US, people will call it hell, a concrete jungle, and everything negative in the comments, even though they are pratically the same, just in different countries. Sometimes there are some sensible people that know that it isnt “oddly beautiful” and knows Japan has issues, but theyre pretty rare to see.
I also hate how people always talk about moving to Japan like its some easy thing. They dont realize how xenophobic they are over there, no matter if your white, black, european, or even another east asian such as Korean or Chinese. They also dont consider the toxic work culture and how the average life of a Japanese person is wildly different than seen in media - its honestly more similar to the US than you think. Just like the average country there are poor areas that are depressing and rich areas that are amazing. Middle class neighborhoods that are car dependent, areas that are run down, areas that look just like a major city in the USA. But since its Japan, its all excused right?
Theres also other things problems people seem to rarely mention and skim over such as the amount of groping of women that happens on trains - it happens so often that there has to be women-only trains. Also weird things like how used panties are sold in vending machines, lolis, etc. Obviously these things are not at all exclusive to Japan but they are notable problems that happen more often there than the average country.
Oh and dont even get me started on WW2. Today Japan doesnt even apologize about what they did, they skim over it in history, and try to paint themselves in a good light and as a victim to their own children. And (most) weebs try to do the same where they try to excuse it or start mentioning what bad things other countries did in WW2 - they simply dont understand that another country/person doing something bad does not at all excuse the things the original country/person did.
I remember someone saying somewhere a while ago that Japan has a really good PR team which is hilariously accurate. Its somewhat factual too since Cool Japan was an actual propaganda effort by Japan after ww2 to fix their image and reputation, mainly by advertising their culture and anime, and it worked so damn well. Honestly id go as far to call it once of the most successful propaganda efforts in modern day history, since its probably the sole reason why Japan is seen the way it is today.
Its honestly hard to like Japan sometimes because of stuff like this. At the end of the day Japan is such a cool country, just like the USA, Germany, France, Sweden, etc… but people need to realize Japan isnt a complete paradise. They are just like any other country. They have bad areas and good areas just like the countries I just mentioned above and the rest of the world.

im legitimately struggling because i got abused since i was a baby by my parents and society
so was born almost 18 years ago and my life has been hell since. i got put in my first time out as a baby at 2 or 3 by my aunt because i kept crying the whole way to virginia and she beat me for it. i was also a rather emotionally volatile baby and was prone to irritation and also never met many milestones others were reaching by 2 (ie full verbality, potty training, etc) and was then diagnosed with autism and the ppl told my parents i would never be able to read, even though ive read as early as 3. i was well loved at preschool, but there was lots of instability home.
neglectful adults, along with ones who would sometimes beat me, specifically my aunt. she once beat me for having a meltdown in the basement where i threw and broke a cup in. think i was 4 or 5 that time. kindergarten was horrible. i have very vague memories, but i remember being sat on by an adult in a separate room for having a meltdown, and other times adults yelling at or getting mad at me for no reason. i remember hyperfixating on a mask once, and an adult got pissed off about it and ripped the mask, making me cry. i started having extreme mood swings at this age and frquently would do things to avoid abandonment.
i then moved after kindergarten, making everything worse. i used to scream everyday, have constant low and high emotional oeriods, and would sometimes become violent. i was also constantly wanted to do the same thing my cousin would do, say mean stuff to her, grope her, etc and she hates me for it now and i don't blame her. i got better in 2nd grade but still. i also was an ass to my brother because i was jealous of all the attention he got as a younger sibling and especially with him being severely autistic. i would frequently lash out at him for things he couldn't control ie destroying things or constantly being hyperactive. this lasted till i was 16. i still messed up a bit at my current age but ive mostly improved, dont hit him anymore, and apologize when i lose patience.
also my parents were generally terrible, especially my mom. my mom would beat me over trivial things, ie meltdowns, cursing, etc, and we would frequently lash out at each other and then "make up". she would also have extremely high expectations of me, ie high grades, dressing conventionally, generally doing everything up to her standards. my mom would namecall me saying im selfish, ungrateful, an idiot a few times, and has beat me ranging from punching, to a hanger, to a metal spatula today. she would also threaten to withold care, beat me, has dismissed my disabilities as all in my head, and has lied to people about me to make me look "insane". meanwhile my dad was mostly passive but sometimes also emotionally abusive and SA'd me at 13. they also parentified me and forced me to look after my severely disabled brother alone as early as 9, which was also terrible considering my own disability
things genuinely got worse when i moved again at 10. being in a racist all white neighborhood was enough, at here barely anyone talks to me. im literally always ignored. i was also bullied like shit in middle school. also my cousin has been an ass since she was 13. she made a fucking 'joke' that i have kidney issues but my parents hid it from me, has insulted me, blamed me for her going to the same k-12 school as her when i was in middle school and her highschool because i urged my mom to have us go together. i get i was an annoying prick at times ie telling on her for a friends curse in text that grade and getting her in trouble even though she was 16 then, but nowadays she is extremely critical. she told me to get my life together for being avoidant and isolating myself because ill regret it later and itll be bad in college if i do it still and there's parties. also, she thinks my illness is in my head because of my moms gossip, is against me getting a degree i wont do as a career, doesn't want me to get a gender affirming surgeon for a boob job because the only real gender affirming care to her is top surgery, etc. she also watched me get beat by my mom and didnt do anything and this was when she was 21 and shes now 22. she also tried getting me to only go to college abroad if its in two areas with her because my parents are against me doing it abroad. she was also abused by her aunt, who is her mother but i still hate her using that as an excuse to abuse me.
my mom and dad divorced and things only got worse. i have called cps, talked to the school, etc and nothing has been done and i have faced ableism for being disabled from teachers to even a bus driver who had a problem with me using a cane. almost every legal agency can only help out if ur 18 or doesn't care about minors. ive also been mistreated by doctors who dont think im ill
im literally deadnamed on the daily by friend who know i dont want to be called my deadname
the worst part is whenever i tell adults they make excuses for my parents behavior too by saying 'they just love you', 'they want the best for you', or blaming me for lashing out.
im fucking tired of existing because im clearly not cared about or important. i feel like i deserved to be abused

Hello, I hope I’m in the right page and I hope I can ask for your opinion. I’ll make the story short, my gf was sexually harassed and groped sa LRT today. She was on the way to visit me and she commuted that day sa LRT, since siksikan sa LRT, may nakatabi syang 2 college students na hinipo sya, nagulat sya at tinulak nya, tinawanan lang sya ng dalawang gago at sinabing accident lang, when they intentionally groped her from behind, note na may bag pa sya sa likod so impossible na accident. A lady beside her saw this and offered her seat to her and calmed her down, she went out of the train and called me to tell me na nasa station na sya and asked me to pick her up, to my surprise, umiiyak sya pag pasok nya ng car. As I calmed her down and comforted her, she told me what happened. I was so furious and at the same time I blamed myself kasi dpt nung una plng di kona sya pinayagan mag commute. I was hurt kasi umiiyak tlga sya and I can feel na prng ang powerless nya sa situation na un, and I was fucking pissed to the point na makakapatay ako ng tao sa galit, and at the same time hurt to see my gf crying.
I advised her to report it to the nearest PNP station, and offered to go with her and be there for her every step of the way, kaso lang ayaw nya because (1) nahihiya sya sa ngyare, (2) ayaw nya din malaman ng parents nya, (3) she believes that nothing will be done din naman kahit ireport, and (4) it’s a very hectic and hassle process and hindi pa sure if may magagawa ba ang pnp or whoever is concerned, di nya sure if matutulungan kami.
Can I ask if ano ba ang process and ano ba dapat kong gawin? I will try and convince her kasi to report it to PNP or the women’s desk, and approach some of my friends who are in a position of power sa PNP and other related organizations, and I plan to talk to whoever is in charge sa privacy and cctv operations ng LRT and do everything in my power para hanapin ung dalawang college students na walang hiya. I plan to report these students sa college nila, and I don’t care if I have to pay off everyone who can help bring these sexual offenders to justice, I have budget to pay off anyone who can assist me, but I need to know ano process, if how long lang ang time frame ng incident before sya maging invalid, kasi as far as I know if pinatagal to bago ireport, di na ata sya papansinin ng PNP.
Please correct me if I am wrong in any of the details I shared, and I hope I can ask for your opinion. Thanks!

Barbara Gordon’s consciousness flickered off and on until she finally forced it all the way on. She was, she realized, sharing the floor of an elevator with a body formerly named Asa. Her wheelchair was on its side, and she was only barely still in it. The ‘Please Use Stairs In Case of Emergency’ sign on the wall appeared to be mocking her.
Acutely conscious of the fact that now was an inopportune moment for panic- People always say that. When IS the right time to panic? I mean, if we weren’t supposed to panic, why’d we even evolve the ability? Oh, God, I sound like Dick. Is Dick okay? Stop. We just decided not to panic.- she forced herself as calm as possible and did her best to keep pace with her own racing thoughts. The clown only a guy in a clown mask. Not THE clown. But maybe someone just as bad, and someone very, very unhappily familiar but FOCUS already must have cut the elevator cables. And she hadn’t hit the ground at terminal velocity and died because… of course. Elevators have friction brakes. Cables severed, the brakes kick in. So a sudden stop, knocked me off my chair, but not a lethal one. So I’m still relatively safe…
Until Big Ugly climbs his way down here. Time to panic yet?
It had been a long time since she’d been called upon to do anything in the way of superheroics. Even before the Accident, Barbara had contemplated giving the life up once or twice. But some habits, for worse or, as in this case, for better, were persistent. Hand moving almost unbidden, she popped open a hidden compartment in the wheelchair’s armrest. Out came three black, compact objects which she set to work uncollapsing. Secret stash of collapsible batarangs. The day you can’t smuggle a few of these past a metal detector is the day you’re well and truly retired.
There was a thud on the roof of the elevator.
Oh, good, Barbara thought, feeling her heart start to pound. That must be Big Ugly now. He does get around, doesn’t he.
No time to waste righting the chair. Barbara heaved herself across the floor, making a mental apology for sliding across Asa’s blood. The ‘rang’s razor edge jammed in between the elevator doors, she started to pry, trying to get a grip in with her free hand. The thumping on the roof was intensifying. Clownface was fumbling in the dark, probably looking for an escape hatch to enter through.
Fuck that. I’m getting off this ride.
She had the doors, one in each hand. Come on. Pull. Pull. Honed muscles hiding in her arms drew taut as the doors were forced apart. No sooner was that obstacle out of the way than the next one reared its ugly head. The cab of the elevator was caught between floors; solid ground was a ledge not quite five feet above the floor of elevator. Lifting herself that far off the ground, without the aid of legs? It could be done, with a little effort. Taking the chair with her, though? All but impossible. Leaving the lift would mean giving the chair up.
Something dented the lift roof. Clownface was getting impatient.
Alright. One problem at a time, then. Get out of the death box, then worry about the chair.
“Okay. Hup.”
Barbara groped for the ledge, fumbled. Tried once more. This time, the batarang’s jagged edge snagged right on the ledge. Good. Sweat was already beading on her forehead and I’m not even in costume. I’m either out of shape or terrified beyond all reason. Still. Press on. Just like hauling yourself out of a swimming pool. Let’s just ignore the homicidal maniac about to break his way in here, and PULL, dammit, PULL.
A grunt. An inch lifted. A split millisecond of panic as she thought her arm would buckle. Nope. C’mon. There! Yes! Torso fully above the ledge. Keep pulling. Good. Yes. Now just grab your legs and pull them up after you. Done!
It was at that point that the roof of the elevator caved in completely, and a hulking, clown-faced Shape fell, fluid as a shadow, into the lift with a thud. Barbara was about 60% certain she screamed, a little. The pale white face was nearly level with her from where she sprawled on the ground. At the end of a shadowed, muscly arm, a scarred hand reached out. Instinct mercifully kicked in, and before she knew it, the batarang was sprouting from the pale, ragged skin around one pitch-black eye.
The Shape grunted in pain, lurched back. “It’s you,” Barbara heard herself say. I remember. Just like this. I stabbed you in the eye with a coat hanger. It was Halloween. And you barely even slowed down. I should have known you weren’t dead. They never stay dead. Real evil never dies.
Those thoughts raced by like photons through darkness. In the present, the Shape was still grunting in pain as he clawed at the razor blade in his eye.
“That had to hurt,” Barbara said. “You know what else sucks?”
As Michael Myers pried the blade from the meat of his forehead, the tiny pouch of aluminum powder encased within blew up right in his face. And if you can survive a stab in the eye, I guess that’ll rattle you without killing you. The force of the blast knocked the Shape off its feet, back into the wall of the elevator cab and sprawling to the blood-soaked ground. He (It?) was still for perhaps a second before the masked head shot up, empty eyes and ragged skin-face looking somehow angry. Without flexing a single extraneous muscle, the Shape rose again…
And the elevator cab lurched. Evidently an explosion and a Shape rolling around inside on top of an unexpected fall was a bit more than the cab was built to take. With a groan, the emergency brakes gave way, and the elevator plummeted down the shaft.
“Ground floor,” Barbara grunted, still splayed on the hallway floor with her heart pounding. “Perfume, stationery and serial killers. And ow. My abs.”
***
Harvey Bullock’s battered car came to a stop outside of Thompkins Memorial, and he stepped out into silence. It was pitch black and a light rain was starting up. “Spooky-ass place,” he murmured to himself. It was inarguably a less-than-pleasant building to look at, but Bullock spoke aloud mostly in the hope that a little sound would fill the emptiness. Awright. No more of that. Mikey Myers ain’t gonna be chatting to himself when he sneaks up behind you. God ‘isself only remembers how many years as a cop, an’ runnin’ with Checkmate now. You oughtta know not ta give yerself away like that. No being taken by surprise this time. No, sir. So there was no reason the nape of his neck should be prickling right now.
Gordon’s kid was inside that building, somewhere. Well, so long as his new employer’s briefings were any good, at least. It usually was. Lil Babs. Harvey could vaguely remember when she used to be a kid. More of a kid. Harvey Bullock wasn’t anyone’s idea of Honorary Uncle, but she was Jim’s kid- almost family, in a way. Close enough for him to stay in the loop. It had been hard to hear about the Accident, and the wheelchair, and even harder to believe the… the other things Checkmate had told him about Jim’s daughter.
And speaking of secrets, Comish ain’t never gonna forgive me, knowin’ this freak went after said daughter an’ I went in without tellin’ ‘im. Well. Tough. This is my case. And I’m endin’ it the way it’s gotta end. Evil dies tonight.
Something was just audible, tickling at the edges of Bullock’s perception. A stage whisper, vacillating between wanting to be heard and wanting very much not to be heard. A shadow was twitching, moving, in the direction of the soft call, the edge of the lot. Bullock felt hairs stand up on the back of his fat neck. His hand wanted to inch toward his gun, until he made the words of the call out: “H-help! Help, please! He’s hurt!”
Bullock plodded over. As the shadow moved into dingy streetlamp light he realized it was a woman in a white coat, with some badly-bruised, staggering pretty boy leaning on her shoulder. “Oh god oh god oh god,” the woman was whispering, but clearly on the verge of a breakdown. “It’s in there! I couldn’t risk it hearing us, it- I just barely got out! My nurses are dead, and, and I think this kid got thrown out a window-”
“Kid?” the kid mumbled, groggily. “I resettle that remark.”
Apart from being, in Bullock’s unprofessional opinion, just generally banged up, the kid didn’t look like he could walk on his own. All his weight seemed to be either on the lady or unsteadily on one leg. Being thrown out a window probably wasn’t far off.
The lady in doc’s clothes was still babbling. “Look, are, are you police? Are the police coming?”
“Yeah, they’re on their way” Bullock lied- well, not lied, they would be soon enough, he guessed- and then said “Who th’ hell are you?”
“I’m Dr. Kinsolving. Uh. This is… I forget, but he’s got at least a broken leg and maybe a concussion. I thought he was dead for a second-”
“Slowed down my heart rate, to simulate death, just in case,” the kid murmured, clearly still loopy. “One of the first things you learn in the Ba- the Boy Scouts.”
“A’right, look, doc” Bullock hissed, now up to speed and short on patience. “I’m goin’ in to bring that freak out. You are gonna take Pretty Boy here an’ hide-”
“No.” Pretty Boy’s hand was on Bullock’s lapel suddenly, with impressive strength for someone in his condition. “No. I gotta- Barbara’s in there, with the… the Shape. I’ve got to go in.”
Bullock rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, kid, I’m sure she’d appreciate you stumblin’ in just to get thrown out another window and breakin’ the other leg. Assumin’ you can even walk.” The point was apparently taken; Pretty Boy’s grip relaxed. Bullock turned to Kinsolving, keeping his voice low.
“Look, I gotta get in there. But you’re stayin’ here. He popped the door on his car and gestured in ward. “Just keep in here. If anyone else comes along, you crouch down an’ keep the doors locked shut-” An’ hope they don’t notice the windows fogged up from the breathin’, Bullock thought to himself- “an’ in the meantime, keep the kid’s head elevated or keep ‘im awake, or whatever you’re s’posed to do with a concussion.”
“He, he can rest provided someone wakes him up periodically to check his vital signs-”
Oy. That’s what shrinks call coping mechanisms, I think. Bullock helped the kid into a sitting position in the backseat, and continued speaking to the doctor, his voice whisper quiet. “Lissen,” he hissed. “Y’said the thing that did this, it’s still in the building?”
“It was when I left. S-Second floor. It cooked someone alive in the hydrotherapy tanks-”
Around then was when he heard metallic screeching from inside the building, and felt an earthquake-like thud. Harvey Bullock drew his gun. “Get to the car,” he said.
***
Barbara felt the first traces of pain and tiredness. Adrenaline was slowly draining out of her. That was inconvenient. She had a feeling she was going to need more of it. Considering how much punishment he’d taken so far, there wasn’t a chance Big Ugly was done. The fall wouldn’t stop him, and the walk up the stairs would barely delay him. So. Time to start commando crawling.
She inched forward, using batarangs the way a rock climber used grappling claws. One arm forward, thoroughly undignified wriggle, then the other arm, rinse and repeat. Not the best way to get around, and not especially great when trying to leave a building in a hurry. Not to mention the staff might complain about the pitting in the floor. There had to be a supply closet or something. Maybe a spare pair of crutches. Not ideal for paraplegia, but quicker than crawling at least. Barbara tried hoisting herself up, to try and make a grab for a door handle. No luck. Fine. Crawling it is.
Not exactly good long-term planning, though is it? Still need to go down a floor. Can’t use the elevator. So your options at this point are to take the stairs and just hope Gruesome doesn’t notice you going down while he’s coming up, or try your luck with one of the vents.
Barbara swore under her breath. Those infamously roomy Gotham City air vents. You spent enough time going through those in the business. Grates close to the floor, easy enough to remove. And right about now it was hard to argue they weren’t safer than the stairs or a window. But they wouldn’t be terribly much easier on someone without the use of their legs than this hallway. And- well, it wasn’t that she was claustrophobic. But in one of those vents, she might just learn to be.
There has to be some other way.
Then she heard the gunshot.
Screw it. Vent it is. She took the ‘rang and began picking at the bolts on the grate.
***
Harvey Bullock hustled in through the hospital’s sliding front door with his weapon drawn, because he might not have been a great cop in his day, but he sure as hell wasn’t ever any kind of amateur. His pulse was pounding in his ears, which, he reflected, probably wasn’t going to make this job easier.
Nobody at the front desk, but he heard indistinct voices in the background. Went to see what all the damn noise was. All of a sudden, the voices became screams. Then nauseatingly wet, splashing noises. Then silence. ohcrap. Freak’s already up and attem. Bullock picked up his pace, tightened his grip on the gun until his knuckles went white.
Come on, Harv. No big deal. You musta cuffed a hundred punks. Some frightmask don’t make a lick a difference. He’s got a knife, you gotta gun and the element ‘a surprise. An’ evil dies tonight.
There couldn’t be as many hallways as there seemed. Somehow it felt like running through a maze. It was on either the second or third hallway-turn that Bullock bumped into the wreckage of the elevator shaft, and with it, the first corpse, a security guard. Lying in a pool of blood and missing a good chunk of his face. Bullock forced himself not to swear. How’d this freak move so fast, without making a sound? And how- Footprint, in the bloodslick. And a trail. Freak chased someone for a bit- around another corner, where Bullock found...
The trail of bloodprints was gone. A pair of shoes was placed neatly at the side of the side of the hall. Bullock thought fast. ‘e took his shoes off. Stops him leavin’ a train. Only reason he’d do that is if ‘e knew someone was followin’ ‘im.
There was a noise behind him. Bullock whirled around and fired.
***
Traveling by ventilation duct wasn’t the worst skill to have in Barbara Gordon’s line of work. But like so much else in life, it wasn’t much like the movies. Movies didn’t convey how cramped things really were, the inch-thick layers of dust, the near-absolute darkness, or, most pressingly, the noise. Moving through the vents had to be done slowly, or else it couldn’t be done quietly. At the moment, quietly was the thing.
And, as predicted, dragging oneself along the vent with two paralyzed legs didn’t make things any more pleasant. Barbara gritted her teeth over two batarangs. No freaking pockets on a hospital gown. And the ‘rangs would tear right through duct metal without purchase. Still, she wasn’t ready to throw her only tools away, even with her jaw starting to cramp.
Don’t focus on that. Just keep moving forward. Just one reach and one pull at a time. No hurry.
She wasn’t sure what made her pause. But when the vent buckled inward, as though a sledgehammer blow had struck it, just in front of her face, she was glad she had.
He found you. Somehow. He’s right below you, on the ground floor. Guess that’s a yes hurry.
Barbara reached and grabbed, desperately pulling herself forward past the dented wall. The next dent came not long after, striking against her side. She couldn’t stop the yelp of pain and fear, but she didn’t let it slow her down. Stab him with a batarang? No. You’re too vulnerable. Don’t give him any more time to pinpoint you. Just KEEP MOVING. The next dent burst straight through, revealing a pale, bloodied fist with a knife clenched firmly in its fingers, and the blade of the knife left a shallow cut on one of her paralyzed legs. Good thing I can’t feel that, she thought, dizzily, and didn’t let it slow her down.
The vent either had to reach another opening or else trade horizontal for vertical, eventually. She kept going, the pounding rattling her nerves and the sound of ragged breath somehow omnipresent. Eventually, it stopped- maybe below, the Shape had hit a wall- just in time for the vent to bottom out. Barbara fell face-forward into the darkness.
***
Bullock struggled to find his breath. His shot had been wild, hitting a wall at the end of the hallway. It had totally missed the target, though mercifully the target had turned out not to be Myers. Less mercifully, the second body, the one that looked to have been a nurse perhaps a second before, was collapsed now at his feet, in a pool of her own blood. She’d tried to say something to him, between gurgling gasps for air.
She musta followed the guard up to the elevator. When the guard got ganked she ran for it. Not fast enough. He killed ‘em both in a couple ‘a seconds. What the hell is this guy?
Harvey Bullock fought panic. He’ll ‘a heard that gunshot. If he didn’t know I was ‘ere before, he knows now. Evil might die tonight, but looks like I might too. He left the nurse alone. Nothing to be done for her now.
More noise. Like someone was smashing furniture. Bullock focused on it. He didn’t know why, exactly, but tears were burning his eyes now. Maybe for Montoya, maybe for the nurse and the guard, and maybe because he was afraid, plain and simple. Goin’ after someone else, then, creep? Distracted? That works swell for me. Smile, ya sap, cuz company’s comin’.
***
He had her now. His prey was scrabbling about in the walls, which was no hiding place at all. Not to someone who lurked in every shadow. Not to the Boogeyman.
As the Shape marched down the linoleum hallway, he felt the heat of his own ragged breath on his face as the skin-mask sealed it in. When he finally reached his prey, he paused, and reached out with one bloodied hand to touch the wall. Further up. The long fingers inched. Further. Further… There.
With incredible strength, the hand thrust, and pounded against the wall, buckling the metal duct behind. If the Shape felt anything at all, it was only the satisfaction of hearing the yelp of sheer terror that escaped. Now there was more scrabbling as the prey crawled away in terror. The Shape followed the noise, drew back his fist again and cratered another segment of wall. Another shriek of terror and more frantic scrabbling was the response.
No place to hide. And no way to run.
The Shape kept pace again, and struck the wall again, this time with his knife hand. He could feel the spray of blood on his knuckles as the backward-facing blade grazed his prey’s flesh. So close. Just once more. Maybe he could pin her to a wall. Maybe he could just thrust and thrust the blade into her until the screaming stopped. The possibilities were endless. And that was when the bullet struck Michael Myers in his back of the shoulder. He froze, like a statue.
“Turn around, bright eyes,” came a wheezing voice. Defying all expectation, Harvey Bullock had come to the rescue. “I got you now, you bastard. Turn and face me when I finish you.”
The Shape was still as a statue for an eternity of about a second. Then, with terrifying slowness, the masked head turned around to face Harvey Bullock.
***
Barbara Gordon reflected on having fallen down two pitch-black metal tunnels in the last half-hour and decided that it if never happened to her again, that would be too soon. On the bright side, falling down a ventilation shaft with two batarangs in her mouth had not resulted in her being decapitated from the lips up. Keep looking on the bright side. Still dwelling on the image of Headless Barbara, she spat the ‘rangs out into her hand. The Shape didn’t need any extra help. Now, where am I?
Not in the ducts, anymore. She’d hit the floor. The cuts and bruises would probably register later. The flimsy wall-grate had slid straight open and disgorged her as she came down the duct chute. So much for using it as a hiding place. Barbara rolled around onto her belly again, pushed her upper body upwards to get a look at her surroundings.
Dim room. Tile floors. Swinging doors off to the far wall. Gurney in the center of the room. Canisters everywhere. Canisters? In the gloom, she squinted to read the labels. FLAMMABLE. Oh God. This must be some kind of operating room. This must be anesthetic. If I live through this I’m going to talk to someone about storing this stuff properly.
There was a gunshot and a scream from outside the door.
Well, that’ll have to wait for later.
Barbara dragged herself behind the nearest row of canisters, pulling her legs out of sight just as the Shape staggered through the doors. Hurriedly, she clamped a hand over her mouth, struggling to keep her breathing even and quiet. She heard something scuff the ground as the Shape moved, and then a thud as something hit the ground.. Smart money say’s that’s someone else who got in his way. Between him and me, in this case.
This is it, he thought. Cornered. I cant outrun him. There aren’t enough places to hide. Can’t drop him down another elevator shaft. Sooner, not later, I’m gonna have to fight my way out. And all I’ve got is two batarangs, which don’t even faze him. Not to be a downer, but… this could be it. Wonder what Bruce would do in the face of imminent death, she found herself thinking.
The Shape was moving, she could hear. But… weirdly Shuffling, stumbling. Not what she would expect from someone hitherto unstoppable. Moving away from her.
It hit her, suddenly. Coat hanger to the eye a few years back. And a bad batarang wound to the head. Blood in your good eye, probably worse because of that stupid clown mask. Which means you’re having a little trouble seeing, aren’t you? Plus the blood loss, the explosion in your face… I’m guessing maybe a couple bullet wounds. All that must have you feeling a bit worn down. That’s not much. But that might just be my way out of here.
Barbara held as still as she could and listened. Pick your moments carefully. They might not come again. The shuffling was faint, but she could make it out. Further away, further. Now. She tossed her next-to-last ‘rang, putting some arc into it. It landed with a ting noise off in the corner, further from the door. And after the ting she just heard absolute silence. Trying not to swallow, Barbara peered out from her hiding place, oping to see the Shape’s back as he took the bait.
Instead she saw the Shape looking head-on at her hiding place, an eyehole in his mask leaking blood.
Oh crap, Barbara thought. Guess he knows that trick.
***
Harvey Bullock’s consciousness flickered on and off before he finally forced it on. He remembered getting a few shots off on Myers. And a big black Shape rushing at him. And he remembered a knife cutting through the air- Harvey Bullock felt his throat, something wet and warm, that was getting rapidly cold.
Bastard musta got me right ‘n the same place Strange did, those years ago. How’zat f’r good luck? Guess scar tissue’s harder t’ get through.
Awareness of his surroundings finally reached Bullock. He was sprawled on the ground, in a pool of his own blood. Not the best sign. Even if he’d survived the cut, things didn’t look good for him in the immediate future. What else? He could see the Shape, framed in the shadows. Still there, despite the bullets in his torso. Barely even slowed down. Failed. I failed.
What else? Through fading vision, Bullock looked around, and saw the label “FLAMMABLE.”
Huh, he thought. Wonder if I got enough strength left to stand up.
***
There wasn’t any point in holding still now. Barbara crawled for it, moving backwards as the Shape staggered closer and closer, knife clenched in hand and raised for the kill. Got one last batarang. Maybe I can get a lucky shot. Maybe-
Barbara Gordon was suddenly aware of a hissing sound. The Shape, responding with an almost ludicrous puzzlement, seemed to hear it, too. They turned towards the door, where Harvey Bullock, soaked with blood and unscrewing valves on a gas canister, was standing.
“Hey, Mikey,” the battered cop said, voice hoarse and rough. “See ya in hell.”
Then he went to his pocket for a cigarette lighter. Barbara has just enough time to face the wall, curl into a ball, grabbing her legs to pull them underneath her. The Shape had just enough time to charge forward.
Then came the explosion.
In the time it took Barbara Gordon to stop reeling from the noise and the pummeling force, and to reassure herself that this was real, everything was ablaze. The shockwave had rattled her down to her very bones, and now the air was full of heat and smoke. The phrase ‘out of the frying pan, into the fire’ coasted irreverently through her mind. Her thoughts rose unbidden. After so long out of the life, tonight had been a quick sink-or-swim remedial course in thinking fast.
What kills you isn’t the fire. It’s the smoke. Suffocation. And smoke rises up. So keep your head close to the ground. Well, that shouldn’t be a problem for me, right? Just keep your head down. It would be too absurd to survive everything else tonight threw at you to die in a stupid fire. Right?
Barbara crawled as best she could through the flames, her breath ragged through the folds of her gown. As she crawled, she could not notice the shadowy shape that rose behind her, wreathed in the light of the fire…
***
Michael Myers rose to his feet. His target was finally in sight. But as he lifted his knife for the kill, he could not notice the shadowy shape that suddenly stood behind him, wreathed in the light of the fire.
“Myers,” said the Batman.
The Shape whirled around. If a human thought ever crossed through the black pit of his mind, Michael Myers probably thought You.
He got no chance to act further. Gauntleted fists struck his masked face, again and again. The Shape lunged with the knife, aiming for the stretch of lower jaw, only for his hand to be deflected, and for something to cave in his elbow. There was a hand behind his head; a knee drove into his nose. The punishment was unrelenting. Between bullet wounds, elevator crashes, blood loss, explosions and burns, even the Boogeyman had his limits. Michael Myers finally sank into unconsciousness. The knife fell from his hand. The Batman caught him before he slumped to the ground.
With a few careful steps through the flames, he caught up with Barbara Gordon, who, after a few coughs, said “I softened him up for you. Good timing, by the way.”
Although, as a rule, the Batman did not smile, he was sometimes known to smirk.
*** It began to rain not long after. A small mercy for the people who had to put out the flames.
Emergency workers spent the rest of the night pouring in and out of the building. The few patients left in the building had to be moved out, out of concern that the destroyed elevator and scorched operating room might compromise the building’s integrity. Several bodies had to found and extracted, three nurses and a security guard among them. With emergency care at Thompkins Memorial heavily compromised, Harvey Bullock was hurried to another hospital, in extremely critical condition. Nobody was sure he’d survive the night or not, though surviving appeared to be among his talents.
The Batman disappeared into the night, as was his custom. Michael Myers was strapped to a heavy gurney and escorted to the infirmary in Arkham Asylum, under the constant watch of at least a dozen heavil armed guards. Barbara Gordon was in the backseat of an ambulance clutching a trauma blanket to her shoulders, dreading the moment when her father showed up to inform her she wasn’t allowed to live on her own anymore.
For the moment, she was left alone with a thoroughly dopey-looking Dick Grayson, who was waiting to trade his hastily-improvised cast for something a bit longer-term.
“This isn’t how I imagined Halloween going,” Dick said, evenly.
“Nope.”
“I think the worst part is I missed Kadaver’s Mystery Theater. They were doing Thing From Another World tonight.”
“I think the worst part is I’m going to have to do my preop exam over again to see if falling out of a ventilation shaft and being in an explosion damaged my spine any more.”
“It’s not a contest, you know.”
“You’re an idiot.”
They both watched as Dr. Shondra Kinsolving struggled to explain something to a police officer, arms flapping wildly.
Dick coughed. “I’m- sorry.”
“For being an idiot?”
“No. Well, maybe. It’s just… You needed help in there, and I was stuck barely-conscious, hiding in a car the whole time. I didn’t mean-”
“Dr. Kinsolving was, too.”
“I think she’s content with that.”
“I told you before, Dick. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve been doing this about as long as you have. I took care of things as best I could. And if you- if any of us- try to take responsibility for protecting the whole world, we’ll be crushed under the weight of it. Even Bruce knows that.”
“I just- I know. You’re right.”
“But still. Thank you.”
“Right.”
“Happy Halloween, I guess.” And they were quiet for a moment.
“BARBARA!”
Jim Gordon had arrived on the scene, looking about as panic-stricken as any father could reasonably be expected to, given the circumstances. Barbara failed to fight off both a small smile and tears. In less than a second he’d crossed the scene and had his arms around her.
“It’s okay, Dad,” she struggled to say. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Dick Grayson turned away, in what he hoped was a respectful gesture. He caught a glimpse of something dark swinging through the sky, outlined against the moonlight.
“Thanks to you too, Dad,” he murmured.
***
November 1st. Day of the Dead.
The Batman, as usual, surveyed the skyline of Gotham City by dark. He had seen so many crises befall the city that it was hard to imagine how any of it was still standing. Sometimes it was easy to believe there was something beyond control, something malicious, that pulled the strings. The sort of evil that created things like Michael Myers, or… or others he could name.
Still. In spite of it all, the city was still standing.
“Brand. You may as well come out.”
A paunchy man in a too-small tank top snapped his fingers as he walked out from behind an intake vent. “Damn. ‘owdya you even know it was me?”
“You walk the same. No matter whose body you’re wearing.”
“It seems you did not require our aid after all, to confront the Boogeyman,” said blindfolded Madame Xanadu, who was suddenly at his side and seated at a large round table shuffling a deck of cards. “Do you still wish to know what fate has in store for you?”
“No.”
“That is wiser than you know.”
“Yeh, she overcharges,” the Dead Man quipped. “You will at least take one small bit of free advice,” Xanadu said. “More than any goblin, ghost, or witch, humanity has cause to fear the darkness inside itself. Do not grapple with the weight of the world, lest it crush you beneath. And one more thing… ah. He is gone, isn’t he?”
“Sure is,” the Dead Man said, approvingly. “Always did wonder how he pulled off those exits. Phew.”
***
An Epilogue
Before the year was out, Michael Myers was transported out of Arkham Asylum (with extreme precautions taken) to a more specialized prison facility, by way of the Federal Transfer Center in Central City. On the advice of his doctor, the transfer did not take place on October 31st. From the instant he left his cell at Arkham, Myers was strapped to a gurney that restrained his arms, legs, and neck, a position he was not to leave for the rest of the journey.
In theory, nothing could have gone wrong.
It was odd, in retrospect, that none of the personnel involved in the transfer noticed the Man in Black, clad in a broad-brimmed hat and dark trench coat that obscured all other features. He featured in several frames of the security footage at the Transfer Center, and even more curiously given the scrupulously-observed rules of the facility, none of the guards in those frames seemed to take any notice of him.
Suffice it to say that the procedure was ultimately interrupted in the next leg of its journey. Set upon by an unidentified aircraft mid-flight, the transfer plane was boarded and hijacked by unknown assailants, described by survivors as being dressed all in black, ‘like ninjas.’ Several facility personnel died in the ensuing struggle. The transfer plane made its unscheduled landing in a secluded, unlicensed airfield, where surviving personnel were blindfolded, restrained, and held in a darkened room for some 28 hours, then allowed to re-board their plane and leave, without the use of their radio.
The prison plane made its landing at the nearest possible airport, after the comparatively brief emergency brought on by an attempted landing without radio equipment. The unlicensed field where the plane had made its unscheduled landing was completely abandoned by the time authorities made a search of it. There was no sign of what had become of the hijackers, and there was no sign of what had become of Michael Myers.
***
The Man in Black reached his final destination in ‘Eth Alth’eban, tucked away undiscovered in the remote parts of the Arabian Peninsula. The settlement consisted almost entirely of a single edifice, built into a canyon cliffside. Throughout it, the robed members of the League of Assassins, the Fang Which Guards The Demon’s Head, moved back and forth, busied with their various tasks.
In spite of his heavy, dark dress, the Man in Black paid no mind whatsoever to the heat. This place might not be where he was raised, but over the years it had come to feel almost like home.
Black-clad, lowly-ranked Shadows followed in the Man’s wake, one pushing the gurney on which Michael Myers was clasped, the rest flanking the gurney on either side. It was difficult to guess what Michael Myers might have thought of all this. His face, unmasked and unremarkable save for several nasty-looking and recent scars, stayed perfectly expressionless. Some length down the brick path on which he walked, the Man in Black encountered his reception committee. At its head was a man in grey camouflage and hood, lower face hidden by a cloth mask. This man was counted among the dozen most feared human beings on the planet, and could count the other eleven finalists as either associates or rivals.
The Man in Black removed his hat, revealing the face of a white-haired old man, a face that was pleasant and even charming.
“Conal Cochran,” said the man in grey, coldly and seriously.
“Mister Cain,” the Man in Black said, with a bit of mirth.
“The Demon’s Head may be seven centuries old, but his patience is not inexhaustible. I trust you’ve delivered what you promised.”
“Most certainly!” Cochrane stepped aside and gestured dramatically to the murderer strapped to the gurney. “As promised. Your Boogeyman. A natural aptitude for killing! You may depend upon it! I’ve seen him in action. Not the equal of your best-trained, perhaps, but realize that the boy hasn’t had even a moment of tutelage in the homicidal arts. He is completely self-trained.”
The man Cochran had called Mr. Cain- the man known throughout the world as Orphan- looked Michael Myers in the eye. What he saw there, none could say, but Conal Cochran was sure he saw a slight grimace.
“No need to question him. He doesn’t speak. His only language is that of the kill. I thought you might appreciate that especially, Mister Cain. The very creed under which you planned to raise your daughter, isn’t it?”
Mister Cain’s body language indicated this was not something he wished to discuss.
“We’ll see if he meets with the Master’s approval.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“For the Head of the Demon.” said Cain, bowing slightly.
“For the Head of the Demon.” said Cochran, reciprocating.
The darkness in Michael Myers’ eyes glinted.

I posted this to /pointlessstories and it was suggested I post it here.
Then I screwed up the title, so here it is again.
My wife (42f) is a former world-class professional cyclist, still competing at masters national events.
I (58m) was never good enough to go pro, but even as an old man, I can hang on to a wheel from the young kids for -most- of the day—-at least out of the mountains.
Married for 17 years. (I’ll do the math for you—-She was 25, I was 41.)
Neither one of us really “works”. I am retired. Money basically grows on trees, we have absolutely no financial concerns—several times over. Old family money.
Typical weekday is centered around training. We spend all of our time together. Short of pooping, we are within earshot of each other all the time.
Up by 0400-0415. I am at the gym by 0430, she’s down by 5. Breakfast after the gym. Out for a bike ride by 7a. Home around Lunchtime. Second gym workout at 2, or a second bike ride, low zone 1/2, 3-5p Dinner at 6-ish. Bike maintenance, laundry, other household stuff till bedtime at 8p.
We sleep together, mostly in underweatshirt, for both of us.
Nakedness happens all the time, for both of us.
We don’t talk a lot. Most everything is trimmed down one word sentences or questions.
“Ride?” “7:15?” “110 or 150k?” “150k. “K. Garmin batteries are dead” “K. I’ll do it”
Or, dinner plans: “Salmon?” “Lemon?” “Salt.” “Sure. Wine?” “Yes. Bordeaux?” “Thanks”
That level of communication is good for both of us, and I think it stems from the amount of time we spend riding—where full on sentences just are a waste of time. We used to talk a lot more, but as time has gone on, we don’t need to. We gesture—-a lot(!!) instead.
We, together, are happy. We are chill. Very. Very relaxed all the time.
We have sex once every couple of months. “Once every season change!” is our joke. Mostly one of us will get horny in the middle of the night and make movements toward “groping” and we end up having sex.
No ED issues for me. Morning wood a lot still.
She’ll sometimes masturbate in the middle of the night, but typically falls asleep midway. I will rub one out in the mornings sometimes. Once a month, maybe?
Recently we expressed some disbelief with one of our mutual friend couples our age—-or at least close to “our” age—-that they had sex once a week. “Who has time for that?”, my wife said. “Who has time for the extra laundry and showers?” I said. When we do it, we say that we should do it more often, but that only sometimes happens. The couple we were talking to was absolutely incredulous that we don’t do it more often.
Look, I get that our life isn’t normal. Very much so, it’s abnormal, but we are happy with our lives. We are happy with each other. We absolutely prioritize health and fitness over entertainment. We don’t own a TV, anywhere, in any house we own. I could not tell you any sort of pop culture reference.
We are very happy with each other and our lives. Attracted to each other, but we just don’t take the time to have sex or prescribe/schedule it. I suspect we have such a high level of emotional intimacy every day, all day, that the sex isn’t a priority.

What is up my best buds? how have you all been doing? Sorry about it taking me so long to get another chapter out; I was busy this last week. But we only have two more chapters in book two and they should be done and ready this weekend and posted next week.
Let's get this bread.
“Are you certain you have everything?” Nelya asked, watching Martinez and Kyroll load the bags into the rental SUV.
“It should be, but we will double-check,” Kyroll assured, hefting one of Lysa’s several bags up the weight, causing his healing rib to pang. He knew Martinez was likely similar to him and would not have left anything behind, so he was not worried about it, but if it made Nelya happy, he would ensure it was that way.
“Don’t worry, we will get everything,” Martinez smiled, turning about to look at Nelya, leaning against the side door to the house, clutching a mug of steaming tea in her hands—a boon considering the weather had been getting colder by the day.
Martinez and Kyroll had taken up the role of packing everything for Lysa. They did this for several reasons: it was the right thing to do, but Lysa also felt a bit under the weather. Her sickness had been on and off for the last four days, and Martinez was starting to worry.
When he and Nelya found her and Kyroll cuddled up and sleeping on the sofa, they thought it was adorable. That was until they found the evidence of all the clean-up: vomit on the toilet, rags in the trashcan, and Lysa’s clothes in the washer.
It was then that Martinez and Nelya figured out that Lysa was unwell—but that did not mean they would wake them. If Lysa had been so ill it warranted so, Kyroll would have dragged her to the hospital.
The Human just hoped that Lysa would start feeling better soon after they returned to Draun. He had never experienced her being sick before; now that he had, Martinez was glad of that fact.
Lysa certainly could be moody when sick. It was not that she was angry, but everything seemed to bring her near to tears or upset her—or her random thoughts would blurt out like she was some sleeper agent. One moment, they were cuddling on the couch; the next, Lysa ranted about how one of her coworkers upset her months ago.
It all seemed so random.
“I know you will, Deary. I’m just being a doting mother,” Nelya replied in a light, self-teasing way. “I fully trust my two lovely men.”
Martinez smirked at Kyroll, cringing at hearing Nelya refer to them like that. He knew that Kyroll had accepted Martinez when it came to remaining with Lysa, but the idea of a human being entirely a part of the family must still be a bit sensitive.
At least after Martinez and Nelya went on that walk alone the other day, he knew Nelya had entirely accepted him as a future member of their family. The entire time they were out, Nelya excitedly told him about the things they could do once Kyroll and Lysa started getting along, and he and Lysa finally gave her grandkids.
He reminded her that they still had to go to a clinic and he needed to graduate school, which meant nothing to the motherly Aviex. She was talking like having kids was already a done deal. It was cute that she was so confident about what their futures would look like.
Martinez knew the GU could guarantee their offspring through genetic manipulation; even then, that took years to get signed up for and even longer for the geneticists to prepare for any procedures. At least she was optimistic.
“Come on, let’s go make sure we got it all,” Kyroll said, stepping toward the back of the house.
“Righto,” Martinez followed.
“Oh, will you two have Lysa meet me in the living room? I want to talk to her about something before you two leave,” Nelya requested before they made it around the corner.
“No problem,” Martinez waved.
Once they made it through the billowing snow and to the guest house, Martinez and Kyroll found Lysa moving the last of her bags into the foyer, struggling to move the heavy luggage. “Good Morning, Father,” Lysa wiped her brow, letting the bag thunk onto the deck.
“Good Morning, Little Huntress. Is there anything else?” Kyroll replied, pointing at the bag.
“No, that is everything,” Lysa shook her head.
“Okay, just leave it there. Nelly wants you,” Kyroll said, pointing out the grand window toward the house. “Martinez will handle the bags.”
Martinez did not comment on Kyroll volentelling him to do something. It was just a few bags, and he would have moved the luggage anyway.
“Very well,” Lysa replied before walking over to Martinez and kissing his cheek. “Thank you, ruh’ah.”
Martinez smiled as warmth spread throughout his chest. Thank God Lysa seemed to be feeling somewhat better today. She was a little bit lethargic this morning, but after some breakfast and a shower, she was back to her usual self.
“No problem,” Martinez replied, watching Lysa sashay toward the door, her tight black pants outlining her flawlessly pear-shaped ass, letting him see it sway and pop with each step.
A sudden heavy hand dropped onto Martinez’s shoulder, pulling him out of the short trance he had fallen into. Turning to look at Kyroll, Martinez awkwardly smirked, seeing Kyroll’s two remaining eyes glaring at him.
“Sorry about that,” Martinez chuckled.
“I might be alright with you—but brother, I'm still her father. Could you not do that in front of me?” Kyroll sighed. “I still find you two kissing awkward enough.”
That Kyroll was embarrassed by their little forms of PDA was funny to Martinez. It was not like they did anything beyond what Nelya and Kyroll did. For god's sake, Martinez and Lysa and been subjected to them mordaining, with Kyroll groping Nelya’s ass just this morning. Maybe it was just about Kyroll being Lysa’s father, but Martinez doubted it.
Kyroll had been racist against anyone non-Aviex for decades; Those sorts of behaviors and habits are not unlearned overnight. The older man likely still held some lingering resentment toward Martinez because he was a Human, but at least Kyroll was clearly trying to make things work.
“Yeah, I just was—-,” Martinez said before Kyroll cut him off. It wasn’t malicious by any means; it was just that Kyroll found the conversation he wanted to have to be more important.
“Follow me; I got something to give you,” Kyroll said, turning about and walking toward the bedroom Martinez and Lysa had been staying in.
“What about the bags?” Martinez asked.
“Get them later,” Kyroll replied, not turning back to ensure Martinez was following.
Once inside the room, Kyroll wandered toward the headboard and ran his hand between the mattress and the wooden headboard itself. After a few moments of muttering in annoyance, he smirked. “There that bastard is,” he praised, just before a loud thunk sounded out from underneath the bed.
Leaning over with a painful groan, Kyroll pulled out what looked like a military weapons case from underneath the bed. It was about as long as the bed itself and must have weighed a ton, based on how it took Kyroll a moment to heft it onto the bed.
“What is that?” Martinez questioned, stepping beside Kyroll.
“How about I don't ruin the surprise and just show you?” Kyroll replied, inputting a combination into a built-in control screen on the case.
After a pneumatic hiss announced that the seal on this long-forgotten weapons case had been released, Kyroll tossed it open and inspected its contents. At the same time, Martinez went slack-jawed.
Inside the case were not just weapons that would cause the most war-hungry Marine he knew get a ragging hardon, but ammunition and low-profile armor to accompany them. Additionally, amidst the contents were some devices Martinez had not seen since his time in the Marines. Frag grenades, explosive charges, flashbangs, and what he could have sworn were stacks of Vreck antipersonnel drone mines.
“Why do you have all this? And why in all the universe did you think letting me and your daughter sleep on a bed of explosives was a good thing?” Martinez gawked, reaching in and checking a C-7 rifle chamber—it was loaded
The C-7 rifle and the UB-21 blaster in the box were standard-issue weapons in the GU and Human militaries. The C-7 was more common in Human hands, while the GU regulars generally preferred the lighter, handier, but slightly less lethal UB-21. That did not mean the 21 would not put you in the dirt; it was just different.
The weapon diversity in the active forces was an issue of how new Humans were to the GU and intergalactic warfare. Go figure: Generals who first joined the Human military before the GU helped humanity rise to the stars still had skepticism about the energy-based weapon. As such, the C-7 was preferred. It used caseless ammo and was close enough to traditional slug throwers that Humanity trusted the automatic weapon.
“It pays to be prepared,” Kyroll chuckled, pulling out a small grey bracelet and a pistol. “Some old habits die hard.”
“What about letting us sleep on them?” Martinez asked again, not letting Kyroll get out of answering the question.
“They can’t go off without set up; you know that,” Kyroll shrugged, tapping the pistol onto one of the bricks of plastique just to emphasize.
“Why leave these out here then? Would you not want them in the main house? You can’t use your kit if it’s out here,” Martines said, setting the C-7 back down.
“I have other cac up all around the property, this one was just set up here,” Kyroll commented.
Martinez did not miss the gravity of that explanation; their property was as sprawling as a city and would take him an entire day to traverse. If Kyroll had caches as set up as this dotted around his property, Martinez could see the man being able to outfit a small army.
Kyroll turned around and flipped the handgun around to offer Martinez the grip. “You familiar with the JKL and NanoFlax armor?”
“I’m not,” Martinez admitted, taking the pistol and being sure to follow the four weapon safety rules by pointing it away from Kyroll and keeping his finger straight and off the trigger.
Kyroll took a few minutes to teach Martinez how to use the JKL without shooting himself or inducing a malfunction. The pistol was a ten-millimeter caseless pistol with an integral suppressor. Its operations were similar to any other autoloading slug thrower pistol that Martinez was used to using. So, that period of instruction only took a few minutes.
A piece this slick almost felt wrong in Martinez’s hands. He had never seen the JKL in person but had heard that special forces and mercenaries across the galaxy coveted the weapon for its reliability and concealability.
This pistol model had cult status in the Human Marines, rivaling the now-ancient Kalashnikov pattern rifle. Despite not being produced on Earth for hundreds of years, that rifle still managed to worm its way across the stars and end up in the hands of both Humanities and the GU’s enemies and allies alike.
Following that, Kyroll showed Martinez how to use a piece of technology that he thought he would never be able to use—NanoFlex armor.
Considering this armor was usually reserved for Humanities, L.O.S.T troopers, special advisors, and deep recon, it was surprisingly simple to use. There were only two buttons on the wristband, one to activate it and one to deactivate it.
Martinez pressed the activation button, and the small wristband essentially disintegrated and crawled up his arm in a wave of dry, grey particles. Once up his arm, the wave spread out and covered his entire chest underneath his shirt and jacket, forming a thin layer of light nanocomposite. It stopped just below his jaw and at his waistline while covering his arms like a T-shirt, offering him coverage far beyond the rigid polycarbonate plates most Human troops wore.
“That’s so fucking cool,” Martinez exclaimed, peaking down his collar at the small black hexagons coating his skin. “What is it able to protect against”?
“Most threats, bullets, blasters, knives, claws, you name it. But it has limited power, so try not to get hit too much,” Kyroll said, silently chambering a round in the pistol. “You know, use hardcover and whatnot.”
“What do you mean limited?” Martinez said, looking up just in time to see the JKL recoil and launch a slug into his stomach.
Freaking out, Martinez jumped back and clutched at his gut, expecting that he would have to hold in his blood by shoving his finger in the hole and running away from Kyroll. But there was no blood, or hole; instead, he found the armor had essentially engulfed the bullet and nestled it inside the material, keeping him safe from all harm.
Before Martinez even had a chance to react to the news that he was fine, Kyroll buckled over, laughing at him. “You should see the look on your face!”
“That’s not fucking funny, man,” Martinez barked, “you could have killed me!”
His argument only made Kyroll laugh harder, causing the older man to lean against the bed for support. “It would not have.”
“How the fuck do you know that?” Martinez stood upright, almost ready to shove Kyroll because of his nonchalant attitude to shooting him.
Waving his hand at Martinez Kyroll, indicating he needed a moment before he could keep speaking.
While Kyroll composed himself, Martinez was livid. This motherfucker just shot him. Plenty of races have odd and downright dangerous training methods around the galaxy, with some including just this. But Humans were not one of them.
Humanity had long abandoned practices like that save for some zealots who settled outside the GU.
Kyroll took an entire minute to steady himself. Once he did, the old man explained that he shot Martinez to demonstrate the effectiveness of the incredibly light armor.
When Martinez asked about them having set it up on something and then shooting it as an alternative, Kyroll looked embarrassed but then shrugged and dismissed the idea. Insisting seeing that your armor worked was always better than just blind trust.
Kyroll then explained how his drill instructors did just this for demonstration for him and his fellow recruits. But unlike what he had just done for Martinez, they shot one another with progressively larger weapons—to the point it was knocking the victim flat on their ass.
Martinez was glad his training did not include anything like that. It was stupid, dangerous, and unnecessary, but it did explain a bit more about Kyroll's attitude toward violence.
“You're still a fucking asshole,” Martinez grumbled, turning off the armor, so Kyroll would not shoot him again.
Much like when it was activated, the armor slinked back down Martinez’s body and wrapped tightly around his wrist, leaving him with an odd cold feeling around his chest without it. After the armor dissolved, Martinez felt an odd rubbing around his belt; He moved his shirt to look, and the smashed slug fell to the ground.
“That’s kinda neat,” Martinez said, picking up the bullet.
“Yeah, it will hold the round and any spall in place until you shut it off,” Kyroll explained, “as for knives, it will harden and repair and cuts.”
“Why the fuck don’t they give everyone these?” Martinez looked down at the bracelet.
“It costs too much for the average troop,” Kyroll shrugged, closing the pistol into a small case. “Anyway, I'm giving you these,” he said, handing Martinez the sealed box.
“Why are you doing that?” Martinez raised a brow.
Kyroll's face took on a sudden, serious look, leaving no room for misinterpretation of his feelings about the topic. “Simple, you are keeping Lysa safe from now on–not me.” he grumbled while looking away from Martinez. “Now you will have the tools for anything that might happen.”
Martinez was about to speak and question why Kyroll thinks he needs weapons to ensure Lysa stays safe, until he recalled what Nelya, Kyroll, and himself knew about the broader galaxy that Lysa was ignorant of—namely, the dark history of the Aviex and why so many other aliens would wish her harm.
With that in mind, even Martinez had to admit that keeping a weapon on hand, or at least in his backpack, could be helpful.
“I will keep her safe, but am I able to have this—legally, I mean?” Martinez questioned.
Kyroll wrapped an arm around Martinez’s shoulder and jostled him. “I’m glad you will, and don’t worry with your experience in the military, you can own it. Just ask the police at Draun or check on the data net; both will tell you the same.”
“If you say so,” Martinez replied, holding the case close. “Thanks.”
“Now I can blame you when something goes wrong,” Kyroll chuckled, letting Martinez go and heading toward the door, “ Come on, let's get the last of the bags.”
so how was this chapter? next up is the penultimate chapter for book two where we get to have a hint at what Shiksie has done. we are going to end book two on a bit of a low point, but trust me. I want it that way to set up the attempted reconciliation in book three.
In other news if you have not checked out my new story "Escape from Heavalun" give it a shot, it is what I will be posting while I write book three for this one.
for now please do not forget to updoot, or comment. I will see you all there
your baking bud
-Pirate
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My wife (42f) is a former world-class professional cyclist, still competing at masters national events.
I (58m) was never good enough to go pro, but even as an old man, I can hang on to a wheel from the young kids for -most- of the day—-at least out of the mountains.
Married for 17 years. (I’ll do the math for you—-She was 25, I was 41.)
Neither one of us really “works”. I am retired. Money basically grows on trees, we have absolutely no financial concerns—several times over. Old family money.
Typical weekday is centered around training. We spend all of our time together. Short of pooping, we are within earshot of each other all the time.
Up by 0400-0415. I am at the gym by 0430, she’s down by 5. Breakfast after the gym. Out for a bike ride by 7a. Home around Lunchtime. Second gym workout at 2, or a second bike ride, low zone 1/2, 3-5p Dinner at 6-ish. Bike maintenance, laundry, other household stuff till bedtime at 8p.
We sleep together, mostly in underweatshirt, for both of us.
Nakedness happens all the time, for both of us.
We don’t talk a lot. Most everything is trimmed down one word sentences or questions.
“Ride?” “7:15?” “110 or 150k?” “150k. “K. Garmin batteries are dead” “K. I’ll do it”
Or, dinner plans: “Salmon?” “Lemon?” “Salt.” “Sure. Wine?” “Yes. Bordeaux?” “Thanks”
That level of communication is good for both of us, and I think it stems from the amount of time we spend riding—where full on sentences just are a waste of time. We used to talk a lot more, but as time has gone on, we don’t need to. We gesture—-a lot(!!) instead.
We, together, are happy. We are chill. Very. Very relaxed all the time.
We have sex once every couple of months. “Once every season change!” is our joke. Mostly one of us will get horny in the middle of the night and make movements toward “groping” and we end up having sex.
No ED issues for me. Morning wood a lot still.
She’ll sometimes masturbate in the middle of the night, but typically falls asleep midway. I will rub one out in the mornings sometimes. Once a month, maybe?
Recently we expressed some disbelief with one of our mutual friend couples our age—-or at least close to “our” age—-that they had sex once a week. “Who has time for that?”, my wife said. “Who has time for the extra laundry and showers?” I said. When we do it, we say that we should do it more often, but that only sometimes happens. The couple we were talking to was absolutely incredulous that we don’t do it more often.
Look, I get that our life isn’t normal. Very much so, it’s abnormal, but we are happy with our lives. We are happy with each other. We absolutely prioritize health and fitness over entertainment. We don’t own a TV, anywhere, in any house we own. I could not tell you any sort of pop culture reference.
We are very happy with each other and our lives. Attracted to each other, but we just don’t take the time to have sex or prescribe/schedule it. I suspect we have such a high level of emotional intimacy every day, all day, that the sex isn’t a priority.

Remembering the movie Twister some 28 years after seeing it twice in the theater – not for the story but the vicarious experience of watching cinematic tornadoes rearrange the built environment.
These days, so many close-encounter videos of tornadoes-in-the-wild populate the internet that Twister-the-movie comes off as tame, timid even.
The tornadoes that ravaged Iowa yesterday – twenty were detected – favored windmills. All those windfarms that turn a tidy profit from spring storms like yesterday’s were suddenly running for their lives, as a tornado lifted a windmill off the ground, broke it in half across its knee, propeller blades shooting off in all directions.
I don’t really doubt the functionality of obsessive capital accumulation, but how do we rebuild windfarms and repopulate towns after destructive tornadoes pass through unless we let capital flow freely through the fields?
What if we do that before emergencies strike? Before the familiar hook appears on the Doppler weather radar?
In Greenfield, Iowa, yesterday, an EF3 tornado exploded all structures in its path from one end of that town of 2000 to the other – a town divided,
at least among those whose property survived, sides delimited by de-barked trees stripped of their branches. Even after the debris is cleared away, and a certain number of structures are rebuilt –
even if all the structures are rebuilt – the city will have a scar for the rest of its life, stories to tell to go along with it. That was yesterday,
and I picture first-responders passing the torch to second responders who start coordinating efforts to clean up and repair – how all that critical activity starts with a sensible and agreed-upon order that radiates
through governmental agencies, the banking sector, private contractors. The Greenfield people and those in surrounding counties will look out for each other more than usual for the rest of the year – this by virtue of having been visited by a spontaneous, uncompromising authority from above.
To Twister’s credit, the film attempts to address the tragic nature of life and death, how it torments, then challenges, which is when we become ever wiser or die fools.
We expect way too much from a spring popcorn flick if we expect Twister to provide a credible response to such a conceit, so instead it opts for reunification of the self – this, it proposes, is the likely outcome
of going all the way through an awareness of the hyperreal, depicted in the film by once-lovers turned upside down, side by side, staring at the untroubled blue sky.
This is what weather researchers believe exists inside a tornado, like the eye of a hurricane – hanging upside down in the eye of a cyclone,
not to be confused with cyclopes – or maybe do. Confuse the two! Lovers reunified in the upside down eye of a cyclopes, which inverted posture raises us above the sky, assigns us the existential task of comprehending the hyperreal by inverting parts of it, being thus inverted.
In the scene that immediately follows, the male lead and the female lead lay side by side, and he gropes her breasts. I don’t so much mean the one character gropes the other –
I mean, the one actor runs his hand across the breasts of his costar. They must have thought that was a funny take, those folks in the editing bay, when they cut the film,
but then they take it a step farther, announce their existential relief by pointing to a house left standing, a surviving family climbing out of a root cellar.
A different cut of the ending might have had the female lead go ungroped, and the two of them motion to the farmstead still there, say glumly: modernity – it remains with us –
get up, start assessing the damage. Whichever ending the film leaves us with, the message it delivers to itself arrives earlier, when the putative villains – rival storm chasers with a corporate sponsor –
are impaled by a transmission tower that shoots through the windshield of their SUV rolling down the road, which vehicle is then sucked up by the tornado, like the funnel has skewered them with a toothpick, then raises them to its lips before spitting them out in disgust, and they whistle to the ground, explode on impact, like something lifted from Star Wars.
Can that be accurate? What the fates think of corporate sponsorship? I take it to be a comment about rivalry generally, how films seem to require it, plus epic explosions, in order to be publically transmissible.
Poor Cary Elwes – gallant rogue to the princess bride turned sneering rival with a transmission tower thrust through his windshield. If the film is haunted by a tormented father –
I picture a studio executive who’s wondering where the money is going to come from for these splashy FX –
then it is debased a little later in the film by a big barrel of corporate sponsorship in the form of soft drink logos, which are thrust in front of us, fetishized, the whole cast giddy about handling the logos.
They didn’t really need the earlier dialogue about corporate sponsorship – they could have said of poor Cary Elwes – his parents are rich or he has family in the business or his wealth comes from drug dealing – whatever – but instead, the script forces us to self-hate by sneering at the thing the film is – nakedly corporately sponsored –
while also sneering at the audience for the deals the film had to strike to finance those magnificent digital tornadoes we all remember. You forced us to, the film contends, blaming us for watching it.
Follow the thread through yet another knot – collecting data is what drives the plot and which collected data signals triumph. Data to do what? Model tornadoes, which digital models fill the frames of Twister already.
It seeks what it already has – that’s the message. The plot flaunts its willingness to deceive as often as it desires to please. This gives us license to read more into the film than the film knows about itself,
such that the tormented father – poor Cary Elwes – seems to be adjacent to domestic violence, possibly sexual abuse, such that scenes of shrieking and running for one’s life are juxtaposed with scenes of mild domesticity and scripted chatter.
Then the tormented father plus family take a job as caretakers of a winter lodge, slowly go mad, before a tornado disintegrates them on a drive-in movie theater screen.
Then the tormented father, drunk again, chucks the bottle at the tornado, heads off to take a nap on the couch, and low and behold, the bottle never hits the ground.
Then the tormented father gropes his daughter’s breasts in celebration, feels blessed when the tornado leaves the household intact, the family unharmed.
Twister is filled with difficult narrative details like this, like the narrative is trying to stun us with its visuals while slipping strange messages into the back of our minds.
Biblical – I guess that’s what you’d call the aesthetic. Oh tormented father, why did you create such suffering in Greenfield?
A storm-chaser video shows the Greenfield tornado disintegrating a farmstead, tearing apart windmills. It is an extraordinary sight, the sort of image that suggests designs so much larger than we are.
A helical suction vortex, it’s called, and it has the shape of some special drill bit designed to cut through stone – that’s the thing that passed through the town of Greenfield. Locals say four people died.
A couple is interviewed. She describes running with her baby to a friend’s house that had a basement, covering up, praying for the first time in her life, but before she could utter the words dear lord, a staircase fell on top of her. She shielded her baby.
The husband is interviewed in the middle of a debris field that was his life’s possessions the day before. He says: This is everything I’ve ever had . . . years. But at the end of the day, as long as they’re okay, it’s garbage.
He is speaking from the perspective of the freed. Yes, he is devastated by what he lost, the fear of what more he could lose, but he is also freed. He can see that they were living in a debris field before the tornado arrived.
They will raise their daughter differently than if they hadn’t been hit by a tornado. They will teach her to resist the compulsive accumulation of capital, of possessions. She will become a nomad. She will walk around the country, discussing the nature of the good life, bringing about justice where she can.
The EF3 tornado that struck Greenfield would have been rotating at least 136mph, which is the threshold speed of an EF3. Tornadoes are rated by the damage they cause, which indicates wind speed.
Compare this to the EF5 that hit Joplin, Missouri, on this very day in 2011. Its rotational speed was estimated to be greater than 200mph, which is enough to devastate most everything in its path, except those structures designed to survive bomb blasts.
An EF5 tornado is an end-of-the-world sort of weather event – the built environment simply cannot account for the possibility of such stresses, and so urban landscapes and planned communities except their fate – if an EF5 appears, run for your lives.
The Joplin tornado appeared 17 minutes after a warning was issued, entered the city two minutes later, and grew to a mile in diameter.
The tornado was on the ground in Joplin for some portion of its total lifespan of 40 minutes, and in that time, damaged 8000 buildings, 4000 of which were destroyed, and killed 158 people, injuring more than a thousand others.
The Joplin tornado tossed heavy equipment hundreds of yards from job sites, lifted parking barricades out by the roots, scraped asphalt off the roads. Steel-framed buildings were twisted on their foundations, and brick and metal warehouses were wiped clean.
Those who survived describe it less like a tornado than a dark furious wall – that’s what they were seeking shelter from.
The most compelling portrait of this witness comes from Pizza Hut employee, Dan Fluhart, who recounts how his manager, Christopher Lucas, hustled the employees and the customers into the walk-in freezer for protection.
I’ve watched the interview again and again, first trying to imagine Dan’s state of mind mere days after his brush with death, then trying to imagine Christopher’s state of mind, with the tornado sirens going off, a bunch of people around him, inside a window-rich structure bolted to a slab.
Dan says that Christopher hustled everyone into the walk-in freezer, and they waited there in the dark who knows how long before people began to be ripped out of it by the tornado.
Christopher wrapped a cord around the inside handle of the door, then wrapped the other end around his arm and leaned way back, using his weight to try keep the door shut between the inside and certain death.
Tornadoes sound like freight trains when they get close, so imagine the loudest freight train of them all, a mile wide, traveling at more than 200mph. That was what they were trying to keep out of that walk-in freezer.
Then the Joplin EF5 tornado took that door off its hinges, taking Pizza Hut Manager Christopher Lucas with it, still holding onto the cord.
Dan says he tried to hang on to Christopher, but he slipped away. The rest of the structure came apart around them, but Dan and others somehow survived.
We can prevaricate about whether Christopher’s sacrifice technically saved lives, though I’m willing to bestow hero status the moment he wrapped that cord around his arm. In the face of extraordinary danger, he died heroically.
When we try to redeem the suffering of the Joplin tornado, tornadoes of all kinds, I picture a park statue of Christopher in exactly that pose – the freezer door, the cord, his arm – his body dramatically posed to play tug-of-war with an EF5 tornado.
The Pizza Hut visor and uniform would be there, too – all part of the motif of the service class rushed to the front of the line when the time comes to square off against forces of nature, to hold their post against acts of god.
Would park goers want to be reminded of that sort of thing? Should heroic statues lift up the world that is or inspire worlds to come? These would be the sorts of questions the statue would inspire.
Sure, pigeons would perch on Christopher, just as they do the statues of warriors on horseback and noble leaders gazing into the future. But that Pizza Hut manager who offered himself to the tornado before the others – maybe he would have found that funny.
Afterward: This metaphysical weather report was not compensated by Pizza Hut Inc. The last time I ate Pizza Hut pizza, I was desperate, and I thought it tasted predigested. I can easily imagine Pizza Hut pizza being more like a thick liquid than a circular solid, like you could extrude another slice from the sorts of machines that serve fake ice cream, but it would be hot. Hot extruded pizza in a waffle cone – my impression of the brand.

Around 5 or 6 years ago when I was in my mid-twenties, I worked at a ropes course and zip line attraction. The attraction was about 60ft tall with ropes and obstacles and the top had a zip line that went 700ft across a river to another tower and then back. I am going to be a little vague about some things as to not give the place away, but Boomers were some of the most entitled, rude, and stupid people at that job.
My coworkers and I were all trained to harness people up, hook them to the course, operate or rescue anyone on the course, work the zip line, and de-harness anyone, we could do it all. Boomers usually fell into 3 categories of bad guest, Rude/Racist, Groping, or Stupid. I will give examples of each.
The rude/racist boomers constantly insulted workers appearances or talked about how lazy we were while we they sat in the shade under misters. Now, I'm a bigger guy, I was athletic enough to climb 6 flights of stairs with gear, but still a fat guy. Boomers would constantly go out of their way to talk about my weight or openly make fun of me while they were huffing and puffing up the stairs with comments like "If he can do it, we can" or "Tough for fatties, huh?" I had a female coworker who had shorter hair. While she was hooking people into the zip line, and I cannot stress this enough even when their lives were literally in her hands, they would say "I hate your hair" or "You know you look like a dirty lesbian with that hair" or "A lady should have nicer hair". Another coworker, who was a friend of mine, would constantly get racial remarks sent his way just because he was a black man with a short Afro.
The groping. My lord the groping. Boomers could physically not keep their hands to themselves. I have countless stories of female employees (often teenagers) reporting being leered at and grabbed by boomers. Several times older women groped me. One time I was on a foam block connecting an older boomer woman to the zip line, it was just the two of us on that section of the tower, and I felt someone grab a whole handful of my flat ass. For a second, I had to think and knew that I didn't grab my own ass and when I turned around them woman acted like she didn't do anything. When taking off harness they would constantly make sex jokes, again to our mostly teenage employees, with "Usually you need to take me to the bedroom" being the most common. My friend with the Afro was even harassed by a couple who wanted him to film them with the harnesses on, in a not approved ropes course certified way.
Lastly, stupidity and this one I could spend days writing about. I can't express how many times we would be standing under the 60-foot-tall rope tower with attached zip line and boomers would walk up and say "Is this the ropes course?" The worst was when the weather was bad, and they couldn't figure out why a 60ft metal tower would be closed when there was lightning within 5 miles or why the zip line would be closed when there were 30+ mph winds.
I spent 3 years there and between the wild mismanagement, horrible pay, back breaking labor, and the clients being some of the rudest and most entitled people I've ever met I don't miss it.