I graduated from college in 2020 and about two years after graduating I asked a close friend from collage if they wanted to move in together because my previous roommate was moving out. I am the primary leaseholder so I didn’t ask or expect my friend to sign anything to agree to move in. We had never lived together and I thought it would be a fun experience. However since she moved in with me in late 2022, she was barely at our place choosing instead to mostly stay at her parents house. Her long term boyfriend and her job were a lot closer to my apartment hence why I thought she would have wanted to move in. Each time she would come back to the apartment for a few days she would say how she missed it and she’d be back soon but couldn’t be there for one reason or another which most of the time she didn’t specify and I didn’t want to pry if she wasn’t volunteering the information. A few months ago, after being away from the apartment for several months, she texted me saying she didn’t think it made sense for her to stay there anymore and that she would be moving out at the end of the following month. To be clear I am not upset at her for wanting to move out, I’m upset that she was never really around for nearly two years of ‘living together’. I also live in a high cost of living city and due to some circumstances, my finances have been tight for me so i was sort of blindsided by this and didn’t really have time to figure out if I should get a new roommate/if I even could since my fiance was planning to move in with me in August (which my friend knew and the original plan was for her to move out at that point). Her deciding to move so abruptly came as a somewhat shock to me because she would always tell me how sorry she was that she wasn’t around and how she missed me and would be back soon. Her actions and her words didn’t really align and I guess I was confused at what she really wanted while at the same time I felt really guilty that a he was paying a portion of the rent without actually using the space.
She messaged me recently and apologized for how she had acted for the past two years and I guess I don’t know how to respond to her. She would tell me one thing but her actions wouldn’t align and then she put me in a difficult position financially by moving out so abruptly. Am I justified in being upset and how do I respond to her messages?

I missed my chance to break up with you. I missed my chance to find the love I deserve. I found out too late and I was in a tight spot with nowhere to go. The kids…they seem to be the only reason why this should go on.
I still can’t move on. I still hold on to those cheating receipts. It wasn’t a one time thing…there were emotional and physical affairs.
You fell in love with her and you couldn’t even tell it straight to my face. I had to find out during my most vulnerable moment. Years later she called again and you were quick to answer your phone. A few more years still and seems like you were looking for her in another woman. This time it has gone unreciprocated. But your intentions seem clear—-you are looking for something else. Something we don’t have anymore.
You accuse me of things I’ve never done. Must have felt good to your ego. You tell me things that I want to hear but I can’t believe them anymore. These feel like a routine and like all routines, everything feels stale.
I can’t feel anything else beyond the word trapped. I can’t finish this letter for now. I have woken up around 3AM too many times more than I can count. I hope that writing this for now puts me back to sleep.

Kirk Kees assisted in opening up the PGA West DLGA ( David Leadbetter Golf Academy) teaching facility in La Quinta, CA. Trained to teach and use the very first Computer Coach program to perform analysis on students as well as developing a trained eye required to teach. Teacher at the DLGA Bradenton, FL a location under the training and guidance of Gary Gilchrist who also teaches many of the game’s best professionals and helped Yani Tseng ascend to No. 1 in the world. Gilchrist also coaches China’s first fully exempt LPGA Tour player Shanshan Feng, who when combined with Tseng, have won a combined 6 majors since 2010 under Gilchrist’s guidance — Tseng (4) and Feng (2). While Kirk was a Head Instructor in Santa Barbara, CA, instructing at the DLGA Junior Camp at UCSB for 4months and also escaping La Quinta’s summer heat to teach at a DLGA golf school location in Chicago, IL. Kirk also has taught at numerous corporate outings at Pebble Beach in Carmel, CA for investment firm Smith Barney teaching there t Fortune 500 customers and CEO’s of companies like Viacom. Learning his teaching skills, as well as speaking and presentation ability from the likes of Adam Schriber, Mike Wilson, Chris Walkey and Mitchell Spearman as well as Robert Baker. Kirk is a Golf Teaching Professional specializing in giving instructional presentations related to golf instruction. Great public speaking skills in front of large groups as well as teaching and bringing a golf academy format to corporations. Highly trained to teach Tour Professionals to absolute beginners, golf junior developmental programs as well as golf camps. Kirk, who at the age of 19 decided to turn pro and moved out to LaQuinta California where he developed a trained eye using golf swing anaylization software. Kirk decided to go home to Jackson, Mississippi because of IMG and the payroll of the Instructors and was offered a PGA Apprentice job to work for and under a PGA Professional named to Ken Lindsay. Kirk was a PGA Apprentice under Ken Lindsay as he served as the 30th President of The PGA of America from 1997-98. Ken is a PGA Master Professional who spent 31 years as general manager and director of golf at Colonial Country Club in Jackson and is one of the most respected rules officials in golf. He also went on to lead more than 100 PGA Business Schools and 35 USGA/PGA Rules of Golf seminars. Lindsay served as captain of two victorious PGA of America-sanctioned teams – the 2000 U.S. PGA Cup Team at the Celtic Manor in Newport, Wales, and the record-setting 2008 American Junior Ryder Cup Team that routed Europe, 22-2. Lindsay became certified in Rules that year and went on to work 31 PGA Championships, 32 Senior PGA Championships, 12 Ryder Cups, 12 Masters, 12 U.S. Open Championships and 10 Open Championships. Kirk went on taking and passing the Players Ability Test (PAT) the allowed him into the PGA program. Kirk trained and took lessons under Hank Haney in Dallas and then Senior Instructor Peter Murphy. Who has been China’s Coach of the Year. Kirk is currently teaching at an indoor golf facility in Jackson Mississippi Kirk is also currently taking a online course to better understand the biomechanics of the body and how it relates to the best players in the world both past and present. He teaches very few lessons now only relying on word of mouth and is kept and regarded as golfs #1 underground secret teachers in the World if there was one.

CANCER ZODIAC TAROT READING - UNEXPECTED INCOME MAY 2024

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJ5mIkLhCyY
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Hi! I’m a hairstylist of about 13+ years now. I started out hired in by my stylist in her salon as an assistant and worked my way up. From there I started my own business and have been renting a suite. I am about to move to a new city/state and would like to get back into a commission salon. How does one go about applying? Cold calls/emails? Walking in with a resume? Help! I’ve been out of the seeking employment game for a while!

Here is my break up story.
He(29) and I(F25) have been together for almost three years. We had some differences, that’s for sure. He had a brain injury that had an impact on his speech, and motor skills. Sometimes he couldn’t feed himself without flinging it everywhere, so I would happily help. He couldn’t walk correctly without it eventually leading to falling down. I would be his human crutch, he would stand behind me with his hands on my shoulders and the weight of our bodies would work together to keep him upright. It was much easier for me to put his socks on him, than for him to do it some days. So I would do that, and so on. I never minded, not one bit. It never even crossed my mind as the slightest bit of inconvenience. I loved him, and still do - and that love was untouchable. Could not be matched. That’s not to say he won’t find someone who loves him as much as I do, but I know that my love for him was unconditional, and endless. It was strong, and overpowered anything else. We both had insecurities, often he’d ask me who was messaging me when it really was just a game notification, or ten. I played a lot of phone games; bingo, solitaire, slots, word games, whatever. They’d coincidentally all notify me at the same time, typically on the hour, every few hours. I’d do the same, ask “who are you texting?”. Funny, neither of us had a reason to worry about it… to this day, we don’t.
We also had great similarities, we worked together, in my eyes. We would laugh about the dumbest things. We knew exactly how to comfort each other. The little sweet things all added up and made for what I thought was a perfect little peaceful home. Our views on social issues, or moral standards aligned well. Of course, we had some disagreements too, but no two people in this world are 100% eye to eye.
April 6th this year, last month, I boarded my first ever plane, at the age of 25 with him. We were flying to Florida to stay with his mom and her long-term boyfriend at a new home she had just purchased, a seasonal home. This trip was really fun. I loved the time I got to spend with him, and his mom and her partner. On the last full day we were there we had gone to a beach, and as cheesy as it sounds - he picked up a pretty dull looking seashell that was in front of him. He asked me to add it to the bag of unique looking shells I had walked around gathering. I asked him why… It looked so ordinary. He told me for some reason that’s the first thing he spotted when he realized he wants to marry me someday. This made me happy, it made me feel even more secure than I already did.
Fast forward to when we arrive home, the following day. We relaxed over the weekend and then returned to our Monday through Friday jobs. I worked 9-5, and then three nights of the week would have night class from 6-10. He worked 3-11, and so he’d get home just a tad bit later than me. I almost always stayed up to see him, we’d say hi, cuddle, and go to bed. Each weekend we had with each other we would spend time doing whatever, but together. Come the beginning of May, it was a Monday. I went into school 30 minutes early as requested to speak with the director of education. They terminated my enrollment due to an incident that occurred between me and 5 other classmates. An argument, one that should not have happened. I had remorse for this. He had told me the night the argument happened, while I was upset, that he won’t be mad if I get terminated, he thought my reaction to the situation and how I handled it was valid. As long as I stuck through and didn’t drop out over it then he wouldn’t be mad. I agreed, no dropping out. Thursday I got a text message from him. He told me that I have 8 days to move out. That our relationship has been such a big part of his life for so long, he needed to be on his own, be with his friends - essentially that he needed to find himself. In this message he always advised this was nothing I did, that he will cherish all the memories he has that we made together. He also said that he doesn’t want me reaching out unless it was to discuss the division of our belongings, and that doing this face to face would not be healthy or productive, it will just make it harder.
So… Hold on. A month ago, you told me you love me so much, and one day you’re sure you’re going to marry me. I could hear the honesty and vulnerability in your voice, I could see it in your face. Now, all of the sudden, even though you called me babe just this morning, and asked me to pick stuff up from the store for you on my way home… a couple hours later, out of nowhere, you’re just…done? This doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense. I am destroyed. I love you more than anything and would have - did, do anything I possibly could for you, but you think life without me will be better? That fucking hurt, no actually - I swear it killed a part of me. I’m not angry. I am so god damn fucking sad. I am lost. I am anxious. I am scared. I am alone. I feel abandoned. I am uncomfortable. I see no future anymore, the rug was ripped from under me and I was left alone, to get my stuff out as soon as possible while trying to nurse a torn apart, stomped on, broken heart… and what is worse for me, is you’re worth it. People keep telling me to “try to think of the reasons why this is a good thing” but I can't, to me there is absolutely not one good thing about this for me. I can’t stop thinking “is he going to realize this wasn’t the right choice?” “Does he care at all about me?” “How can he not care not one little teenie tiny speck about me, all of the sudden?” “Is he hurting right now and his coping mechanism is to shut me out, 100%, completely?” “Will I ever even hear from him again?” “Is he ok?” “Does he miss me?” “Does he hate me, for essentially… no reason?” “Am I doing the right thing by abiding by his request not to reach out to him?” “Maybe he is waiting for me to reach out to him… but he told me not too.”
I am so lost. I miss you so much. I want you to realize the same. I want you to text me and say, “I don’t know what I was thinking, I miss you, can I see you?”
But all I’ve gotten is radio silence… I’m not religious, I wish I was - in a time like this I feel that faith is the only thing that could make someone feel accepting of the situation… but I still pray to God, or whatever higher power there is that he changes his mind.
I need help, but no one can give it to me. I am helpless.
This happened last Thursday, last text he sent was Saturday night, to confirm I have until this upcoming saturday to move out. Last text I sent was monday, I asked him what he would like me to do with his laundry (due to his disability we had a system for his clothes), but got no response... I haven't texted since.

(Cross-posted from the smaller DE legal advice sub)
In short:

• I am an international grad student in Erfurt from the US
  
• When I first moved to Germany in 2022, I lived in a subleased flat. After I moved in, the guy I was renting from told me I had to pay him in cash for rent and that I could not have my name on the mailbox, but I could do the anmeldung (this is different from what we discussed beforehand). I also learned that the contract he gave me was not real and that his landlord had no idea he was subleasing the apartment. Other tenants would see me and ask if I even lived there and the hausmeister had no idea he was not living in the apartment either.
  
• I moved out in the summer of 2023 once I had found something different because I was tired of him with the cash, wanting to come into the apartment and nitpick things like the condition of his plants, raising rent by 100 EUR without showing me bills, etc.
  
• I always paid on time and was cordial, but I was firm when I said I was moving out. I gave him almost 4 months notice and he made sure to let me know how it was so much stress on him, how he can't find another tenant, etc. I was on vacation for a month and he texted me multiple times then asking if I was still leaving. He bothered me about this a lot, and I eventually had to lie about why I was leaving to be extremely firm and get through to the point that I would not be living there any longer. Otherwise, he would try to argue with me about why I should stay longer. I would have left much sooner but a family member died of cancer quite suddenly and I just couldn't deal with both things at once.
  
• He has been harassing me for nearly 500 EUR for cleaning since then. When I moved out, he had someone else move in literally as soon as I walked out the door and did not tell me someone else was moving in so soon. If I knew this, I would have spent more time on cleaning, but this situation made me rush. I think he informed me maybe 1-2 days beforehand, and he was aware that I had the flu that week and was not 100%. Although I cleaned up food, cleaned the floors and everything, etc. the money he is asking for is for normal wear and tear. He has not shown me any sort of cleaning bill.
  
• He has been texting me and calling me asking for this money. I have blocked his number and he still texts me. I have not engaged with him since I moved because his contract was fake and the sublease was not legal, and I am aware if the landlord was not aware of the sublease then he does not have the same protections.
  
• Today he texted and emailed me saying that if I don't send him the money by the end of the month that he will go to the police and file a complaint against me.
  

What are my rights here? Will his complaint actually mean anything since he did not have the legal right (i.e. with the knowledge of his landlord) to sublease the apartment? The last I saw him he knew I was going to the US for an internship and he doesn't actually know if I am even in Germany or not. Will it be beneficial for me to approach the police first? Explaining how I left once I learned the contract was made up and the landlord did not approve of the lease, how he does not leave me alone, etc.
The law is clear when it comes to the landlord having no knowledge of the sublease, I'm not sure why he confidently acts as if he is renting the place out legally (even using the word "tenant"). I believe he is still trying to rent the apartment out, would it be beneficial for me to approach the rental company anonymously? I don't like how he is trying to be slick. I also am starting to not feel safe here. I have not seen him around but the texts and emails are making me feel unsafe.
Danke :)

Part 1
Chicago, 2016. Flinn Gerald is doing his best to make it in the city. Born in Selma, Alabama, he has spent his entire life trying to escape the ever tightening grasp of his small town. But alas, he made it out and is adapting to life in the big city. With a big fancy corporate job, an endless supply of friends, an apartment with a stunning view of the lake, and great distance from his family, what more could he need? Well, there is a lot more (or less) that he needs, but of course that is a story for later.
On a typical Tuesday night at a bar, the regulars crowd in. Flinn is late, as usual, as he stayed late at work (again), but on his arrival, the cheers and hugs from all the friends make everyone forget of the regular inconvenience. Conversation ensued, starting with all the boring finance jargon, but as the drinks flowed, so did the conversation, moving away from work and more into life. This is what everyone preferred.
“Another round, anyone?” asked Raheem, enthusiastically. After a murmur of concurrence, he stood up to make his way up to the bar. “Flinn, care to lend a hand?”
Raheem Bartlett was Flinn’s college roommate and the first person he met outside of his hometown. The pair hit it off instantly despite having wildly different backgrounds. Even in their freshman year, the engineer and the finance major would get into all sorts of trouble together, but eventually they leveled out. Six years later, they still have each other’s backs just like day one.
The pair made their way up to the bar and waited to get the bartender's attention. “What's up with you, bro?” asked Raheem. “You’ve been seeming a bit off.”
“Oh, ya know. Work, life, everything kinda happens so fast. Work has been busy as of late, and the hours long.”
Seeming displeased by this answer, Raheem stared back in concern.
“Really, I’m fine… just long hours.”
“Back in school you’d pull back to back all-nighters and then still make it to a morning class. I find it hard to believe that the mighty Flinn would be so setback by ‘long hours’.”
Flinn took a moment to ponder, staring down at the bar covered in various stamps and postcards beneath the epoxy surface. “I guess, ya know, it's not all it was cracked up to be. I guess I had expected more.” Flinn had mostly dropped his accent, but occasionally it would still slip out.
Despite coming from a long line of mill workers (mostly paper) and farm hands who never ventured further than the Dallas county line, Flinn yearned to leave his small town and conquer the world from a young age. Coming from the poorest county in Alabama, his family always squashed his dreams, labeling them as impossible. But Flinn knew better. Or, at least he knew he could do better. Graduating top of his class a year early and winning a full-ride scholarship to Northwestern University, he had proved everyone wrong and set his own path. The path he was told was impossible became his reality.
“More what?”
“Nothing, really. I mean, what more is there? This is what I always wanted, right? The stable job in the city, never having to worry about money. It’s great, and I couldn’t be more grateful, but… something is missing. Doing the same thing day after day staring at a screen, moving clients money around. I… just hoped it would be more fulfilling, especially after all it took to get here.”
Before he could finish his thought, the bartender came up to take their order: another round for the table, plus a round of shots, plus two more shots.
“What am I saying, really?” added Flinn. “I shouldn’t be complaining. Look at where I am now compared to six years ago. So much has changed. My home, friends, even my diet. I just feel a bit off. Like I need something more to do..
“I get it, bro. Adjusting to your new life can be rough. Enjoy it for a minute or two.” Raheem slides a shot in front of Flinn. “Here, take this.”
Tuesday had become fairly consistent to this point for this group of misfits: Raheem and his girlfriend Amy; Jack; Jasper, from Flinn’s firm, and his wife Max; and of course, Flinn. For nearly two years, these six have been meeting at O’Malley’s every Tuesday night for drinks and trivia. Some nights are more wild than others, but Tuesday has become the staple of the week among them.
Drinks flowed pretty regularly and heavy over the next few hours as the clock approached the end of day. Still going round for round on alternating tabs, the useless debates began to heat up.
“You can’t seriously think Wicker Park is the best neighborhood outside the Loop. Y’all need to get out more,” said Flinn.
“Bro it’s obviously Wicker Park,” argued Raheem.” Right on the blue line, getting to O’Hare is insanely easy, plus you can’t find better music in the city. Besides, Wicker Park has Davenport’s.”
“No one ever says Wicker Park,” adds Jack. “Have you ever heard someone say Wicker Park before?”
“Dude, but you can obviously get to O’Hare from anywhere in the city,” said Flinn
“Sure, but beats walking through that dumb Block 37 Center transfer like you and your red line. No transfer is the way to go, plus the blue line gets you right to the center of the loop.”
“So does every other L line as long as ya don’t mind walking a few blocks!”
“You’re both wrong,” adds Max. “Neither matters because Midway is better anyways.”
“Woah!” the whole table murmurs, sharing shocked looks as if she just confessed to a crime. Flinn rolled his eyes at this notion.
“Who flies out of Midway?” asks Raheem.
“What? Less people, cheaper flights, and more space. Why wouldn’t I fly out of Midway?” said Max.
“Wait, wait, that aside,” interrupts Raheem, “can we go back to the fact that Jasper thinks Sheffield is the best neighborhood? I feel like we moved past that too quickly.”
The debate rages on for many more minutes, until Flinn, seemingly out of nowhere, had enough.
“Can y’all just shut the fuck up! Why does it even matter?” Everyone’s glance quickly shot over to Flinn as a deafening silence overtook the table. Everyone pondered how to respond, and couldn’t seem to find an answer. This behavior from Flinn was unexpected, nay, unheard of. Flinn was the most level headed amongst them by far. Not even Raheem, his best friend of six years, had ever seen him get angry, let alone over an inconsequential friendly argument. “I…” Not even Flinn knew what to say next. “I’m going to go home. Long day tomorrow.” Already on his feet, he quickly walked away from the table and out the door.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The walk home was fairly brisk, but Flinn had grown fond of the cold. He tucked his hands into his coat pocket and hunched his shoulders forward, only looking down at the pavement ignoring the mostly asleep but still wide awake city surrounding him. His thoughts ran wild and near out of control. Of course, his intoxication did not help with clarity, but the inner dialogue was deafening. Not even he knew what was bothering him, but he was obviously bothered, deeply. He made a fool of himself in a way he never had before, and right now he felt he did not recognize himself. Surely some sleep will help, right?
He slowly made his way down the steps to the platform, carefully watching each step as to not fall, to wait for his train. He posted up against a pillar and stared off onto the dark, empty tracks. What has gotten into me? He did his best to calm his racing, wasted mind searching for some legibility amongst his thoughts.
Once he finally got home, he slumped down on the couch and scarfed down some week-old sushi he found in the fridge. He turned on some old documentary and was asleep before he knew it.
Suddenly, he was woken up by his phone ringing. It usually does not ring this time of night and was less than thrilled to be woken, so he let it keep ringing. It stopped after a couple of seconds, and he glanced down at the screen:
Mama
(2) missed calls
Dad
(1) missed call
Now concerned, he calls his mom back in a hurry. “Hello?”
“Flinn? Your grandfather, he’s dead.”
Part 2
The wet air engulfed Flinn’s face as he stepped out the airport doors into a warm February day. Six years had passed since he smelled the Alabama air. Even after all this time, it still smells just as he had remembered as if not even a day had passed. The drive to Selma was another ninety minutes, and despite having five days to mentally prepare himself for his arrival, it was not nearly enough time. He had not seen or spoken to anyone from his town, not even family, since he left early that August morning all those years ago. He left everything behind to start his new life. The life so many told him to not start, that he needed to stay. He left anyway and never looked back.
That was, until now. He had little choice in this regard. He knew he would have to make his return someday, but he knew not when nor for what. But today was that day. Flinn and his grandfather (Pops) had always been close. If anyone had been supportive of him, it’d have been Pops, but he was a man of little words. Even when he could talk, he hardly chose to. He was a great listener, and not just because he could not speak. He showed he was engaged and listening no matter what Flinn had to say. At times, he felt Pops was the only one who understood him as if he had been just like him before, but no one would ever talk about his past. All Flinn knew is Pops lost his tongue after a failed lynching.
The familiarity of the scenery zipping past was bittersweet. He had not realized how much he missed the rolling hills and thick forests beneath the unforgiving southern sky. He kept his head pressed against the cool glass of the car window even through the constant bumps in the road. He couldn’t look away. So many memories happened here, and the closer he got, the more plentiful the memories became, and the more potent they were, and the more painful they’d become.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As the dust settled behind him, he stood on the driveway staring at his childhood home still unsure how to process his emotions. It was all so overwhelming. He was thinking everything at once. He took a deep breath, rolled back his shoulders, and swallowed. He reached for the door handle, hesitating slightly, and took a step in. One foot, and then the next.
“Martin!” Flinn smiled as his old friend and childhood dog rushed towards him without hesitation. He knelt down and embraced him as Martin excitedly rustled through his arms seemingly showing more energy than he had in years.
He walked down the hall and around the corner into the living room. There, both drawn to the large television like moths to a flame, he saw his parents sitting beside one another on the couch watching some daytime program with their backs to him. They seemed to pay no notice to the commotion at the front door nor the loud creaking footsteps he took along the old wooden floors. They knew he was there; they just chose to ignore him. He walked into view to greet them. "Mama, dad." His father smiled slightly but caught himself and refrained.
Mama kept a straight face, but seemed to be fighting tears."Howard, help Flinn with his bags, dear."
“No, it's alright, I know where to take them,” said Flinn. “How are y’all?”
“Service is tomorrow at eleven down at the ole First Baptist Church. Make sure to wear something nice.”
“Alright, mama. I’ll... I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Whole family is coming tonight. Dinner is served at...”
“At seven, I got it, just as always.”
“It’s good to see you, kid.” said his dad. “Let me know if you need anything”
He did not expect things to go like that, not that he knew what to expect. He had hoped time would have been more forgiving. Perhaps leaving unannounced in the middle of the night was not the best plan, but at the time he felt as if he had no other choice. Everyone knew he was leaving. That was no secret and had not been for years before any plan had actually been set into motion. No one knew the date or time, except for Pops, of course, but he’d never tell. Of course he wanted everyone to know. He wanted everyone to be proud of him, but it was too big of a risk and commendations were too much to expect. Besides, Mama always had her schemes, and had she known, she would have found a way to stop him.
Not much had changed since he’d been here last. The old wood paneling still lined nearly all the walls, crack in some spots, replaced in others, but all coated by decades of cigarette soot. On the walls were a combination of family portraits from over the years and cheap artwork found at the flea market. Old green furniture, too many house plants to count, and a tacky themed kitchen, it was all still the same.
His childhood bedroom, however, was much different. Hardly even recognizable, what was once his bedroom was now a storage room filled with endless shelves and boxes. He set his things on the lonely cot in the corner, sat down, and took it all in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Not realizing he had drifted off, Flinn awoke and looked at the clock. 6:55. Convenient. He sat up and brushed his hair down with his hand as he suspected it was sticking up in the usual way. He rubbed his eyes and made his way to the dining room. The whole family was there, probably about twenty people or so, all scattered about throughout the kitchen, dining room, and living room engaged in various conversations. His nana, aunt, and Mama were cooking away putting the final touches on the large meal.
“Well if it isn’t this fucker…” said a familiar voice to his left, laughing. Flinn looked over to see his cousin who’s just a year younger than him.
“DeAndre, how are you?”
“Never thought I’d see you again, even since you left. Thought maybe you ‘ood be dead.”
“Nah,” Flinn laughed. “Still very much alive.”
“I can see dat. Wearin’ your fancy suit and all.”
“Yeah I’ve been doing pretty well. Work has been… good. I have a great job at a finance firm in Chicago. Everything has been… Good. Yeah, good. How about you?”
“Now you ain’t goin’ city on us, are you?”
Flinn laughed. “I think I might already be.”
Just as dinner was finishing up, a line started to form and people found a seat wherever they could, be it at the table, on the couch, near the counter, or outside.
“Flinn!” his dad called out. “I saved ya a seat here at the table, kid.”
Flinn took his seat right next to his dad which positioned him right across from Mama. The table could sit eight, and the seats filled in pretty quickly so he was lucky to get one. Besides his sister, all of the oldest family members took the other four chairs.
The dinner itself was mostly uneventful, except for the food of course which was extraordinary. Flinn had not eaten Mama’s cooking, or anything like it in six years. The southern food in Chicago was alright, but nothing like what you can get down here, and no restaurant is going to have the same quality and taste as a home-cooked meal. By God, he had not realized how much he needed this. It was almost healing, like a part of his soul had been lost and he found it once again. The last week had been incredibly overwhelming, and last Saturday he never foresaw being here now, but he was glad he was, regardless of the looming tension. All the stress from work and life back home in Chicago was now all gone. All he had to worry about was… oh yeah, the family drama. The dreaded interactions, what he had suppressed for so long, that had kept him up at night for years. All those long nights doing homework or anything else beside sleeping. They had not been by choice but rather necessity. He would have slept more if he could, and some of those nights he really needed to, but instead was kept motivated by the pain. The pain of knowing no matter what he did, no matter how successful in life he became, he would never be good enough for his family, good enough for Mama, because he left them.
If there ever was a time to clear his conscience and get everything out of the way, it would be today, or at least over the next couple of days. When else would he have the chance? Not that any of this had been planned, and his therapist would probably advise against it. She did not even know he was here. What would she have to say? Avoiding conflict has always been his choice. He has always been quiet, never been at the center of drama, but some things need to be said. Just, maybe not by him. If he waited long enough, perhaps they would come up on their own. So he decided to wait, but he knew time was limited and he could not wait forever.
“Mama, could you pass the butter?”
Mama just stared back at him. “Get ya own damn buttah, since ya can do everything else on ya own.”
Flinn stands up and reaches for the butter. “I can do everything myself, and I have. I hope you’re proud, Mama.”
“Proud? What do I have to be proud of?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe my job, my degree, everything I have been able to do to build a good life for myself.”
“I don hear anything worthy of praise.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mama.”
“Oh, so now you’re sorry? You could’ve fooled me. Is that how you felt when you left? Unbelievable.”
“I left because I had no other choice.”
“Oh don go lyin’ to me now. You did have a choice. You had a choice and you chose to leave us. You didn’t say goodbye, and you were just gone in the mornin’.”
“If I had not just left, you would’ve stopped me.”
“Cause you ain’t got no reason to go nowhere.”
“I had plenty of reasons to want to leave, and not because of you. I’ve always had dreams, Mama, ya know that. I’ve always been bigger than just this town.”
“Oh, so now you’re too good for us, city boy? Huh? I don wanna hear no more of it.”
“It wasn’t about that, Mama. Look at all I’ve been able to do.”
“I ain’t see nothin’. You never call and you never visit. How am I supposed to know what you been doin’?”
“I thought you didn’t want me coming around any more?”
“Well, you’ve got that right. Glad to see you still have some brains left.”
“Well excuse me. Maybe it's best if I leave again. Sorry I ain’t make you proud, Mama.” Flinn got up and left the table.
Part 3
Just as the early light began to peak through the blinds, Flinn was woken up by a firm knock at his door. “Flinn, may I come in? It's Uncle Terrence.”
Flinn sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Yep, come in.”
“How are you this morning, kid? Ya know, she’ll never admit it, but ya Mama missed ya.”
“I find it hard to believe.” Deep down Flinn knew it was true, but she was hard as a rock, and arrogant. She would always find a way to be right, even when she knew she was wrong, and she would never let you know she knew she was wrong.
“Well, we’re all proud of you, kid.” Flinn hated when Terrence and everyone called him kid. “Just wish yoo’d come around and see us every once in a while. I know ya busy with all the big city stuff and all.”
“I thought no one wanted anything to do with me any more?”
“At first, maybe, but I miss ya, kid. Ya know who missed ya most of all?”
“Pops?”
“Yes, of course. He always wanted to know about ya, every time I’d come round. He couldn’t call, but always wanted me to.”
“I should have called.”
“I think everyone wanted to call, but as time went on, it became harder and harder to push that button. It was already so hard at first, and only got harder.”
“I thought about everyone a lot, especially at first. Leaving was really hard, and I almost didn’t, but I always wanted more. I didn’t want to spend my whole life in this town, and if I had not left when I did I probably never would have. But it was still hard. I wanted to go home so many times, but I convinced myself no one wanted me here no more or that y’all would’ve said ‘I told ya so’ or sum bullshit. No one wanted me around any more and I had left, so I was stuck on the path I chose. And I’m happy, and I’ve done so much, but it’s never been easy.”
“Pops was a lot like you when he was your age. Set on leaving as quickly as he could. Things were different back then, not that they are any better now, but Hank... my brother… Pops, was just like you.”
“What changed?”
“Well, he never did. Just no one talks about it anymore. After what happened on that day, they blamed his behavior. Said he should’ve played it safe and he’d still have his tongue.”
“No one has ever told me the story.”
“And they won’t. It changed the whole family.”
“But you’ll tell me?”
“Only if you promise not to tell. I don need an earful from ya Mama.”
“I promise.”
“Hank couldn’t be confined to Selma, just like you. He joined the army right out of high school, and after he was done in Lebanon, he didn’t go straight home.”
“Where did he go?”
“Everywhere but here. He used the small amount of money he got from the army and went anywhere that would let him in. Across Europe, parts of Asia, Northern Africa, even parts of South America. Of course, a young black man traveling by himself at the time was challenging, but Hank could hold his own pretty well. He still ran into all sorts of trouble. He spent more nights in jail than he would have liked, but he would have done it all again if he could.”
“What happened when he got back?”
“He was much different, but for the better. He couldn’t wait to get back out there again. He had confidence like I had never seen before. That’s what got him in trouble not too long after.”
“How’d he lose his tongue? I’m guessing that is what changed everything.”
“When he got back, he got involved with a girl, I think her name was Susan. She was the mayor’s daughter. They snuck around for a while. Their relationship was not acceptable, especially to her father. If he found out, Hank would be in a lot of trouble, and of course eventually he did find out. He spent about a month in jail in just awful conditions even for the time. They didn’t have anything to hold him on so eventually they had to let him go. About a week after he got out, he was walking downtown and some guys grabbed him. He took him out to a field and tried to lynch him. Luckily, they failed and he survived, but they took his tongue as a warning. He was never the same after that. All of his confidence was gone, and of course he couldn’t speak no more.”
Flinn did not know how to respond. It all made sense now: why the family so desperately wanted him to stay, why they were so hurt by him leaving, and why they’d feared who he was becoming. They were all traumatized and wanted to protect him. They did not want him to suffer the same fate as Pops.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The funeral itself was fairly uneventful and went nearly as perfectly as expected. The church filled in with hardly any empty seats, tears were shed, and speeches were given. Pops touched the lives of almost everyone he met, and they came to show it. After the service was the reception, and yet again, the food was spectacular. Everyone got along just fine today and there was no more residual drama, at least for now. Today was Pops’ day.
After the reception, the family gathered back at Mama’s house for the reading of the will. Pops did not have many possessions, at least not of monetary value, but what he did have was meaningful in other ways. He was very clear on who he wanted to give off, and handpicked what would be most substantial to each person.
Everyone gathered around much as they did at dinner, and the lawyer began his reading:
I, Hank Gerald, a resident in the City of Selma, County of Dallas, State of Alabama, being of sound mind, not acting under duress or undue influence, and fully understanding the nature and extent of all my property and of this disposition thereof, hereby make, publish, and declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, and hereby absolutely revoke any and all other wills and amendments previously made by me.
The reading went on for some time as there were many beneficiaries. Flinn began to daydream about what could be left for him. Flinn was not a very sentimental person, so trinkets and heirlooms paid him little interest. Perhaps his car, or maybe money. Something that will be useful to him.
To my dear brother, Terrence, I leave my 1964 Pontiac GTO and all tools and parts associated and necessary with/for the running and upkeep of the vehicle.
The further down the list he went, less was given, but this is to be expected. As the end of the list neared, Flinn began to wonder what would be left for him if anything at all. The will had been in order of age, to this point, so he should be up soon.
To my Granddaughter, Nia,...
Nia? She's younger than me… Flinn thought.
I leave her my grandmother’s locket containing a picture of my Grandfather before he left for the Great War. She looked at it everyday to keep the memory of him alive until he eventually returned to her alive.
How could he skip me? Perhaps I should have called, or never left. Flinn got lost in his own thoughts and barely paid attention to the rest of the will. He and Pops were so close, and he never imagined he would be taken out of the will. But that is my own fault, afterall. I left, and I never even care to call. He died, and I never even said goodbye.
Just as Flinn began to accept the consequences of his actions, they got to the last beneficiary listed in the will:
Finally, to my oldest Grandson, Flinn, who is more and more like me than I ever could have wished to have been, I leave my journal. I hope whenever you need the motivation, you read it to find the meaning you are looking for in life.
Part 4
Flinn sat at his desk unable to focus. It was fairly slow for a Friday, but he still had work to do. After a chaotic weekend back home in Alabama, he was ready to settle back into his monotonous routine. The experience had been healing in some regards, but still left a lot unanswered. What did he mean by finding the meaning in life? Flinn wondered as he flipped through the endless pages of Pops’ journal, all filled with endless recounts, drawings, symbols, and pictures from his travels, just as he had since Monday. The journal consumed his whole attention, and nothing else seemed important enough to focus on. He had even ditched his friends all week which he never does.
He is supposed to meet Raheem for drinks tonight, but now he is wondering if he even wants to go. There is just too much in his head right now. He just wants to be alone. 12:37. The clock is moving too slowly. Flinn clears his calendar for the rest of the day and decides to go home.
At home, he still finds himself flipping through the pages of the journal, not even reading them but just looking at them. Again and again, he flips through until he has enough. He drops the journal on his lap and stares off into the distance at the gorgeous view of Lake Michigan. The endless city and skyline take up most of the horizon until it just stops, cut off by the endless ocean-like lake. He stares at it for quite a while until something catches his eye. He has seen this before. Well, of course he has. He lives here and this is his view everyday. But he knows he has seen it somewhere else.
He picks the journal back up and flips through in a hurry. There it is. He holds the journal up to the window to show a matching two-page drawing of this exact view. Well, not exact. It is a slightly different angle, but it was close enough. Pops was here. He would have loved visiting. I should have invited him. This made Flinn sad, and he threw the journal down on the table in frustration.
Just then, that is when he noticed it. There was a page sticking out from the journal, but it was not like the rest. The page was white and pristine, aside from a few wrinkles, as if it was new, whereas the rest of the journal showed its age. He rushed over to grab it. He opened it to find a letter, addressed to him:
Grandson, When you left, I knew that you would accomplish everything you set out to do. I also knew, however, you would find yourself lost someday, returning home for answers. I was hoping I’d be able to give you those answers myself, but as time goes on that seems less likely. I too found myself lost, and I knew not why. I had gone and seen the world, and it changed me, but I was still not fulfilled. I came home still looking for the answers, and it took a while, but eventually I did find them.
Through this journal, I hope to share my findings so that you too, when you are lost, find the answers you seek. Whenever you are ready, follow my journey and the clues I have left for you. Go out and see the world, just as I did. You will find that what you want from life is less than what you expect.
I hope the experiences you have are less harsh than my own, but still be careful. The world has changed a lot, but still not enough. But don’t skip ahead for the meaning may be lost. Take only one step at a time, and when it comes time to take the next step, it will reveal itself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seven o’clock rolls around and Flinn walks into the bar to meet Raheem. He hasn’t seen Raheem, or anyone else from the group, since last Tuesday when he had his outburst. He begins by telling the story of the events of this last weekend, but leaves out the parts about Pops’ past.
"Pops left me a hidden letter.”
“What do you mean?” asked Raheem.
“Like in his journal, I found a hidden letter. It was addressed to me.”
“What did it say, bro?”
“He says he was a lot like me when he was my age. He wants me to go where he went and learn what he did.”
“In Alabama?”
“No, everywhere but there. He wants me to start in Western Europe and follow his clues around the world.”
“He traveled?”
“A lot, apparently. I never knew. He was in the army, and after he got out, he traveled… everywhere, basically.”
“Why did no one tell you?”
“They wanted to keep me safe, I guess.
"They wanted to keep the whole family safe after what happened to him.”
“What do you mean, bro. What happened?”
“I can’t talk about it, but it doesn’t matter now anyways. I’m living a different life now.” Flinn never shared much about his past or his family with anyone, not even Raheem. It has always been a mystery. This was the most he had ever shared with him.
“Well, are you going to go?”
“No, I can’t. I have work. It took too much to get here. I can’t just give it away.”
“It’ll still be here when you get back, bro.”
“If only it was that simple.”
“It can be. You have money saved up. Chicago isn’t going anywhere. We’re not going anywhere. Plus, you’ve always talked about traveling more. Why don’t you take some time to do it.”
“I suppose, but I like my life here.”
“If you don’t do it now, when will you? You’ve taken a leap before, why not take another one. You’re smart, you’ll land on your feet, bro. Besides, your grandfather thought it was important enough to not only give you his journal, but hide you a letter for you to find when you needed it most. Maybe now is when you needed it most. You’re way too stressed at work anyways, and I can tell you’ve been off for a while now. Perhaps some change could give you what you need.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On Monday morning, when Flinn gets to work, he walked straight to his boss's office. He turned in his letter of resignation.
Two weeks later, he took the red line to the blue line to O’Hare. Journal in hand, he boarded a flight to Dublin.

Chapter 21:【Tales of Fire and Ice】
“Well, well well!” Crowley triumphantly announced. “Wu Zeitan has stolen Tsukuyomi’s precious scabbard and thus made him very angry! Will he get it back? Will he win? Will the fight turn out to be rigged in order to sell Tsukuyomi-themed peanut butter? All those questions will be answered!”
Upon seeing the enraged countenance of the young god on the battlefield, the King of Demons grasped his chin in thought silently, before pondering to himself with a smirk, “…Who would have thought that gods could be so attached to toys that aren’t made of flesh?”
“Oh my Nun!” Thoth gasped. “It’s beautiful! I wish I could get a closer look!”
“Ahh.” Crowley sighed. “Nothing like some good old-fashioned Grand Larceny.”
“That damn brat!” Izanagi snarled. “How dare she lay her hands on a divine treasure!” Amaterasu just watched, her smile looking almost amused.
Standing on guard nearby them was a goddess with short brownish hair and an oni mask covering her mouth, lightly armored over her kimono, an equally ornate scabbard at her hip. She put a hand to her waist and looked towards the arena in slight annoyance.
“Jeez, at least treat it with some proper respect…” she muttered, her tone sharp and irritated.
Catching the reflection of light, the sheath was subliminally visible to the entire world. It shone brighter than any platinum, encapsulated by the shadows created by the engraved design on the sheath. Holding it high above her, Wu smiled gently, like a flower amidst blossoming.
On the other side, the emperors of China fumed in various degrees of shock to apprehension.
“That girl! She’s always so materialistic!” Emperor Gaozong scolded, his knuckles white as he clutched the arms of his throne. Meanwhile, his son was almost folded entirely against the short wall between the arena and the stands, looking almost hysterical. Qin Shi Huang himself housed a frown upon his face, his brows slightly scrunched in scrutiny. Dionysus smiled almost knowingly, swirling his wine in his glass as he waited…
Distances away from the distracted empress, the young god let out a final shaking breath. He knew there would be whispers in the audience all around the castle, coming down to berate him, to affront him, to criticize him.
He refused to listen. Instead, he looked forward and sternly demanded, “Give it back! You have no right to—”
The words of the young god woke Wu from her trance and her hands snapped at the young god with such speed that it was shocking she didn’t break her own neck. Zetian rushed towards Tsukuyomi, forcing the disarmed god to instinctively take a defensive stance.
“Hahaha! I’ll beat you to death with this beauty!” The Empress proclaimed, before she swung the scabbard at Tsukuyomi’s head, forcing him to dodge to the side, at which point she delivered another, even faster strike at his waist. The sheer force of the attack knocked the god to the ground, unable to recover..
Or so she thought, before jutting her head backwards to dodge out of the way of Tsukuyomi’s roundhouse kick. “I was given more methods to defend myself than just a sword!” The moon god shouted, as his father’s words echoed in his mind:
‘What if you were to be disarmed? Do not solely rely on your weapons. Make your body itself a deadly blade.’
It was hard for him to adjust to the new style of combat…he could not rely on his innate gifts to help him. Tsukuyomi gritted his teeth, and pressed forward to master his parents’ teachings. His mother had taught him how to harness the flow of power in all things, and his father had taught him the relentless, graceful martial techniques of the angels. And now, he pressed onward, striking with both in tandem. Flowing, ferocious strikes rained down, each strike leading into another, each shift of Tsukuyomi’s feet, another barrage. The rapid offense forced Zetian to put up her guard, an amused grin on her face.
“So you want to try and beat me at my own game, eh?~ Hahaha! Bring it on then, you arrogant little shit!”
“Out of all of our glorious father’s offsprings, Tsukuyomi may well be the best when it comes to hand to hand combat.” Metatron proclaimed from the stands, earning a glorious nod from Michael. A slight, nervous-sounding giggle was heard from next to Lucifer, coming from a goddess in a white and gold kimono- she’d dressed as well as possible for this match.
“Haha…he really is. Both me and your father can attest to that. He’s always worked especially hard on it and his swordsmanship…I’m proud of him.” Izanami said. A soft smile was on her face, clearly more confident than usual as she watched her son fighting in the arena.
Lucifer breathed a deep sigh next to them, gaze glued to his son. “If only Tsukuyomi understood that himself. He focuses so much on what he can’t do that he overlooks what he can…”
Back in the arena, Tsukuyomi dropped low and dragged his foot, attempting to sweep out Wu’s legs from his position. However, the Empress jumped away laughing, having the time of her life. “Hahaha! So fun!” She spun the scabbard in her hand, taunting the moon god further with its presence.
Tsukuyomi looked more determined than ever, raising his eyes from the ground. “I can do this…”
“I can reclaim it,” his conviction echoed. However, mired with the light that shone from the gluttonous eyes of the Empress who had claimed his scabbard, he had forgotten the true purpose of their showdown. A corner of Wu's lips twitched.
Tsukuyomi jumped to his feet and charged to grapple her, opening his arms wide.
“Kyaa!” She yelped, causing several members of the audience to gape in shock. “The pervert is trying to grope me!”
The moon god’s face tinged red. “N-no, I-” He started, abashed. Sensing the release of tension in the god’s arms, Wu struck.
“Just kidding~ You’re mine!” Wu grinned as she bashed the god’s face in with his scabbard, several teeth flying out of his mouth joined with spots of blood. As his senses were clouded, the empress wound her legs back, and sent her powerful knee toward the god’s defenseless stomach. At the last second, Tsukuyomi raised his forearm to block the strike, while his opponent drew distance between them with the tap of her boots as her feet met with the ground.
“E-eh…?!” Izanami stammered, clearly caught off guard and very much concerned. She blinked a couple of times as if trying to process what she had just seen.
Dionysus gorged himself on another glass of crimson wine before letting out a childlike giggle. “Ahh~ Such an intimate fight~ My favorite~ They only lack oil on their bodies~”
Qin Shi Huang raised an eyebrow at him. “This isn’t that sort of fight. But you would wish it was, wouldn’t you?”
“Let's play some more!” Wu exclaimed to the heavens, before rushing at Tsukuyomi with her heart aflame.
The moon god was still flustered. “Is.. is this just a game for you?” Then, his face hardened. “I suppose that's better for me then…”
His life flashed before him as his precious sheath ripped through the air towards his face. The wild empress swang it with an unparalleled, furious desire. Tsukuyomi brought his palm up and directed the blow above him, before he swung his left arm upwards, with the momentum gained- towards the side of Zetian’s disabled arm. His strike landed square on the empress’ jaw; causing her to rip her arm back up and hit Tsukuyomi with utterly explosive force, a force that was much to her surprise, only able to knock him a couple of feet away. Tsukuyomi shoved her back into a clumsy stumble as she looked down at her arm with utter shock. The arm that had performed the whip-like strike had been cleanly dislocated, and despite Zetian’s martial prowess and strength, it wouldn’t be moving anytime soon. This was Tsukuyomi’s chance.
‘No matter how much you dull the pain you receive, you’re still no more durable than usual. You can trick your brain, but not your body…’ A sense of confidence captured Tsukuyomi’s mind for a fraction of a second, before he became focused once more. While Wu stared at her arm with a blank yet curious look, Tsukuyomi jumped forward and brought his hands to the sheath. She snapped out of her dazed state and attempted to grip it further, but the young god did something unexpected.
His hand went to the opening of the sheath, and from it, he drew a pearlescent blade of light into his hands.
“I swear, everyone gets an infinite sword generator nowadays!” Crowley mused.
Izanami smiled, watching her son go back on the offensive. “Umm…You’ve got this! Don’t back down!”
Pushing his leg back and raising the blade, Tsukuyomi then launched himself towards the retreating Wu and sliced down at the remains of her garment with chilling precision. Occasional blows would tear at her flesh and freeze the blood into crystals of dreadful gore. Her movements remained unsteady due to his earlier dazing strike- and Tsukuyomi took full advantage, slashing rapidly with his blade of light. His attacks were precise, intended to land as many blows as possible while Wu’s defenses were staggered, targeting the areas where she was faltering the most.
‘This is going somewhat well, but to think I would fight this sloppily…’ Tsukuyomi chastised himself internally, his sorrowful demeanor resurging. He wanted to end the fight as soon as possible. And he seized the chance to do it at this very moment, he circled behind Wu and brought his foot round to Wu’s hip with melancholy vigor, knocking the empress to her knees, before using his momentum and full strength to swing his blade towards her exposed neck. But just in time, Wu fully recovered from her daze and hastily moved the sheath to stop her foe’s blade. Sparks flashed as Tsukuyomi’s arms trembled. Through the cool air, there was a small noise that resounded, a very distinct crack. As Tsukuyomi gazed up at the place where their blows met, his eyes blew wide with realization.
Where the wings of an Angel were engraved on the sheath, a light fracture began to emerge upon their midline. Sparks fell to the ground in mourning as a burst of emotion encompassed Tsukuyomi’s mind. His vision tunneled, staring solely at that fracture in horror. A shaky breath escaped him. ‘No, no! Father!’ He wished to turn to look through the castle windows at his father at this moment, but he could not let himself move. ‘I’m sorry…! I didn’t mean to—’
A sudden movement caught his eyes, and before he could resolve himself from his uncontrolled horror, Zetian struck at him ferociously. Spinning around as she rose to her feet, her arm arced towards him in a motion new to all in the arena, herself included- a newly created weapon of carnage. Her demonic eyes saw all of the world around her and how it could break, and her body itched to utterly crush it, her bones and muscles moving on their own. Zetian’s enhanced mind and ruthless battle instinct had combined in a stroke of sudden martial genius. The only thing left to do was to swing the weapon that they had given her. The Empress let out a battle cry to the heavens as Tsukuyomi attempted to retreat away, still looking at the cracks of the sheath as he raised his guard. And in that moment…the arm Tsukuyomi had thought unusable swung upwards at him, almost like a life-reaping sickle of flesh and blood, slicing through the air audibly and slipping right past his guard. The god of the moon gasped as his opponent grinned savagely.
WHITE TIGER’S ASSAULT
He tried to dodge backward- to block would be too risky. But even that wasn’t enough. Four claw marks tore Tsukuyomi’s clothes into pieces as they slashed into his chest and stomach, causing the moon god to cry out in shocked agony. Droplets of blood flew towards the face of the deranged mortal, which she licked from her cheek with a gleeful smile.
“Oh my!” Thoth gasped. “Zetian has unleashed a truly horrifying technique!”
The Wine God of Greece spoke out above the confused outrage, “How fancy~! It must have been the wind~ She attacked with such a concentrated force that the air itself sliced into Tsu-chan~ You can even see the cuts on the castle walls”
“Tsukuyomi!” cried out Izanami. Her eyes were wide and panicked. She took a deep breath and clutched the sides of her chair tightly, trembling for a moment.
Tsukuyomi cringed in pain as he looked back towards the horrible, blood-soaked beast before him. Its crimson eyes bore into his soul. “My my~ Perhaps I misjudged you.” It said mockingly as it turned off Demon Mind. “You are quite the skilled fighter yourself. Did your daddy teach you that as well?~”
The capricious mockery echoed throughout Tsukuyomi's very being. His bones recoiled in distress and his blood boiled. Yet his mind remained still. Was it enlightenment? Had he realized something? What had the young god come to understand?
Deep in the wilderness of Helheim…
Since his first venture into the underworld, it was clear to all that Tsukuyomi’s skills had truly blossomed. His blade’s movements were graceful, precise, and true, and the hazy light reflected off it had become just as elegant. Dim yet brilliant, shining gentle within each skillful strike. That was the beauty Tsukuyomi’s blade had achieved.
Yet today, the god of the moon saw no beauty in the light he had honed.
Below him lay a lifeless oni of Helheim, a great and feared devil, but to Tsukuyomi, little more than a milestone in his training. And now, yet another reason for him to be ashamed. Severe, deep, and decidedly inelegant gashes surrounded by ice covered the oni’s corpse, his face frozen forever in a twisted howl of agony. He had died with his eyes open. However, there was a twisted artistry to the slashes that had ended him- the crescent smoothness of those brutal slashes, the way they flowed into and around each other, visible even after the slaughter, had bloomed into a beautiful pattern of icy carnage.
This was what Tsukuyomi had trained for. This was the mastery he wanted to attain.
After all, he had finally managed to properly channel his light.
It was a moment he would remember forever. The moonlight had seared itself into his mind. The writhing, dying screams of the oni, the crackling of flesh, and the hollow sound of his blade striking true. When that massive, once-mighty corpse fell to the ground, his battle-tested club clattering to the ground beside him, Tsukuyomi only felt a rush of relief. Where had the adrenaline of victory gone? Had this been a battle, or an execution?
Tsukuyomi took a few deep breaths and sheathed his sword with a trembling arm, nearly cutting himself by accident, as if he couldn’t stand to look at it or away from the corpse. The reality that it was a weapon of war and not art was sobering. But this was his fault. Neither the blade or the light were stained with blood, rather, it was he who wielded them. He had destroyed instead of protecting, and caused another to die in agony. He had broken his promise, and over something as pitiful as his lack of mastery. For the first time in years, Tsukuyomi’s gentle heart began to ache and waver.
He buried the oni with his club before returning home.
The next day…
The winds of the mountaintop felt harsher than usual, howling like the wails of the damned. But Tsukuyomi simply ignored them. Again and again, without a moment of pause, he swung his radiant sword. The same combinations, the same movements, the same strikes, over and over, with moonlight coursing through each maddening repetition. His usual resolve had given way to almost manic determination. Izanami watched him silently. She had noticed the strange look in his eyes as soon as he’d returned from his battle, but trusting her son, had decided to give him some space to think. Perhaps he’d find some clarity during the day’s training.
Clarity, however, seemed farther away with each swing. Tsukuyomi’s eyes were almost bloodshot. He’d been training for hours before the break of dawn. Everything had melted away long ago, save for the blade and the reason he was swinging it. His own pure and immutable inadequacy. Even keeping a single promise was too much for him, something as simple as fighting to protect. His heart felt like it was about to burst. He couldn’t look away from his task. The oni’s body wouldn’t fade even if he did. He had to do this.
Especially since his father would be visiting later.
He continued to swing the sword. More light began to flow into it.
“I have to master myself.”
The howling wind, Izanami’s words, his own thoughts, they all became unclear white noise, the world drowning in the shine of his blade.
“Master myself.”
His eyes narrowed. He was fully focused. He started to swing faster, brighter. Ice was beginning to spread across his arm, but it didn’t slow him down for a moment.
“Come on. Master yourself.”
He swung the sword again and again. More ice crept through his arm. His sword was beginning to crack and shake. He wouldn’t stop.
“Master yourself, damnit!”
Even his own movements became nothingness to him. He didn’t notice the blinding white light forming around him, or the crystals that already coated his body, or the sword shattering into pieces, flying by and slicing him. It didn’t feel cold at all. It didn’t hurt. He didn’t hear Izanami crying out for him to stop.
“MASTER YOURSELF!”
And then, the world became white and radiant.
Since the beginning of creation, there had never been a moon in Helheim’s sky. The strange, eerie lights in the blood-red sky simply turned to darkness as the hours passed, with no true light ever coming in. That was the law of the realm itself.
But on this day, for ten shining, frightening minutes, moonlight shone down on the underworld.
It was nothing less than a light of calamity. A star of pure, radiant white hung in the sky, erratically, harshly forcing itself into a new form every moment, thrashing violently in the darkness. It was a crescent one moment, a shining fragment the next, and a full orb of deathly light immediately after. An unstable and beautiful calamity. With each sudden shift, wrathful moonlight rained upon the land. The howling tears of the moon fell to and razed the earth in a rain of disaster. Mountains, plains, forests, all were swallowed by that white and chaotic light. It was as if the heavens themselves were punishing the underworld.
This was the chaos that lay within an angel’s light. The light Tsukuyomi had so desperately wished for back then, and yet, hadn’t even begun to fathom. The light he had gained from his father. That sacred light, his greatest desire, was just the same as his blade: all his mastery and divinity given form, a beautiful, graceful, and glorious weapon of ruin.
It was a light that could never truly protect.
Those ten minutes of devastation eventually passed. The moon vanished, and Helheim’s sky returned to its natural gloom. Yet a single shining light remained within it. It slowly floated to the ground, almost gently so, and landed in front of Izanami’s surprisingly unharmed abode. She was waiting in the garden. Lucifer looked up towards her, as she immediately fell to her knees in front of him, tears in her eyes. His eyes twisted ever so slightly in guilt. She had been burned by light, his light, clearly after a struggle. She had done all she could to help.
“I’m sorry…I…I really tried, I shouldn’t have…and even you got hurt…”
Lucifer shook his head, unbothered by the frostbitten wounds on his scarred body. He hadn’t used his radiant armor for even a second, much less his weapon. He put a hand on Izanami’s head to calm her, as he had many times before.
“...Don’t worry about it. It can hardly be called an injury. And I couldn’t risk harming our son.”
The gentle coolness of his voice and the warmth of his hand slowly brought Izanami back to reality. She took a few deep breaths, before taking Tsukuyomi from Lucifer’s other arm. His body had no wounds, but he was clearly close to death, pale and haggard, as if drained of all light. The young god had utterly broken himself under his own light. Izanami almost sobbed looking at him. While Lucifer’s face remained mostly still, as he closed his eyes, the ruler of heaven felt the familiar, ever-present weight of utmost guilt…along with a slight tinge of fear.
Even now, millenia after the fall, with his supreme divine power and command over all of heaven, the greatest of angels still couldn’t protect a single boy. Those he loved and couldn’t save were still falling through the cracks, just as they had back then. It still wasn’t enough.
His, too, was a light that could never truly protect.
“...Take him inside, please. I’ll join you two in a moment.” Lucifer said. He gazed forlornly from the mountain’s edge, quietly observing the destruction his son had wrought upon Helheim. Izanami simply nodded and did as he asked. Right now was one of those moments when Lucifer needed to think alone. Lucifer turned his head briefly, and gave an almost regretful glance towards Tsukuyomi as he vanished behind the front door. It was in that moment that the mightiest among divinities offered a silent prayer for forgiveness.
“You haven’t failed, Tsukuyomi… You never did... As a father, a mentor, and a god…I’m the one who has failed you. The shame of weakness is mine alone to bear.”
He took a slight breath, and turned to join his family inside.
“I’m sorry for always being such a coward. I hope…that this serves as even the smallest compensation.”
Fastened at his hip was a beautiful sheath, adorned with two angelic wings and a jewel that glimmered like the moon.

I have contacted a bunch lawyers and waiting for that response. I have also made appointments with his pediatrician for help. I've contacted the police and the school board. I will post the email I sent to the staff. I don't know where this goes from here but I am one angry mother.
As far as the cops go the principal told me they only questioned the offending child and not the other two children my child mentioned. The cops essentially left it up to the school internal investigation. The principal tried to strong arm me into not keeping my kids out as the attendance record could effect me. I have no idea if the other parents were notified nor do I have any contact information other than a slew of emails of all the parents. As I don't want to risk accidentally contacting the offenders parents I'm not sure what to do.
I'm waiting for lawyers and the school board and DCF to still contact me. The silence is absurd.
Email to staff and school board HR. Names are changed to teacher, child 1 (assault victim) and child 2 (my other son who attends the school)
Moving forward all correspondence will be in writing as I am not satisfied with how this situation is being handled, the negligence of "teacher" and the insinuation that my child somehow made this all up, because no one can corroborate his accounts. However, we can with a specific timeline and the self-admittance my son made of him and potentially a female student being touched regularly by another student for nearly 2 months. Not only that but the poor communication of the entire staff on what is happening in school. I am just now being told that my middle child isn't at reading level 3 weeks before school ends, and I'm only being told because I reached out? That's also problematic and proof of the poor communication your staff has had. I should have been informed from the start if children, including child 1,, were being handsy in the classroom. As a sexual assault victim as a child myself, I teach my kids not to touch other children without consent. No one should be putting their hands on any other person without consent, and "teacher" self-admitted to having an issue with a few boys in the classroom. She also self-admitted to having to speak with this particular child's parents countless times about behavior and inappropriate language. While also informing me of her difficulties with administrative staff handling situations that should involve parents. It seems to me that this is just outright negligence of the school. My son's mental health has been affected by what has been happening to him. This isn't just "boys will be boys" this is literal sexual assault. It is completely insane to me that my child gets punished and put into a brand new classroom, with new students, and has to miss out on the end-of-the-year activity with his friends, who he's been with since kindergarten because you refuse to take this seriously. The kid in question should be the one who is removed and my son should be believed. His story is too detailed and set on such a specific timeline that even the insinuation he may not be telling the truth is infuriating. We have contacted that school board to see the repercussions of keeping my child out of an unsafe environment. As adults, we are meant to protect kids and you and your staff have failed miserably at that. I have no confidence in what you are telling me about how these children won't interact with each other. This kid got away with assaulting my son for two months, how am I able to go on your word that this isn't going to happen again? When your staff failed to begin with. This has been CC'ed to the school board HR. As for my son's academics, and child 2, as I do not trust your school at all to protect my kids, I will proceed to pick up schoolwork for them and return it. I will also contact their pediatrician to get notes for both of them. I am greatly disappointed in how this matter has been handled. Sincerely, mother

I personally think the game gets WAY too much hate. It has its problems and imperfections, sure, but I think people are bashing on it WAY too much.
The game does lack variety in terms of missions and enemies, so I don't fault people for giving that complaint.
Though I haven't played the game itself, I do enjoy third-person shooters. And if I get it on Steam, hey, the live service thing won't be an issue. That said, I can understand why people are upset about other bugs, glitches, and so on that really need to be fixed.
But that all aside, I do think the game was done better than a lot of people think.
"Oh, the mission is for a gang of criminal misfits with guns to kill the Justice League? That's impossible."
I am aware that the Justice League is powerful, but even when together, they all have their fair share of weaknesses and are not invincible. Superman is really strong and fast, but is weak to kryptonite and red sunlight. Flash is fast, sure, but that doesn't mean he's untouchable or unhittable, even by a lot of non-speedsters. Some of the League could be argued to have the power of gods, and though that may be true to some extent, that still doesn't make them unstoppable, as they can still be defeated and/or killed, even by some of their lesser enemies should the plot call for it.
Plus, the Suicide Squad has been getting their asses handed to them over time by individual league members before their boss fights, which shows just how much of a suicide mission this is. But you know what? It actually works. Cause that's the whole point. They are called the freaking "Suicide Squad" for crying out loud. Getting sent on suicide missions is kind of their shtick. And, before each of the boss fights against the individual League members, the Squad is given special devices meant to exploit the League's weaknesses and give the Squad a fighting chance. Cause without those devices, then...... yeah, they're screwed. No argument there.
I can also say that you guys are right to hate the Batman and Brainiac boss fights. Batman just uses Fear Toxin to turn into a giant bat and fire off slow-moving projectiles at the Squad, making them easy to avoid and easy to shoot the giant bullet sponge who looks like a demon bat. Though Demon Batman looks cool and sounds threatening, even more so for Evil Batman, I too would rather a fight a boss fight more akin to the predator rooms from the Arkham games, where Batman is always moving about hiding up in the darkness, and the squad needs special trackers or heat-signiture devices to detect and get the jump on HIM before he gets the jump on THEM. That would be way more befitting for a Batman boss fight.
Brainiac's just a reskin of the Flash with his minions added in as a bonus. It's really lazy, repetitive, and just doesn't feel worth it. Braniac's the big bad who invaded Metropolis, brainwashed the League, and has been close to conquering Earth only for him to fight with Flash's powers? Really? Who's bright idea was that? Talk about a disappointing final boss.
That said, I do think the other boss fights are decent enough.
Let's start with Flash's boss. Flash runs around in a place where his speed and running space are way more limited, making it harder for him to evade attacks. In teems of his own attack patterns, he can make copies of himself, charge up and throw lightning bolts, throw mines, and create giant tornados. It's not too bad for a Flash fight. And though landing shots on him IS difficult due to his speed, he is still vulnerable when he's charging up his lightning. Plus, after one of his three life meters runs out, he makes tgings trickery by creating even more tornados to screw over the squad. Plus, the Speed Force decouplers limit his powers and make him more vulnerable to attacks. So, overall, it's not that bad. Especially when he gets crazier and more taunting throughout the fight. The only thing I dislike is him dropping dead after the fight, without any last words or lasting snarks before he slowly passes away. Sure, one could argue that the "Fastest Man Alive" could easily just punch all the villians repeatedly and tear them to shreds. However, recall what Flash said at the beginning of the fight. His words were, and I quote, "I DID want to grab you one at a time and run fast enough to burn the skin off your bones. Friction! You know, ouchy. But I don't need to TOUCH you to tear you apart. So let's play." Flash literally said that he chose to play with his opposition and believed that he could beat the squad WITHOUT physically touching them. As we all know, Flash is pretty cocky, arrogant, impaitent, and reckless at times. And, because he's been turned evil, he's constantly been underestimating the Squad into thinking, "Oh, there's no WAY these misfits can kill me. I'm too good and fast to be killed by THESE losers." And because he underestimated the misfits, even more so from his brainwashing, it ended up being his undoing. Especially since he's been growing more and more unstable and crazy during the course of the fight. We'll talk more about this in a bit.
Moving on, we have Green Lantern's fight. Green Lantern's boss battle may not have been the most imaginative for him, but I do think it's interesting and adds in a REALLY nice challenge. We got helicopters, rocket launchers, missiles, giant laser towers, and mines popping up everywhere. Green Lantern is also shielded, and we have to destroy his constructs in order to destroy Green Lantern's shield and deal some damage on him. It's a way more varied fight than Flash's and a lot more difficult to avoid everything, but where's the fun if it's too easy? Especially when you need to find more ammo and shield charges around the battlefield. I feel like GL had the BEST boss fight in the game. Plus, he was still breathing at the end with some last-minute snarks BEFORE Deadshot landed the killing blow. So, that's a huge plus. I don't get why this fight gets so much backlash. He probably could have done more, maybe, but the human Green Lantern's have always been shown creating more simple constructs their more familiar with. Plus, I thought the laser towers was a GREAT call. So, this fight gets too much hate. And though Lantern DID take the fight more seriously, he still underestimates his opponents to some degree. Even more so when he creates a giant body construct of himself with a minigun, trying to prove his superiority and how tiny his opponents are. Sure, it makes things more challenging, especially with him throwing even MORE constructs on hand, but he still does a good job at delivering a good challenge for us all the same.
Lastly, we come to Superman's fight. He has all his trademark powers. Using tanks as baseball bats, heat vision, frost breath, insanely fast flying speed, and even a sun nuke attack than can encompass the whole area. The Gold Krypotonite is really what the Squad needed to weaken his powers, deal some actual damage, and eventually bring down the Man of Steel. And after the first round, he clears the sky to recharge his power and slowly eliminate the effects from the gold kryptonite, meaning we need to shoot him with more of that stuff quick or we're never bringing him down. Though due to him always flying and being airborne, landing shots on him is no easy task. But that's a decent enough challenge for a boss fight. And like I said before with Flash, just because someone has super speed does NOT make them unhittable even by foes way slower than them. Though, again, Superman drops dead after his fight like Flash without any last words before the gold kryptonite fully kicks in and kills him. It's pretty annoying and wasteful, if you ask me. But that aside, I think the battle itself looks pretty fun and feels like a fitting fight against the Man of Steel, especially since ordinary bullets will just tickle him.
There's one other thing people seem to forget. One VERY important fact that makes the Justice League as powerful as they are, whether individually or when working together. It's their commitment as heroes to defend the weak, save the world, protect their freinds and family, and look out for each other as true comrades in arms. Most of that........ vanished thanks to Brainiac's mind control. Their no longer the "goody-two-shoes" heroes who are fighting to save the world, at least not how they put it during the game. The Justice League were superheroes brainwashed into becoming supervillians, with only Wonder Woman left and having no idea or method to free her friends from Brainac's brainwashing. Batman's the best person of the League who could potentially find a way to reverse it, and he's been brainwashed alongside the others. But, I'm going off topic. Because the Justice League have turned evil, and became Brainiac's luitenents into oppressing the weak, brainwashing Earth's residents, killing resistors, underestimating the Suicide Squad, and have basically becomes tyrants, they no longer have the same good will, sense of justice, heroic ideals, or selflessness they usually have to keep going, getting back up, and NOT underestimating their enemies, due to them NOW acting like their literally gods among men. The Justice League no longer have the same original purpose that makes them who they are or are supposed to be. The Suicide Squad, on the other hand, DOES have a purpose. That purpose being their own survival from getting their heads blown up by Waller, survival from Brainiac's forces, and staying alive from the brainwashed Justice League who will not hesitate to kill them any longer like before. Certainly some members of the Squad might have other reasons for fighting, such as Deadshot's daughter, but long story short, they all have more of a purpose to fighting and surviving more than the Justice League from this point on.
So overall, though the game has its faults, I personally think fans are taking some things WAY too seriously and give it WAY more hate than it deserves. Maybe it would be better if it WEREN'T a live service game. Maybe it should have been given nore variety in its enemies and missions. And maybe the developers could have killed the Justice League in a more well written manner than how it was in the final product. But aside from that and the bugs, the game's actually not all that bad and probably gets hated more than it should.

"Welcome to Survivor: Philippines! Nestled in the heart of the Pacific, this stunning archipelago sets the stage for our newest adventure. For this season, we've handpicked 20 castaways from across the United States, each ready to face the ultimate test of survival. From the towering peaks of its volcanic mountains to the pristine beaches fringed with coconut palms, the Philippines offers a backdrop of nature's beauty and wildlife challenge. Who will outlast the rest and claim the title of Sole Survivor? Find out as the adventure unfolds right here in the Philippines. 39 days, 20 people, ONE Survivor!" -Jeff Probst
Season link: https://brantsteele.com/survivo34/r.php?c=XT5miA8m

The cast:

--- Una Tribe ---
Ashley Nguyen - Student - Los Angeles, CA
Christopher Davis - Insurance Agent - Cleveland, OH
Daniel Jackson - Real Estate Agent - Richmond, VA
Elizabeth Garcia - Hotel Manager - Nevada, LV
Emily Johnson - Student - Chicago, IL
James Wilson - Professional Athlete - Houston, TX
John Smith - IT Analyst - Seattle, WA
Matthew Anderson - Research Assistant - Raleigh, NC
Sarah Brown - Healthcare Administrator - New York City, NY
Taylor Kim - Education Coordinator - Honolulu, HI
--- Anglawa Tribe ---
Amanda Rodriguez - Nurse - San Francisco, CA
Andrew Thomas - Police Officer - Orlando, FL
David Taylor - Financial Analyst - Dallas, TX
Eric Johnson - Student - Tacoma, WA
Jennifer Martinez - Event Planner - Phoenix, AZ
Jessica Thompson - Public Relations Specialist - Nashville, TN
Lauren Jones - Hair Stylist - Savannah, GE
Megan Lewis - Retail Manager - Philadelphia, PA
Michael Williams - Lawyer - Hartford, CT
Ryan Moore - Construction Manager - Des Moines, IA
That's all for this season, tune in for the next!

In short:

• I am an international grad student in Erfurt from the US
• When I first moved to Germany in 2022, I lived in a subleased flat. After I moved in, the guy I was renting from told me I had to pay him in cash for rent and that I could not have my name on the mailbox, but I could do the anmeldung (this is different from what we discussed beforehand). I also learned that the contract he gave me was not real and that his landlord had no idea he was subleasing the apartment. Other tenants would see me and ask if I even lived there and the hausmeister had no idea he was not living in the apartment either.
• I moved out in the summer of 2023 once I had found something different because I was tired of him with the cash, wanting to come into the apartment and nitpick things like the condition of his plants, raising rent by 100 EUR without showing me bills, etc.
• I always paid on time and was cordial, but I was firm when I said I was moving out. I gave him almost 4 months notice and he made sure to let me know how it was so much stress on him, how he can't find another tenant, etc. I was on vacation for a month and he texted me multiple times then asking if I was still leaving. He bothered me about this a lot, and I eventually had to lie about why I was leaving to be extremely firm and get through to the point that I would not be living there any longer. Otherwise, he would try to argue with me about why I should stay longer.
• He has been harassing me for nearly 500 EUR for cleaning since then. When I moved out, he had someone else move in literally as soon as I walked out the door and did not tell me someone else was moving in so soon. If I knew this, I would have spent more time on cleaning, but this situation made me rush. I think he informed me maybe 1-2 days beforehand, and he was aware that I had the flu that week and was not 100%. Although I cleaned up food, cleaned the floors and everything, etc. the money he is asking for is for normal wear and tear. He has not shown me any sort of cleaning bill.
• He has been texting me and calling me asking for this money. I have blocked his number and he still texts me. I have not engaged with him since I moved because his contract was fake and the sublease was not legal, and I am aware if the landlord was not aware of the sublease then he does not have the same protections.
• Today he texted and emailed me saying that if I don't send him the money by the end of the month that he will go to the police and file a complaint against me.

What are my rights here? Will his complaint actually mean anything since he did not have the legal right (i.e. with the knowledge of his landlord) to sublease the apartment? The last I saw him he knew I was going to the US for an internship and he doesn't actually know if I am even in Germany or not. Will it be beneficial for me to approach the police first? Explaining how I left once I learned the contract was made up and the landlord did not approve of the lease, how he does not leave me alone, etc.
The law is clear when it comes to the landlord having no knowledge of the sublease, I'm not sure why he confidently acts as if he is renting the place out legally (even using the word "tenant"). I believe he is still trying to rent the apartment out, would it be beneficial for me to approach the rental company anonymously? I don't like how he is trying to be slick. I also am starting to not feel safe here. I have not seen him around but the texts and emails are making me feel unsafe.
Danke :)

I know there there was a big update to trucks in Update 5, but any word on further updates for that feature set? Whenever I try and use trucks in my playthroughs they still feel too unreliable to be useful. Seems like the move in the meta is still crazy long conveyor belts until you unlock trains. I'd love to create/manage a fleet of autonomous vehicles in the early-midgame.

DC Next Proudly Presents:

The Linear Men

Issue Twenty:Family Reunion
Written by Dwright5252
Edited by Predaplant

< Prev. Next Issue > Coming Next Month


The Waverider
When she was growing up, Deirdre Harkness often thought about how things might’ve been different in her household if she had an older brother to take the brunt of her father’s attention. How her path through life could have been vastly different, her rap sheet a little more… non-existent.
Now that such a brother seemingly existed, albeit from another Earth altogether, she was starting to realize that maybe she was fine being an only child.
“Listen, this’ll go a lot faster if you stop being so obtuse, Deirdre,” Owen Mercer scowled, twirling one of his razor-sharp boomerangs deftly between his fingers as he paced the deck of the Waverider. Deirdre sat in the hot seat, the Linear Men staring at her on one side while her current and former romantic partners stood on the other. The multiversal children of Digger Harkness faced off in the middle, neither seeming to want to give any inch in their argument.
“Look, I’m just sayin’ I’d be able to find my friends better without some drongo stealing my schtick,” she responded casually, moving to take a boomerang of her own from her bandolier before remembering the new time cops had confiscated all her weapons. “Surely Jenny Sparks has someone better to send along.”
Was she being difficult? Absolutely. Was this petty argument preventing her from saving her missing teammates? Undoubtedly.
Did she want to take this pretender down a peg? You know it.
“Perhaps we can arrive at some kind of accord, beloved,” Ystin interjected, placing a hand on Deirdre’s shoulder. “I understand how jarring seeing this knave must be, but our comrades in arms are lost to time. Other priorities must take precedence.”
Sighing deeply, Deirdre fell back into the chair behind her, irked that this modified timeline removed all the progress she’d made in molding the chair to fit her form. She could see Liri wince at the force she had used to enter the chair, and felt a little bad about that.
God, she could be selfish sometimes.
“Fine. Fine, I’ll be a good sheila now. What is your plan, oh fearless brother o’ mine?” She felt the tension in the room let up slightly, and Ystin gave her a grateful smile.
Owen pulled out another boomerang of his and started pressing the buttons on it. A projection appeared, seemingly the timeline they were currently in. Biting back her instincts to make fun of her brother’s projecto-rang, she sat back and listened as he began to point at the timeline. “As you can see, this is the current stream that we’re in. You can see these discolorations,” he explained, pointing at the shades of red appearing in the mostly blue timeline, “that indicate the anomalies you’re normally after. Sure, they aren’t the best thing to have appear, but it’s within the Time Masters’ range of acceptable aberrations. From what Deirdre is saying, the kind of anomaly we’re looking for with this situation, with one team seemingly erased from time and another fully resurrected, should be lighting this up like a Christmas tree. That massive of a ripple effect from those changes would unmoor us into the Bleed, never to return.”
“But we’re clearly still here,” Rip Hunter said, scowling. “So you’re saying she’s full of it.”
“Not necessarily,” Owen replied, and Deirdre felt a slight pang in her chest as her brother came to her defense. He dialed in another setting and another hologram appeared, this time showing various circles floating around the timestream. “What do you know about time bubbles?”
Michael raised his hand, ever the teacher’s pet, apparently. “They’re basically pocket dimensions separated out from the timestream. The Time Masters use them sometimes to isolate threats to the stream or conduct experiments.”
“Gold star to you,” Owen said, and Deirdre rolled her eyes as Michael beamed. She missed Booster so much. “Yes, exactly that. So let’s say that these bubbles,” he circled a majority of them, “were made and accounted for. We’re left with a good dozen unsanctioned by the Time Masters.”
Deirdre’s hopes started to pick up before Rip dashed them. “But that’s also within parameters for a timestream. Nature abhors a vacuum and makes time bubbles naturally to fill in any blank spaces that appear. You’re grasping at straws.”
Owen turned toward the captain of the Waverider. “I’m sorry, did you want to run this presentation? I can go back to the Authority and leave y’all to your issues if you want.”
Before Rip could respond, Liri stepped in. “Rip, let the poor boy explain. You’re being an asshole.”
Deirdre blinked, surprised at Liri’s interjection. The AI she knew would never put the captain in his place like that. And even more shocking, she saw Rip pull back and motion for Owen to continue, clearly chastened by his crewmate.
Miracles did happen.
“You’re correct, the other bubbles not highlighted are indeed naturally occurring.” Owen pointed at them and expanded them. “But someone with enough access and know-how can commandeer these time bubbles and manipulate them for their own uses.”
Matthew Rider raised his hand. “So you’re saying our missing people could be inside these bubbles? But what about the damage to the timeline from removing them in the first place?”
“Good question. Like I said, this level of fuckery to the order of things should’ve made things completely unravel. That being said, it is possible for someone with a high degree of chronal knowledge and access to do it. It’d be damn risky, as one mistake could spell disaster. But… it's becoming more and more evident that whatever’s responsible for this isn’t an amateur.” Owen pulled up a blank file now, a glaring DATA NOT FOUND flashing in front of them. “You say you all saw Walker Gabriel vanish, and still have memories of him. He’s not in our databases anymore, and there’s not even a void left behind where he should be. This thing took him out and plastered over the timestream to remove any trace.”
Silence fell on the group as the idea of what they were up against sunk in. Deirdre pondered who or what could hate them enough to do something like this.
“So what’re our next steps?” Liri asked, typing away furiously at her datapad. “Should we search these time bubbles for our missing teammates?”
Deirdre smiled sadly as she heard Liri refer to her friends as teammates. This version didn’t even know these people, didn’t have any definitive proof that they even existed, and yet she took them in her heart as part of the team.
Owen shook his head. “That would take too long, and might tip off whatever’s doing this to our plan. We need more manpower for the search and a way to narrow down the field.” Roxy Rocket, who’d spent the entire conversation vlogging the control room with her camera, piped in. “Sciency stuff isn’t really my bag, but could you maybe look for people that interacted with these folks and trace them that way? Use their memories to bridge the gap or whatever?”
To Deirdre, it sounded like the kind of stupid thing that just might work. “I know someone that might be able to help us with that, and I can get some people together we could use.”
Hub City, Illinois
Something was wrong, of that Violet was certain.
Their journey had led them across the globe when they’d felt it happen, felt the universe attempting to steal another memory from them. Violet fought against the overwhelming vibrations that tried to steal the memory of their friend from them, using their powers to shield their mind and their heart. It took everything they had, rendering Violet unconscious for a day. But when they awoke, they still remembered Michael Jon Carter, Booster Gold. The first person in Violet’s memory that tried to help them.
It felt fitting, going from trying to discover their past to helping bring their friend back from oblivion.
The problem was, nothing was working.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Daniel Carter asserted, shifting on his crutches as he tried to close the door on Violet. They held their hand out to stop it, and felt fear trickle through Daniel’s aura.
“I do not mean to startle you, I am just trying to find some answers,” Violet explained, backing away from the door to give Daniel some space. “I know it sounds strange, but I am telling you only the truth.”
“Look, I wish you luck in… this whole thing you’ve got going,” Daniel said, “but I don’t have a clue about any future relatives of mine, whatever the hell that means. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready for a job interview.”
This time, Violet allowed him to slam the door in their face. It was no use. It seemed anyone they’d attempted to contact didn’t have any memories of their friend. Violet knew that if they could only use their aura to show Daniel the true way of things…
But no. That would be a trespass they were hesitant to employ. There had to be a way to bring Michael back without hurting anyone. They would find it, they were sure of it. “Well, if it isn’t the most colorful person I know,” a familiar voice said from behind them. Violet turned around to see Deirdre Harkness approaching them from across the street. Unconsciously adjusting their hijab, Violet ran towards their former teammate and enveloped her in a tight hug.
“You are truly a sight for sore eyes, Deirdre,” Violet said, tears running down their face as they took in their old friend’s presence. “I could really use a friendly ear at the moment. I feel as if I have gone insane.”
Deirdre pulled back from the hug to look Violet in the eye. After a moment of searching, she smiled. “You remember, don’t you?”
Violet’s eyes widened in shock and joy. “Tell me you are not humoring me. You truly remember our friend?”
A wave of relief washed over Violet, and it was all they could do to keep their aura in check as Deirdre spoke. “Not only do I remember Booster and Rip and the others, but I think I have a way to get them back.”
Radiance, Pennsylvania
Living in a mansion wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. For instance, the amount of upkeep required to keep it from becoming a dusty mountain of sadness was just completely unrealistic for one person to do. That meant hiring people to help maintain the grounds, sweep the floors, clean the bathrooms and bedrooms.
Mitch Shelley was not a fan of people.
“No, I said not to make the topiary look like a Soder Cola can,” Mitch insisted to his groundskeeper, an older man whose proximity to loud saws all his life made him hard of hearing. “It looks corny as fuck.”
The old man shook his head. “I think it looks fine, sir. Plus I know your corporate sponsors will appreciate it for that gala you’re holding next week.”
Goddammit. Mitch had been dreading that stupid party ever since he’d been asked to host it in honor of his latest sponsorship campaign for the Soder Cola company. Sure, he wasn’t too involved with the planning (at least, when he could dodge the phone calls and house visits of the party planner he’d hired) but it still took up way too much of his time. That wasn’t to mention the fact that he had to attend the thing.
In a suit.
Ugh.
“Maybe you’re right. Thanks, Joe,” Mitch said, handing the groundskeeper a generous tip. Joe was probably the most down-to-earth of his employees, and he wanted to make sure he was taken care of. Joe shook his hand appreciatively and walked out the door, brushing past a red haired woman dressed garishly in some sort of costume.
“You’re a week early for the gala, darlin’,” Mitch said, waving her away as he tried to escape to his theater room. “I’m sure whatever skill you have will be enough to entertain the suits coming to this shindig.”
“Har de har, asshole,” the woman said, her Australian accent giving him pause. What was an Aussie doing in Pennsylvania? “I’m actually here for Resurrection Man. Need his help.”
Mitch sighed, “Look, I’m sure whatever cat’s stuck in a tree will get itself out. If this is about Lazarus, tell that fucker he can come and face me himself rather than sending his new sidekick.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Look, I know you. You’re a wild horse that can’t be reined in. You need adventure in your life, and I’m here to offer it. Ever time traveled before?”
Mitch stopped on the steps. “In a manner of speaking. What did you have in mind?” Maybe he’d hear this woman out. If anything it might last long enough to get him out of this fucking party.
Opal City
“Stargazer tipline, how can we help?” Jack Knight was surprised when the old phone line started to ring. Courtney had been right; most people used the app to ask for help. He’d almost forgotten the tipline was a thing, and it had startled him into dropping his tools as he worked on another upgrade to the Star Staff. His father’s laboratory made the ringing sound like it was coming from all over, so he’d almost missed the call when he couldn’t find the phone buried under all the schematics.
“Hello Starman, long time fan, first time caller,” a voice said from the receiver, the accent telling him this wasn’t an Opal citizen. “Need your assistance in a caper.” He was tempted to hang up the phone; no doubt this was some kind of crank call. “What’re the details of this… caper, ma’am?” He’d humor her for a little bit. Jennifer and Courtney had been on his case about crunch culture and making sure to take breaks, so maybe this could count as his allotted rest period.
“First off, I think I’m younger than you, so shove off with your ma’am,” the woman huffed. “Second, this isn’t a joke. Why don’t you come out of your little work shed and see what I mean.”
The line clicked, and Jack looked at the phone in confusion. What a weird call. There was no way anyone knew where he was at the moment, so he chalked it up to someone having a laugh at his expense. As he picked up his blowtorch to continue his welding, the intercom buzzed.
“Jack, can you please come up here and tell these yahoos to get their spaceship out of my backyard before they wreck my azaleas?” Jack heard his father’s voice resonate through the speaker. He jumped up to look at the outside cameras, and sure enough, there floated a spaceship of some sort.
He pulled out his phone and texted into the All Star Group Chat. “Hey, gang. Might need to be out of the city for a bit on a mission. I’ll keep you posted.”

Some of us like to judge others for many things. What are some of the things we like to judge others on? Clothing choices, size and shape of their bodies, color of their body’s skin, religion they may have chosen, comments they make, actions they take, etc…
All of these decisions to judge others originate with a comparison to our own view of what is. We move through life with our own gauge of what is acceptable/unacceptable, right/wrong, ok/not ok for what the apparent others are doing. This is always being compared to our own actions and perspectives. Each and every time you judge someone else that is just comparing them to you from your perspective. There are no others. Anytime you see “someone else” do something that you don’t like you should really only look at yourself.
Every single person is a reflection of you. What you see in them is only yourself. Truly meditate/contemplate on this fact… you will see it in action daily. When you assume separation, you can delude yourself into thinking that you are better than them. You aren’t. They are you. You are them.
Some of the others though, are not quite aware of what is. Some call them NPCs, some call them drones, some call them sleepers… whatever you call them is irrelevant. What is relevant is that you understand that they are instances of you and also that they don’t realize you are an instance of them. Instances of you as you were, as you used to be. Versions of you from your own past. These are the ones that will try to judge you.
It is ok to be judged by them - it is to be expected, that is what the do. You must realize they are only seeing themselves in your mirror. You have a few choices when you get judged by them. First, you can accept their judgement and internalize what they are saying and then try to recalibrate your own actions to match their will of how they believe you should be acting. Bending to their manifestation of how you should be acting in other words. This will also at the same time subject them to judgement from others as well though – binding them to their judgement. Or secondly, you can refuse their judgement and go on about your day as you see fit. This will not be pleasant to the ones judging you. They will be confused, they may get irritated that you are not bending to their will and act how they think you should be acting. How dare you not behave in the manner that they see fit, this is their world after all! The result of this will leave them free from judgement from others, but they will be left confused and potentially even more irate at you.
In regards to subjecting yourself to judgement from others. By far and large the largest quantity of those that judge others are EXTREMELY unbalanced individuals. Subjecting yourself to their judgement is a brutal existence. They are for the most part NOT qualified to judge people. So if you just allow everyone to judge you (and internalize what they say and make it a part of your own subjective reality) then you are imprisoning your own mental well being and holding it hostage by the most mentally unstable people around you. Yes, there are some people that are mentally balanced and they are judging people as well at times… but you won’t be able to tell the difference. Play the numbers game… if you are being judged, you should assume that it is coming from an unbalanced one.
You control your own mental balance. You are the one that will internalize anything that may be said about you from the others. What will you take in? How much of your actions will you allow to be controlled by the others? How much will you change your own behavior so that you can “fit in” to the narrative that is being expected of you by the ones that would judge you?
Do not be a slave to the others' thoughts and judgements about you. Do not allow their opinion of you to change how you see yourself. They cannot even see you, they only see themselves. You are the ONLY ONE that can actually see who and what you are. No one else can see you, so how can they ever even judge you?

Hi friends!
I originally wanted to wait until I could see the results of my experiment, but due to this sequence of unusual events, I am standing before you here today. Recovering.
My disodium EDTA finally arrived yesterday, and I got some sodium carbonate from the drug store to up the pH levels, as Ducky Queen once pondered. (On that note, does anyone else miss our queen? I've been thinking about making a post about that.)
I got my bowl out, my distilled water, my stirring chopstick, and went to town. Quite nervous, might I add. I also got pH strips! Finally. I'm still sulking over my old ones going to the store to buy cigarettes and never returning, but we all have to move on.
After one teaspoon of EDTA, the water had a pH of about 5. Adding several more, the pH stayed at ~5. A teaspoon of soda brought it to I'd say about 6, along with a decent amount of fizzling, sizzling foam. Another tsp lifted it to 7, another two to somewhere between 7 and 8. 8 was the number I had had in mind (as EDTA works best in alkalinity), but I decided it was good enough.
I added it to my hair as I always do, and was greeted by a very familiar pain. Of citric acid. Oh, how I haven't missed thee. Even with a controlled pH level, it hurt me. This is, in my opinion, very likely influenced by my already sensitive scalp. Sigh. Oh well. I slung my veteran towel around my shoulders with my hair in a shower cap, and sat like that for three hours. During this, I kept noticing that my roots had dried. Lol. This is inexplicably funny to me. What an issue to run into! Let me tell you, I've never experienced that with citric, even when my hair was already at the stage it is now (with esp my roots drying more quickly than ever). I don't know what to make of it (and again, I wish my queen was around!), but I ended up using a spray bottle à la Sea and continually wetting my hair with it. (It dried a lot.)
Finally, washing time came, and boy was I glad. My hair felt very grainy as the EDTA hadn't dissolved all the way (apparently, it does that). Gosh there was a lot of foam. I rinsed and rinsed and it wasn't getting any less. What an odd experience to have. Reminded me of that prank where a guy in the shower kept getting shampoo squirted on his head by his mate and freaked out over not being able to wash it out.
My hair felt weird to me too. I'm used to getting a sort of dry feel with citric, as understandably it dries it out. This felt dry too, but in a different way. I can't really put it into words. The scent was something I'd describe as sterile, almost medicinal. I'm positive every single person here has smelled this before. Perhaps akin to what you might smell in a pharmacy.
I thought at some point that clearly, my shampoo efforts had not been enough, and since I didn't want to relive needing to wash my hair again when realizing it wasn't quite clean only when it was almost dry, I went in for a second shampoo.
Oh my. I shouldn't have. First, my hair felt exactly the same to me after that second shampoo. Or shall I say during, as it would. Not. Wash. Out. And there was so. Much. Foam. Somehow, one squish of shampoo did my entire head, instead of needing 4 or 5 at least. My entire head! Then, after my first rinse of shampoo #2, I found myself scooping out the foam from my bowl with my hand. I'd call that insane. And again with the experience of rinsing and rinsing, and am I really getting anywhere? Didn't feel like it. I couldn't see the bottom of my sink from all the foam, lol. I ended up using I reckon nearly 3x as much water as I normally do. Did I get all the shampoo out, at least? Uhhh... I'm pretty sure I didn't, lol. I'm used to some (air) bubbles being in my final rinse, and something that looks like skin flakes, but I'm not sure what they really are. But this time, there was (comparatively) just a lot of product left, something that didn't look like air bubbles. I just couldn't take it anymore. My neck hurt. I was exhausted. I wanted to be done already. (I'd say I got more than 90% out though. I think that's something.)
And all this took me 1h2min. When usually, I'm all done and neat and shiny within 30min. As in, often it takes me less, including making sure my bathroom is as nice and shiny as I am. Everything put in its place, the mirror wiped down, the sink clean, my bowl returned to its home. It's a nice experience for me, usually.
So yeah, these are my first impressions of disodium EDTA in my hair. I'd love to hear your thoughts and engage with you over this. Maybe Ducky will hear my cries and return, like Glinda the Good Witch when Dorothy most needed her. I hope you enjoyed reading this. I had a lot of fun writing it, so at least some good came from that fever dream that was my evening.

Okay, I’m gonna level with you. Focusing on current events is just getting a little too fucking heavy. I’m no closer to answers than I was a month ago, none of us can sleep through a full night without waking up shaking and drenched in sweat, and there are some new downright bizarre phenomena cropping up that I just don’t have it in me to allot my energy to at the moment.
So, for today’s installment (and then also for the next one) I’m gonna tell you another good ol’ fun-for-the-whole-family pool story. Yep, you heard that right—welcome to our first bonafide two-parter.
This was quite a while ago. My measure of time is all off by a year now, but I feel fairly confident in chalking it up to post-first pool story, pre-ouija board fiasco—so however long ago that’s been now.
It was a weird, rare night, in that Matt was out. Not an unheard of occurrence, but it’s fairly anomalous, and it certainly puts the rest of us on slightly higher alert.
Obviously, he always tells us to call him at the first sign of some shit going down and to use our best judgment to determine whether it’s serious enough to lock up and head out. Better safe than sorry and all that. The night in question was no exception to the rule.
Overall, though, things were mostly quiet. Alice was in, as was I, as was Wiley. We do a lot of congregating, but we do a lot of work, too, and this night, we were all in our respective areas, doing our respective jobs.
I was in my not-office mending a finicky Shakespeare anthology, Alice was watching the desk while working on cataloging a truckload of new donations, and Wiley was replacing several lightbulbs that had all decided to call it quits after our most recent power outage (this one due to a flash-flood).
It was calm to an almost uncharacteristic degree. There was a relatively steady flow of patrons in and out of the building—I could hear Alice greeting them and wishing them a good evening—but as far as anomalous activity, there was none.
It does happen, on rare occasion, that we make it through a full night without any goings on, but there’s almost always at least the odd disembodied voice or two.
We should’ve known better than to trust a meteor shower.
See, there’s just something about natural anomalies. Not just the ones that knock our power out, either, although those are clearly included. Blizzards, thunderstorms, hail and tornados and earthquakes and all your run-of-the-mill destructive shit, sure. But the things of beauty, too. Rainbows. Eclipses, lunar or solar. And you think full moons hit emergency rooms hard? Try this fucking place.
It was just that a meteor shower wasn’t one we’d dealt with before. Does that mean we shouldn’t have known better? Fuck no. Obviously not. But perhaps our collective greatest fault is that we still have some semblance of hope.
Wiley wanted to look at it from the roof. Kid never fucking wants to do anything, and they were set to climb up and camp out alone. I couldn’t not entertain such an innocent, youthful whim.
Our roof access doesn’t have stairs—just a ladder—so Alice couldn’t accompany us, which I felt shitty about, but she assured me it was perfectly fine with her.
“The world decided I didn’t need functional legs so I could never be peer pressured into leaving the ground,” she quipped. “I’m not into heights. But y’all have fun up there. Somebody needs to be here for the patrons anyway.”
Fair and fair. So Wiley and I gathered up an armful of blankets and one of Matt’s trusty camping lanterns and headed out to scale the building.
Wiley went up ahead of me. That was my first mistake.
Really, they aren’t that much younger than I am. Maybe four or five years, and I’m too close to thirty for comfort now. But there’s something about them, even as far as they’ve come, that makes it impossible for me not to do everything in my power to protect them. I think Matt feels the same way. Maybe most of us do.
Anyway, that’s why I immediately started cursing myself when they reached the top of the ladder, pulled their way up and over the ledge of the roof, and said, “...Whoa.”
My second mistake was not immediately telling them to turn around and start climbing right the fuck back down.
I knew exactly what that tone of voice meant. But something in me just kicked into hyperdrive and I…had to see it. Whatever it was, I had to see it for myself.
“Don’t move,” I said, and then, “What is it?”
But by that point, I was at the top, too. I hoisted myself over the ledge and was met with…
…Water.
It was everywhere. Extending in every direction. There was no edge in sight—not even a horizon line. Just vast, dark water as far as the eye could see.
“Okay. This is not—let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Wiley agreed, a little breathless.
I’m sure you’ll be downright shocked to learn that, when we turned around, the ladder was gone.
The edge of the rooftop was, too.
The thing that surprised me, really, was that it wasn’t as though we were standing on some sort of island. We were somehow in the water all of a sudden, up to our waists, neither of us having taken a single step.
“Fucking…shit. Jesus. Adam?”
“We’re fine,” was my default response, because my anxiety override kicks in like a motherfucker as soon as someone else is more openly afraid than I am. “It’s okay, let’s just—let’s think for a second. Maybe it’s just, like, an illusion or something.”
“Okay,” Wiley said. “Maybe we should…try moving?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll bump the ledge and then we can just feel for the ladder. Good idea.”
Wiley and I shared a look, wordlessly nodding to one another, and stepped forward in unison.
Maybe I misspoke before, when I said we weren’t on a platform. It was just that our platform wasn’t above the water. Now, though, there was nothing.
It felt, almost, like the stomach-turning sensation of missing a step walking up a staircase. The only difference was that there was no moment-too-late connection.
We plummeted.
There wasn’t any difference in temperature beneath the surface, which was, in a way, more disorienting than the water itself. The mental recalibration that typically comes with plunging into a cool lake or, adversely, a heated pool wasn’t allotted an opportunity to take place. It felt, for most intents and purposes, the same as being in the air, just that I couldn’t breathe.
It was heavy, too. The weightlessness water tends to embody was null; I immediately abandoned everything I’d been carrying, clawing my way upward frantically enough that it would’ve been mortifying, I’m sure, had anyone witnessed it.
Wiley resurfaced at the same moment I did—empty handed as well, I noted—coughing a little but not to the extent that I was worried they were choking. “Next idea?” they asked, pushing their wet hair back from their face, dark, damp lashes obscuring their eyes.
“Let’s get back on the…” I started, but trailed off when I raised my head.
A couple hundred yards out from us, there was a ship. It was a dark, hulking thing, with tattered sails and something indistinguishable affixed to the bow, glittering and glinting in the moonlight.
Wiley spun around to face it, drifting back slightly when their gaze landed parallel to mine. “What the fuck is that?” they demanded, legs kicking haphazardly beneath the water to keep them in place.
“Maybe it’s…good,” I said. I knew better than that and I knew Wiley did, too, but I said it anyway. “Maybe someone will help.”
They didn’t even humor me with a response to that bullshit.
Now, at this point in the story, maybe you’re thinking being suddenly surrounded by water and watching as an ominous ship approached us with absolutely nowhere to go and no way to escape doesn’t feel quite enough like imminent condemnation. To which I say to you: not to worry. Because the next realization we came to was that the platform we’d been standing on previously had suddenly ceased to exist.
“Shit,” Wiley said. “Shit, shit, shit. Adam.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s fine. We’re fine. We just—we’re gonna—follow me.”
I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck possessed me to swim toward the Obvious Death Ship. I guess just that there wasn’t anything else save for open water anywhere so it essentially felt like our options were paddle around until we were exhausted and drown or face a quicker, simpler demise.
“You better have a fucking plan, bro,” Wiley intoned from behind me, which I chivalrously pretended not to hear, because I did not, in fact, have a fucking plan.
The closer we drew to the vessel, the more unbelievably monstrous it appeared to become. It loomed above us, casting a shadow over everything in its direct path, and the sinking in my stomach almost convinced me to turn around. Almost.
But then something curled around my ankle. It was slick and strong, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that whatever it was could’ve pulled me under and eaten me alive in a fraction of a second.
Luckily for me, it wasn’t interested. It let go as quickly as it had latched on, almost as though it was simply using me as a handrail to move itself along. Still, though, the knowledge that it was there was all the motivation I needed to push forward ever faster. I didn’t say anything—didn’t want to add more fuel to Wiley’s panicked fire—just picked up my pace and swam up to their side.
“There’s a ladder,” they informed me, raising a hand and pointing toward the back half of the ship.
Indeed, there was a ladder. It was a tattered, worn thing, comprised of old, fraying rope and rotting, untreated wooden boards, but it looked composed enough that I figured we could likely make it up if we were swift.
“Bet,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We went.
Up close, the ladder appeared even shoddier than it had when we’d first seen it. I reached out of the water and wrapped my fingers around the rope at the bottom, giving it a hearty tug. To my slight surprise, it held fast.
“I think we’re good,” I told Wiley. “I’ll go up first and tell you what I see.”
“Be careful,” they said, but didn’t protest, just backed up enough for me to get the leverage I needed to hoist myself onto the bottom board.
I climbed warily, overly conscious of every creak of the wood bowing beneath my weight, every groan of the fibers of rope under my hands, but made it without incident to the top.
Once there, I grabbed onto the ship’s edge, lifting my gaze to take in whatever lie before me.
It was…nothing. I mean, it was a ship, obviously. But there wasn’t anything on board. No apparent crew nor cargo nor even a captain manning the helm. Granted, I couldn’t see perfectly, but the moon shone brightly enough that I was fairly confident in my observation that the deck was devoid of anything but its own shiplap floor.
“Hello?” I called, because I wasn’t about to beckon Wiley up if some fucked shit was going to pop out of nowhere the second we made a sound.
Nothing responded. Nothing moved. The ship rocked gently on the impossible water, as silent and vacant as it had been a moment before.
“Good?” Wiley questioned nervously from below me.
“Yeah,” I told them, easing myself off the ladder and down into the confines of the vessel. “Come on.”
They did so tenuously but still more swiftly than I had, climbing aboard and landing next to me with a dampened thunk.
We allowed ourselves the briefest of moments to catch our breath, silently rejoicing in the small win that was having found solace from the pool itself. Not that we had any idea what to do or where to go from here, but at the very least, we weren’t drowning.
“Okay,” I said, clearing the unease from my throat. “I don’t know what good trying to steer this thing would do us—there’s nothing but water no matter where we go. But maybe there’s something here somewhere that’ll help us figure out how to get back. So I think we just…start looking around?”
Wiley nodded. “Cool. Split halves, front and back?”
Nooo, Adam, don’t split up! Never split up! I know. I can literally hear you screaming it at me. And actually, for once in my life, I considered that something might be a horrible fucking idea before acting on it.
But then I saw something.
As I turned back to respond, Wiley’s eyes shimmered, dancing in the moonlight.
They were silver and mercurial, with no pupils or whites in sight.
Whatever had come back up from underwater, it was not my coworker.
I swallowed, forcing my expression to remain as neutral as I was able and praying whatever was standing in front of me didn’t notice I’d caught on. My entire body was instantaneously covered in chills, in a way that I understood to have the same purpose as a dog’s hackles rising. “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll take the front.”
I headed in the opposite direction of the thing wearing Wiley’s face (at a pace that I hoped didn’t appear hurried but one that would remove me in a timely manner from the vicinity) and didn’t stop until I’d reached the front of the ship, breathing heavily and attempting to slow my reeling mind.
I didn’t know what to tackle first. I didn’t know where Wiley was, or if they were anywhere—if they were even still alive. I didn’t know what my next move should be. I didn’t know what I was looking for or where I might find it.
It’s rare that I feel utterly hopeless, to the degree that I genuinely contemplate just sitting down and giving up, but in this instance, I thought long and hard about how easy it would be to succumb. I’d let the unthinkable happen. Wiley was gone. No one else had been here with them—there was no one else to blame. Just me. Only me.
…You’ll be glad to know that the self-pity didn’t last long. Embarrassing, honestly.
If I was the only one here, it meant I was the only shot they had at making it out alive. Our version of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ had always been ‘alive until proven dead’ and I wasn’t about to turn my back on the insane streak of luck we’d had up until this point. Not a single one of our lives had been lost, and we’d been in the midst of some absolute shitstorms. There was no reason to believe that right now, tonight, was an outlier. I couldn’t lie down like a sick dog and wonder if Wiley was still out there somewhere, suffering until the bitter, bloody end. I had to find them. By whatever means necessary, as long as it took, I had to find them.
I pushed off the railing before me and spun on my heel, eyes flitting back and forth to assess my options as efficiently as possible, and after a moment, I registered that fitted flush against the large front mast, there was a door.
It was only a sliver, thin and not particularly extraordinary in height, but there was a handle carved roughly into its right side and a set of rust-riddled hinges on its left.
I took about half a second to weigh my options and then reached for it, curling my fingers around the handle and giving it a generous tug.
The hinges, unsurprisingly, complained, but not loudly and not for long. The door gave way with little resistance, and opened up to my worst fucking nightmare.
A set of stairs, descending into blackness.
I mean, I guess if I’m being fair, my first pool encounter had featured a staircase leading to the pool rather than away from it, but I didn’t feel like there could possibly be good news awaiting me below deck of a ship where I’d just encountered a fucking mimic.
Still, though, there was a niggling insistence in my brain (not that kind, come on) that it was my only lead on finding Wiley if they were, in fact, somewhere on board. So I cast one last glance over my shoulder and stepped into the dark, letting the door fall closed behind me.
It smelled different, instantly, from the open air above. Mustier, which was to be expected, but also almost sweet somehow. I tried, unsuccessfully, to shove my true-crime-podcast-addled brain’s helpful reminder that the scent of human death is said to be sweet into a mental lockbox and put my hand to the wall, easing tentatively down to the second step.
The visibility wasn’t just low—it was practically zero. If you’ve ever been on a cave tour and had a guide cut the lights and instruct you to lift your hand to your face to demonstrate the complete absence of light, it was nearly that intense. The placing of both feet on each concurrent stair was an arduous, calculated process, but finally, after approximately one (1) century, I reached flat ground. I still couldn’t see, and there was no definitive way to tell whether I was standing on the floor or just a landing without thoroughly feeling out the space around me, so I reluctantly departed from the wall, scooting my feet in small, tentative motions and keeping both arms partially outstretched before me.
After a (l o n g) moment, I determined that either this was the world’s largest landing or I’d made it all the way down. I had no idea whether I was in a singular, enormous room, or if there were individual cabins, or if I was about to run face-first into the grim fucking reaper.
And then I turned to my left.
There was a light.
It was so, so faint. Flickering. Barely discernible, its warm, gentle glow ever so shyly illuminating the cracks around what appeared to be another closed door.
Being the only visible thing in my line of sight, in any direction, it emitted the aura of both a beacon and an omen.
I headed towards it.
I was about half afraid I was stuck in a horror movie situation where no matter how long I walked it would never grow any closer, but fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. I actually gained on it more quickly than I felt I should have for the speed I was moving, but I wasn’t going to complain about reaching the end of the nothingness in commendable time.
I ran my fingertips along the edge of the door and, sure enough, there was a carved-in handle, just like the last.
It opened just as effortlessly, and yellow candlelight rolled dimly out to greet me, lapping at my waterlogged clothes.
“Please,” came a quiet, terrified voice from inside the room. “Please don’t. I don’t know what you want, or–or what you are, but please don’t—”
“...Wiley?”
Rather than calming, the voice’s state of alarm rose to a level bordering on full-blown panic as I took a step into the space. “Please,” the voice begged. There wasn’t anyone visible from my current vantage point, but I could hear it clearly enough to feel fairly confident that the person attached to it—the person who either had to be Wiley or yet another duplicate of them—was close. “Why are you doing this?”
This was a cabin, I thought, or perhaps a study of some sort, with a rotting wooden desk and a decaying leather chair both covered in a flurry of loose, browned book pages and a thick layer of dust. There were candles littering several surfaces, placed in what appeared not to be any intentional manner. Directly to my right, there was a shelf; its back faced me and the odd placement led me to imagine that it may have been employed to block the door at some time.
It was also, I would have just about bet, the source of the voice.
I nudged a couple of planks and a broken amber bottle out of the way with the toe of my shoe, rounding the shelf to find a crumpled, bloodied Wiley, restrained to the floor by a thick, coarse rope fixed expertly to a bolted tie and holding their bound hands up to shield their face.
“Jesus fuck,” I said. “What happened to you?”
Slowly, they lifted their head. “...Adam?”
Realization dawned on me, and I felt my stomach sink. “Look at me,” I told them. “Look at my eyes.”
They did, their own bloodshot and watery and inherently human, and I watched their shoulders deflate, the defense and terror draining from their form. “There’s someone…something…down here. Or, I guess it still is, anyway. I don’t know where it went, but I don’t wanna be here when it comes back.”
I nodded. “It look like me?”
Wiley nodded back.
“Yeah, there’s one of you upstairs. Not real sure what we’re supposed to do about them, but one thing at a time. Let’s get you up from there.”
It was a struggle, disentangling Wiley from the heavy, abrasive leads coccooning their body, but we got there eventually, and throughout the entirety of the arduous process they gave me the rundown on how, when we’d parted from the solace of the platform, something had instantaneously latched onto them, dragging them down deeper and deeper until their ears popped and their head felt like it was going to explode. They said they’d been knocked out by the pressure, and that when they’d come to, already tied in place and coughing up lungfuls of water, “I” had been standing over them, wielding a large net hook and no mercy.
“I knew it wasn’t you, obviously,” they said, “but I didn’t know where you actually were or if something had, like. Hijacked your body? I don’t know. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We grabbed a couple of candles (the majority had simply been melted into place atop whatever surface they’d adorned, but there was a small collection fitted into slightly-too-small brass holders) and got the fuck out.
Being able to see so little in the space around us was almost more disorienting than the pitch darkness I’d been feeling my way through before. It felt as though we were in a fragile, wavering bubble of reality and nothing existed outside of it.
“Wish I’d been awake coming down here,” Wiley remarked. “Guess I still wouldn’t have seen shit, though.”
“I could…maybe get us back upstairs?” I considered, with little to no confidence. “But I don’t really know what good it would do us. Nowhere to go. Maybe we just…look around down here for a bit? See if we can find anything useful?”
“Yeah, okay,” Wiley assented. “But we’ve gotta be quiet. I don’t want that thing to hear us.”
I certainly couldn’t argue with that.
We wandered hesitantly through the dark, shielding the flames of our candles with cupped palms and praying we wouldn’t misstep. We made it some unsubstantiated quantity of time without incident, but softly, after seconds or minutes or hours, we heard a light rustling from the shadow veiled corridor to our right, and Wiley pulled me into the nearest open room in the opposite direction.
Flattening our backs to the wall, we listened intently as footsteps echoed faintly behind us, cyclically growing closer and then further away again for several moments before disappearing altogether.
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and uncovered my candle, easing the door of the room to a gentle, silent close. The contents of this one were different from that of the last in that there practically weren’t any. It wasn’t just that it was tidier; there was a chest shoved against the wall nearest us and a leatherbound book of some sort lying in the center of the floor, but otherwise the space was vacant.
Wiley moved first, crouching next to the journal and lifting it from the ground, a cloud of dust rising in the wake of their breath. I knelt down beside them, offering my candlelight so they could discard theirs and open the cover.
Beneath which there was a box.
It was a plain, unadorned wooden rectangle, nestled into the carved-out central pages of the book, and we learned upon extracting it that there was no lock or latch, just a seam indicating the lid’s separation from the body.
I don’t need to spell the whole situation out for you. There was a key in the box. The key opened, you guessed it: the chest. Inside the chest, there were piles of gold and jewels beyond your wildest imagination. We’re rich now. The end.
Nah, JK. But the key in the box did open the chest, in which there was, A) a pair of peeling, pleather driving gloves, and B)...
I felt my heart skip.
A bicycle chain.
I’m not going to get into the nuances of that right now, or maybe ever. But for the purposes of dramatic flair, just know that it was incredibly, pointedly relevant to me, on a level so personal it sucker punched the air straight out of my lungs.
“No,” Wiley said, staggering back a step. “Uh-uh. Nope.”
I put together, then, that the gloves must have been their ticket item. “It’s okay,” I said, on autopilot, because it was not. “There’s something—something’s carved into the bottom of this thing.” Pushing past the reaction every fiber of my being had to the sensation of the frigid metal against my skin, I shoved both the chain and the gloves to the side and could scarcely make out a host of crudely scrawled letters in the wavering light of my half-gone candle.
“What is it?” Wiley asked, making no move to come nearer again.
“Though your…hand…? Heart. Though your heart does pound and knees grow…weak,” I deciphered slowly, “Rid yourself by your… That doesn’t make any sense. Shouldn’t it be of? It says ‘rid yourself by your fear’ and…something. Drain the…clin… No. Drink. Drain the drink.”
“Rid yourself by your fear and drain the drink,” Wiley repeated analytically. “The hell does that mean? Is this shit telling us to kill ourselves with the—oh. Oh. Fuck.”
I was not following. “...I’m not following,” I said.
“It is.” Wiley returned to my side, squatting down and nudging me out of the way with their shoulder to peer warily into the trunk. “It’s telling us to kill ourselves, but not these selves. We’re supposed to use…those…to kill our fuckin’ doppelgangers, or whatever they are. That’s how we get rid of the water.”
“Oh,” I echoed. “Fuck.”
We marinated for a moment in silence before Wiley sighed, resigned, and lifted the gloves from the chest, closing their eyes and pulling the fabric snugly over their hands. “Let’s get to work.”

Okay, I’m gonna level with you. Focusing on current events is just getting a little too fucking heavy. I’m no closer to answers than I was a month ago, none of us can sleep through a full night without waking up shaking and drenched in sweat, and there are some new downright bizarre phenomena cropping up that I just don’t have it in me to allot my energy to at the moment.
So, for today’s installment (and then also for the next one) I’m gonna tell you another good ol’ fun-for-the-whole-family pool story. Yep, you heard that right—welcome to our first bonafide two-parter.
This was quite a while ago. My measure of time is all off by a year now, but I feel fairly confident in chalking it up to post-first pool story, pre-ouija board fiasco—so however long ago that’s been now.
It was a weird, rare night, in that Matt was out. Not an unheard of occurrence, but it’s fairly anomalous, and it certainly puts the rest of us on slightly higher alert.
Obviously, he always tells us to call him at the first sign of some shit going down and to use our best judgment to determine whether it’s serious enough to lock up and head out. Better safe than sorry and all that. The night in question was no exception to the rule.
Overall, though, things were mostly quiet. Alice was in, as was I, as was Wiley. We do a lot of congregating, but we do a lot of work, too, and this night, we were all in our respective areas, doing our respective jobs.
I was in my not-office mending a finicky Shakespeare anthology, Alice was watching the desk while working on cataloging a truckload of new donations, and Wiley was replacing several lightbulbs that had all decided to call it quits after our most recent power outage (this one due to a flash-flood).
It was calm to an almost uncharacteristic degree. There was a relatively steady flow of patrons in and out of the building—I could hear Alice greeting them and wishing them a good evening—but as far as anomalous activity, there was none.
It does happen, on rare occasion, that we make it through a full night without any goings on, but there’s almost always at least the odd disembodied voice or two.
We should’ve known better than to trust a meteor shower.
See, there’s just something about natural anomalies. Not just the ones that knock our power out, either, although those are clearly included. Blizzards, thunderstorms, hail and tornados and earthquakes and all your run-of-the-mill destructive shit, sure. But the things of beauty, too. Rainbows. Eclipses, lunar or solar. And you think full moons hit emergency rooms hard? Try this fucking place.
It was just that a meteor shower wasn’t one we’d dealt with before. Does that mean we shouldn’t have known better? Fuck no. Obviously not. But perhaps our collective greatest fault is that we still have some semblance of hope.
Wiley wanted to look at it from the roof. Kid never fucking wants to do anything, and they were set to climb up and camp out alone. I couldn’t not entertain such an innocent, youthful whim.
Our roof access doesn’t have stairs—just a ladder—so Alice couldn’t accompany us, which I felt shitty about, but she assured me it was perfectly fine with her.
“The world decided I didn’t need functional legs so I could never be peer pressured into leaving the ground,” she quipped. “I’m not into heights. But y’all have fun up there. Somebody needs to be here for the patrons anyway.”
Fair and fair. So Wiley and I gathered up an armful of blankets and one of Matt’s trusty camping lanterns and headed out to scale the building.
Wiley went up ahead of me. That was my first mistake.
Really, they aren’t that much younger than I am. Maybe four or five years, and I’m too close to thirty for comfort now. But there’s something about them, even as far as they’ve come, that makes it impossible for me not to do everything in my power to protect them. I think Matt feels the same way. Maybe most of us do.
Anyway, that’s why I immediately started cursing myself when they reached the top of the ladder, pulled their way up and over the ledge of the roof, and said, “...Whoa.”
My second mistake was not immediately telling them to turn around and start climbing right the fuck back down.
I knew exactly what that tone of voice meant. But something in me just kicked into hyperdrive and I…had to see it. Whatever it was, I had to see it for myself.
“Don’t move,” I said, and then, “What is it?”
But by that point, I was at the top, too. I hoisted myself over the ledge and was met with…
…Water.
It was everywhere. Extending in every direction. There was no edge in sight—not even a horizon line. Just vast, dark water as far as the eye could see.
“Okay. This is not—let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Wiley agreed, a little breathless.
I’m sure you’ll be downright shocked to learn that, when we turned around, the ladder was gone.
The edge of the rooftop was, too.
The thing that surprised me, really, was that it wasn’t as though we were standing on some sort of island. We were somehow in the water all of a sudden, up to our waists, neither of us having taken a single step.
“Fucking…shit. Jesus. Adam?”
“We’re fine,” was my default response, because my anxiety override kicks in like a motherfucker as soon as someone else is more openly afraid than I am. “It’s okay, let’s just—let’s think for a second. Maybe it’s just, like, an illusion or something.”
“Okay,” Wiley said. “Maybe we should…try moving?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll bump the ledge and then we can just feel for the ladder. Good idea.”
Wiley and I shared a look, wordlessly nodding to one another, and stepped forward in unison.
Maybe I misspoke before, when I said we weren’t on a platform. It was just that our platform wasn’t above the water. Now, though, there was nothing.
It felt, almost, like the stomach-turning sensation of missing a step walking up a staircase. The only difference was that there was no moment-too-late connection.
We plummeted.
There wasn’t any difference in temperature beneath the surface, which was, in a way, more disorienting than the water itself. The mental recalibration that typically comes with plunging into a cool lake or, adversely, a heated pool wasn’t allotted an opportunity to take place. It felt, for most intents and purposes, the same as being in the air, just that I couldn’t breathe.
It was heavy, too. The weightlessness water tends to embody was null; I immediately abandoned everything I’d been carrying, clawing my way upward frantically enough that it would’ve been mortifying, I’m sure, had anyone witnessed it.
Wiley resurfaced at the same moment I did—empty handed as well, I noted—coughing a little but not to the extent that I was worried they were choking. “Next idea?” they asked, pushing their wet hair back from their face, dark, damp lashes obscuring their eyes.
“Let’s get back on the…” I started, but trailed off when I raised my head.
A couple hundred yards out from us, there was a ship. It was a dark, hulking thing, with tattered sails and something indistinguishable affixed to the bow, glittering and glinting in the moonlight.
Wiley spun around to face it, drifting back slightly when their gaze landed parallel to mine. “What the fuck is that?” they demanded, legs kicking haphazardly beneath the water to keep them in place.
“Maybe it’s…good,” I said. I knew better than that and I knew Wiley did, too, but I said it anyway. “Maybe someone will help.”
They didn’t even humor me with a response to that bullshit.
Now, at this point in the story, maybe you’re thinking being suddenly surrounded by water and watching as an ominous ship approached us with absolutely nowhere to go and no way to escape doesn’t feel quite enough like imminent condemnation. To which I say to you: not to worry. Because the next realization we came to was that the platform we’d been standing on previously had suddenly ceased to exist.
“Shit,” Wiley said. “Shit, shit, shit. Adam.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s fine. We’re fine. We just—we’re gonna—follow me.”
I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck possessed me to swim toward the Obvious Death Ship. I guess just that there wasn’t anything else save for open water anywhere so it essentially felt like our options were paddle around until we were exhausted and drown or face a quicker, simpler demise.
“You better have a fucking plan, bro,” Wiley intoned from behind me, which I chivalrously pretended not to hear, because I did not, in fact, have a fucking plan.
The closer we drew to the vessel, the more unbelievably monstrous it appeared to become. It loomed above us, casting a shadow over everything in its direct path, and the sinking in my stomach almost convinced me to turn around. Almost.
But then something curled around my ankle. It was slick and strong, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that whatever it was could’ve pulled me under and eaten me alive in a fraction of a second.
Luckily for me, it wasn’t interested. It let go as quickly as it had latched on, almost as though it was simply using me as a handrail to move itself along. Still, though, the knowledge that it was there was all the motivation I needed to push forward ever faster. I didn’t say anything—didn’t want to add more fuel to Wiley’s panicked fire—just picked up my pace and swam up to their side.
“There’s a ladder,” they informed me, raising a hand and pointing toward the back half of the ship.
Indeed, there was a ladder. It was a tattered, worn thing, comprised of old, fraying rope and rotting, untreated wooden boards, but it looked composed enough that I figured we could likely make it up if we were swift.
“Bet,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We went.
Up close, the ladder appeared even shoddier than it had when we’d first seen it. I reached out of the water and wrapped my fingers around the rope at the bottom, giving it a hearty tug. To my slight surprise, it held fast.
“I think we’re good,” I told Wiley. “I’ll go up first and tell you what I see.”
“Be careful,” they said, but didn’t protest, just backed up enough for me to get the leverage I needed to hoist myself onto the bottom board.
I climbed warily, overly conscious of every creak of the wood bowing beneath my weight, every groan of the fibers of rope under my hands, but made it without incident to the top.
Once there, I grabbed onto the ship’s edge, lifting my gaze to take in whatever lie before me.
It was…nothing. I mean, it was a ship, obviously. But there wasn’t anything on board. No apparent crew nor cargo nor even a captain manning the helm. Granted, I couldn’t see perfectly, but the moon shone brightly enough that I was fairly confident in my observation that the deck was devoid of anything but its own shiplap floor.
“Hello?” I called, because I wasn’t about to beckon Wiley up if some fucked shit was going to pop out of nowhere the second we made a sound.
Nothing responded. Nothing moved. The ship rocked gently on the impossible water, as silent and vacant as it had been a moment before.
“Good?” Wiley questioned nervously from below me.
“Yeah,” I told them, easing myself off the ladder and down into the confines of the vessel. “Come on.”
They did so tenuously but still more swiftly than I had, climbing aboard and landing next to me with a dampened thunk.
We allowed ourselves the briefest of moments to catch our breath, silently rejoicing in the small win that was having found solace from the pool itself. Not that we had any idea what to do or where to go from here, but at the very least, we weren’t drowning.
“Okay,” I said, clearing the unease from my throat. “I don’t know what good trying to steer this thing would do us—there’s nothing but water no matter where we go. But maybe there’s something here somewhere that’ll help us figure out how to get back. So I think we just…start looking around?”
Wiley nodded. “Cool. Split halves, front and back?”
Nooo, Adam, don’t split up! Never split up! I know. I can literally hear you screaming it at me. And actually, for once in my life, I considered that something might be a horrible fucking idea before acting on it.
But then I saw something.
As I turned back to respond, Wiley’s eyes shimmered, dancing in the moonlight.
They were silver and mercurial, with no pupils or whites in sight.
Whatever had come back up from underwater, it was not my coworker.
I swallowed, forcing my expression to remain as neutral as I was able and praying whatever was standing in front of me didn’t notice I’d caught on. My entire body was instantaneously covered in chills, in a way that I understood to have the same purpose as a dog’s hackles rising. “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll take the front.”
I headed in the opposite direction of the thing wearing Wiley’s face (at a pace that I hoped didn’t appear hurried but one that would remove me in a timely manner from the vicinity) and didn’t stop until I’d reached the front of the ship, breathing heavily and attempting to slow my reeling mind.
I didn’t know what to tackle first. I didn’t know where Wiley was, or if they were anywhere—if they were even still alive. I didn’t know what my next move should be. I didn’t know what I was looking for or where I might find it.
It’s rare that I feel utterly hopeless, to the degree that I genuinely contemplate just sitting down and giving up, but in this instance, I thought long and hard about how easy it would be to succumb. I’d let the unthinkable happen. Wiley was gone. No one else had been here with them—there was no one else to blame. Just me. Only me.
…You’ll be glad to know that the self-pity didn’t last long. Embarrassing, honestly.
If I was the only one here, it meant I was the only shot they had at making it out alive. Our version of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ had always been ‘alive until proven dead’ and I wasn’t about to turn my back on the insane streak of luck we’d had up until this point. Not a single one of our lives had been lost, and we’d been in the midst of some absolute shitstorms. There was no reason to believe that right now, tonight, was an outlier. I couldn’t lie down like a sick dog and wonder if Wiley was still out there somewhere, suffering until the bitter, bloody end. I had to find them. By whatever means necessary, as long as it took, I had to find them.
I pushed off the railing before me and spun on my heel, eyes flitting back and forth to assess my options as efficiently as possible, and after a moment, I registered that fitted flush against the large front mast, there was a door.
It was only a sliver, thin and not particularly extraordinary in height, but there was a handle carved roughly into its right side and a set of rust-riddled hinges on its left.
I took about half a second to weigh my options and then reached for it, curling my fingers around the handle and giving it a generous tug.
The hinges, unsurprisingly, complained, but not loudly and not for long. The door gave way with little resistance, and opened up to my worst fucking nightmare.
A set of stairs, descending into blackness.
I mean, I guess if I’m being fair, my first pool encounter had featured a staircase leading to the pool rather than away from it, but I didn’t feel like there could possibly be good news awaiting me below deck of a ship where I’d just encountered a fucking mimic.
Still, though, there was a niggling insistence in my brain (not that kind, come on) that it was my only lead on finding Wiley if they were, in fact, somewhere on board. So I cast one last glance over my shoulder and stepped into the dark, letting the door fall closed behind me.
It smelled different, instantly, from the open air above. Mustier, which was to be expected, but also almost sweet somehow. I tried, unsuccessfully, to shove my true-crime-podcast-addled brain’s helpful reminder that the scent of human death is said to be sweet into a mental lockbox and put my hand to the wall, easing tentatively down to the second step.
The visibility wasn’t just low—it was practically zero. If you’ve ever been on a cave tour and had a guide cut the lights and instruct you to lift your hand to your face to demonstrate the complete absence of light, it was nearly that intense. The placing of both feet on each concurrent stair was an arduous, calculated process, but finally, after approximately one (1) century, I reached flat ground. I still couldn’t see, and there was no definitive way to tell whether I was standing on the floor or just a landing without thoroughly feeling out the space around me, so I reluctantly departed from the wall, scooting my feet in small, tentative motions and keeping both arms partially outstretched before me.
After a (l o n g) moment, I determined that either this was the world’s largest landing or I’d made it all the way down. I had no idea whether I was in a singular, enormous room, or if there were individual cabins, or if I was about to run face-first into the grim fucking reaper.
And then I turned to my left.
There was a light.
It was so, so faint. Flickering. Barely discernible, its warm, gentle glow ever so shyly illuminating the cracks around what appeared to be another closed door.
Being the only visible thing in my line of sight, in any direction, it emitted the aura of both a beacon and an omen.
I headed towards it.
I was about half afraid I was stuck in a horror movie situation where no matter how long I walked it would never grow any closer, but fortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. I actually gained on it more quickly than I felt I should have for the speed I was moving, but I wasn’t going to complain about reaching the end of the nothingness in commendable time.
I ran my fingertips along the edge of the door and, sure enough, there was a carved-in handle, just like the last.
It opened just as effortlessly, and yellow candlelight rolled dimly out to greet me, lapping at my waterlogged clothes.
“Please,” came a quiet, terrified voice from inside the room. “Please don’t. I don’t know what you want, or–or what you are, but please don’t—”
“...Wiley?”
Rather than calming, the voice’s state of alarm rose to a level bordering on full-blown panic as I took a step into the space. “Please,” the voice begged. There wasn’t anyone visible from my current vantage point, but I could hear it clearly enough to feel fairly confident that the person attached to it—the person who either had to be Wiley or yet another duplicate of them—was close. “Why are you doing this?”
This was a cabin, I thought, or perhaps a study of some sort, with a rotting wooden desk and a decaying leather chair both covered in a flurry of loose, browned book pages and a thick layer of dust. There were candles littering several surfaces, placed in what appeared not to be any intentional manner. Directly to my right, there was a shelf; its back faced me and the odd placement led me to imagine that it may have been employed to block the door at some time.
It was also, I would have just about bet, the source of the voice.
I nudged a couple of planks and a broken amber bottle out of the way with the toe of my shoe, rounding the shelf to find a crumpled, bloodied Wiley, restrained to the floor by a thick, coarse rope fixed expertly to a bolted tie and holding their bound hands up to shield their face.
“Jesus fuck,” I said. “What happened to you?”
Slowly, they lifted their head. “...Adam?”
Realization dawned on me, and I felt my stomach sink. “Look at me,” I told them. “Look at my eyes.”
They did, their own bloodshot and watery and inherently human, and I watched their shoulders deflate, the defense and terror draining from their form. “There’s someone…something…down here. Or, I guess it still is, anyway. I don’t know where it went, but I don’t wanna be here when it comes back.”
I nodded. “It look like me?”
Wiley nodded back.
“Yeah, there’s one of you upstairs. Not real sure what we’re supposed to do about them, but one thing at a time. Let’s get you up from there.”
It was a struggle, disentangling Wiley from the heavy, abrasive leads coccooning their body, but we got there eventually, and throughout the entirety of the arduous process they gave me the rundown on how, when we’d parted from the solace of the platform, something had instantaneously latched onto them, dragging them down deeper and deeper until their ears popped and their head felt like it was going to explode. They said they’d been knocked out by the pressure, and that when they’d come to, already tied in place and coughing up lungfuls of water, “I” had been standing over them, wielding a large net hook and no mercy.
“I knew it wasn’t you, obviously,” they said, “but I didn’t know where you actually were or if something had, like. Hijacked your body? I don’t know. Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We grabbed a couple of candles (the majority had simply been melted into place atop whatever surface they’d adorned, but there was a small collection fitted into slightly-too-small brass holders) and got the fuck out.
Being able to see so little in the space around us was almost more disorienting than the pitch darkness I’d been feeling my way through before. It felt as though we were in a fragile, wavering bubble of reality and nothing existed outside of it.
“Wish I’d been awake coming down here,” Wiley remarked. “Guess I still wouldn’t have seen shit, though.”
“I could…maybe get us back upstairs?” I considered, with little to no confidence. “But I don’t really know what good it would do us. Nowhere to go. Maybe we just…look around down here for a bit? See if we can find anything useful?”
“Yeah, okay,” Wiley assented. “But we’ve gotta be quiet. I don’t want that thing to hear us.”
I certainly couldn’t argue with that.
We wandered hesitantly through the dark, shielding the flames of our candles with cupped palms and praying we wouldn’t misstep. We made it some unsubstantiated quantity of time without incident, but softly, after seconds or minutes or hours, we heard a light rustling from the shadow veiled corridor to our right, and Wiley pulled me into the nearest open room in the opposite direction.
Flattening our backs to the wall, we listened intently as footsteps echoed faintly behind us, cyclically growing closer and then further away again for several moments before disappearing altogether.
I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and uncovered my candle, easing the door of the room to a gentle, silent close. The contents of this one were different from that of the last in that there practically weren’t any. It wasn’t just that it was tidier; there was a chest shoved against the wall nearest us and a leatherbound book of some sort lying in the center of the floor, but otherwise the space was vacant.
Wiley moved first, crouching next to the journal and lifting it from the ground, a cloud of dust rising in the wake of their breath. I knelt down beside them, offering my candlelight so they could discard theirs and open the cover.
Beneath which there was a box.
It was a plain, unadorned wooden rectangle, nestled into the carved-out central pages of the book, and we learned upon extracting it that there was no lock or latch, just a seam indicating the lid’s separation from the body.
I don’t need to spell the whole situation out for you. There was a key in the box. The key opened, you guessed it: the chest. Inside the chest, there were piles of gold and jewels beyond your wildest imagination. We’re rich now. The end.
Nah, JK. But the key in the box did open the chest, in which there was, A) a pair of peeling, pleather driving gloves, and B)...
I felt my heart skip.
A bicycle chain.
I’m not going to get into the nuances of that right now, or maybe ever. But for the purposes of dramatic flair, just know that it was incredibly, pointedly relevant to me, on a level so personal it sucker punched the air straight out of my lungs.
“No,” Wiley said, staggering back a step. “Uh-uh. Nope.”
I put together, then, that the gloves must have been their ticket item. “It’s okay,” I said, on autopilot, because it was not. “There’s something—something’s carved into the bottom of this thing.” Pushing past the reaction every fiber of my being had to the sensation of the frigid metal against my skin, I shoved both the chain and the gloves to the side and could scarcely make out a host of crudely scrawled letters in the wavering light of my half-gone candle.
“What is it?” Wiley asked, making no move to come nearer again.
“Though your…hand…? Heart. Though your heart does pound and knees grow…weak,” I deciphered slowly, “Rid yourself by your… That doesn’t make any sense. Shouldn’t it be of? It says ‘rid yourself by your fear’ and…something. Drain the…clin… No. Drink. Drain the drink.”
“Rid yourself by your fear and drain the drink,” Wiley repeated analytically. “The hell does that mean? Is this shit telling us to kill ourselves with the—oh. Oh. Fuck.”
I was not following. “...I’m not following,” I said.
“It is.” Wiley returned to my side, squatting down and nudging me out of the way with their shoulder to peer warily into the trunk. “It’s telling us to kill ourselves, but not these selves. We’re supposed to use…those…to kill our fuckin’ doppelgangers, or whatever they are. That’s how we get rid of the water.”
“Oh,” I echoed. “Fuck.”
We marinated for a moment in silence before Wiley sighed, resigned, and lifted the gloves from the chest, closing their eyes and pulling the fabric snugly over their hands. “Let’s get to work.”