Let's share short stories, writing techniques, styles, tips and tricks for character creation, worldbuilding, story development, and just overall literary perfection.
A hub for new RPers, aspiring writers, and hobbyists to share ideas, essentially, is what I want.
EDIT: Fuck it. This is my thread, for my shit. Feel free to post here, but know that I will most likely dominate this page with my unfinished crap writings. And no, nothing on here will ever be completed. Not here, anyway. Actually, most of these will be finished, and hopefully thrown into my next short story collection. Keep an eye out. I won't tell you my name, but you'll probably recognize the titles, if you come here enough.
Genre (Prose, Poem, Song, Expressive non poetic literature, you get it)
Here goes the meat of your work, where you really get to come alive. I won't allow heckling here, so don't you worry about that. Post in whatever format you desire, I mean anything.
My point is, we're all creative people. And sometimes, we want to say things that don't have a place or time or opportunity for. Here, we have that.
So, be creative, feel free to write however you'd like, but for prose, I would appreciate
"Quiet was the night. Dark was the sky above, void of stars and moon. Stagnant was the air, thick, hot, the air of sweat and toil and tiredness. Her ketchup high heels clicked and clacked on the cool asphalt, one snapping off under her panicked sprint as she stumbled just beyond the double yellow line.
Its breath was hot, hotter than the air. Its nose was strong, and found her easily, sprawled across the road, nursing a scraped knee and twisted ankle.
She screamed, and leapt to her feet, a flash of pain making her wince as she pressed on the crooked ankle. It was broken, she discovered, by the searing jolt that forced another shriek, and fought down vomit, her stomach lurching at the crunching sensation when she limped on her ruined foot, broken red heel now matching color with the rest of the foot and ankle.
It needed not to exert itself, and so licked its lips while it watched. Its fingers ached to open her chest like a jacket, and feel around inside, tasty morsels ripe for the plucking. But it waited, for the true fun was the hunt.
She fell in a yard, badly kept. The grass was long, and tickled her face. There was no light ahead save a weird blue one. Her mascara ran down with tears of terror and agony, making leopard-lines down her cheeks. Illuminated by the bug zapper on the porch of the trailer she stumbled against in the dark, she looked like a ghost. She pounded on the door. She could see it in the corner of her eye, prowling.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer. She screamed as the door swung open, slapping her onto grass and gravel. "What in the hell- Oh my god! You okay, lady?" He knelt down to help her up, but she didn't even look at him. He looked too, and saw a shadow, a shape, of something-
He screamed with her, pushing her aside, and lunging back toward the trailer.
Closer.
Closer.
Close.
The shells clinked as he shoved them into the reciever. The box was mostly empty. Just three to go. Then two. He dropped the last shell when she screamed outside. Then something else. Snarling. Hyena-laughing. He swallowed terror and guilt, and racked the pump, pressed the stock to his shoulder. The oak was cool, but warmed quickly against his cheek.
"Hey! You out there! You better clear out! This here's p-private property!"
It cackled. Prey was best when it fought. The door hung open, the trailer on a slight incline, and the monster approached.
BOOM!Click-clack went the pump, and the shell bounced across the kitchen/living room floor, to be kicked back as the beast crawled up the porch steps. BOOM! Click-clack! BOOM! Click-clack! He was already nearly deaf and blind, but he knew it still crawled. BOOM! Click-clack! "GOD! PLEASE!" Click-clack. Click.
Click-clack. Click.
"Please... Please..."
His own tears woke him up. Morning sun streamed in through the towels hung over his trailer windows. He swung the door open, a man without a care in the world. He stepped out onto the porch, over almost-dry puddles of blood, bits of flesh, and bone, and gore.
Her arm lay in the yard. That would have to be cleaned up.
Her broken ankle held through, severed from the rest of the leg in a blossom of violence that could only be buckshot, and cowered under his truck, far away from the rest of her.
But her torso, and her pretty, pretty face was still intact. He lifted them carefully from the porch steps, and held her like a baby. He sat in a rocking chair, and rocked, kissing her lips.
He would take her inside and have his way with her. And then, he'd bury her in the yard with the others."
The Agent's tie was red, a cherry red, the red of a conquering hero, of fresh blood, of a passionate soul. He was all of these things. This was his first briefing, it was true, but the tale he'd woven had set them all on the edges of the crappy metal contraptions that the Chinese have the gall to tell us are chairs. The Captain was sweating, breathing heavily. One of the deputies was stark white, all the way down to her fingers. They'd seen the pictures, but no one had known the story.
This was his first assignment since his last first assignment, wherein he'd been shot 'in the line of duty' by his partner, in a drug-fueled frenzy. "Better luck next time", the Assistant Director had said. But this time, he'd had time to study his target. This evil sonofabitch wouldn't get away this time.
"We don't know how, we don't know why, but every time we manage to find this guy, he vanishes again. The only reason we know it's him every time is ex post facto." He hit the fat black button on the stubby black remote in his hand, and flipped to a slide of nine shallow graves, a partial and mismatched skeleton in each, and one appeared to contain a second set, much smaller, like a-
The pale deputy leapt for a wastebasket and puked up the tuna salad sandwich she'd eaten just twenty minutes ago.
He continued. "We know for certain he is male, most likely twenty-five to thirty-five years of age, most likely white, and most likely uneducated. These killings have been going on across the U.S. for six years, as far as we can tell. We have had no fingerprint matches. The only pattern has been his M.O. He takes his victims from nearby tourist motels- always tourist motels. Not the cheap-cheap ones, but the higher up ones a lower class fella might even put his family in. They've all been single women. No one has even noticed them missing for a long time. We've had only one witness, who swears she saw him in the dead of night, pardon-my-french, fucking the headless and dismembered torso of a woman. She can't give us much, other than he's a big guy, and lived in a trailer on a back road of a highway. We already found that site, and dug it up. Back to the victims. Each of them seems to have been taken from their rooms peaceably, most likely through the use of a drug. See, this guy is weird. Folks would notice him, if he spoke to them. He'd have a... a 'bad vibe', so to speak. I'm sorry, but we've heard reports of two similar abductions here in Morris County, at the Motel 6."
The Assistant Director would not be happy about this, as there were quite a few embellishments in the story. But, it informed the local PD on the danger, and that was what mattered.
"We assume he doesn't interact with the public much if he can help it. But, he would need food. This is a very small town, right?"
The vomiting deputy had recovered by now, and, still chugging coffee to clear her mouth of the taste, paused a moment to say, "Poppalation two hun'red forty-nahn!"
"Thank you. So, the folks at the local market and grocery stores know the townsfolk pretty well. I suggest we question them first about strangers in town."
The captain rose from his chair, his face the color of beets. One hand resting lightly on the grip of his gun, the other fishing a pencil from his pocket, then a little black leather-bound notepad, to record the grisly details.
... To be continued. Sorry, I lost the thought. It'll come back, though. And yes, this will end up being X-Files-ey
@MistielThat's wonderful! Technically illegal, but not exactly. I gotta listen to that at some point. Not right now, I'm kinda tired. And when I'm tired, audiobooks kill me.
What else has Sarah Maas written? I don't recognize that title.
Thank God for Youtube! It helps me sleep...something I should have started doing about three hours ago. Sadly I've already read, listened to, and electronically read (Kindle) all five Throne of Glass books thrice over! ;-;
Metal rot, rust and dust, safe passage for the ones with half a mind to leave this desert, this tundra of iron oxide and nitrogen hydrogen burns on the horizon bringing with it the fire of day and the light of ruin red sun growing red world dying
Could this be a sign? Am I to flee? Or ought I stay, To observe the shade Necrosis at a cosmic scope Goodbye, my love. Goodbye, my home.
New Idea: A story in which the primary characters are authors, gifted with the ability to control minds through their literature. It becomes a blood sport, novice writers challenging famous authors for glory, using the masses as their weapons.
The potential for genre fiction being an impressive weapon is intriguing.
Paul Sheldon. Age 38. Height: 6'2". Weight: 246 lbs. Occupation: Author. Genre: Horror/Thriller. Notable Works: The Clock's Hands, Captain's Wafers, Sadism is a Virtue.
Paul's coffee had gone cold. Once it was a Caramel Macchiato, crafted in a five hundred dollar machine, steamed with so much milk, it was practically a latte. Now, it sat, forgotten, neglected, the smell less reminiscent of a high-end coffee shop, than it was of a cheap bar, reminding Paul's sensitive nose of cigarettes, shots of cheap whiskey, and cheaper beer. It smelled like oak countertops, with connecting names carved into it, like "Valerie loves Steve" and, on the opposite end of the spectrum, painstakingly engraved outlines of dicks.
Paul's twelve hundred page manuscript sat, single spaced, on the corner of his old pine desk. The desk was little more than a table, but what it lacked in drawer space, it made up for with its sheer majesty. Each time he sat in his swiveling brown leather armchair, he got the distinct impression that Castro may have felt the same way, the same sense of smugness, particularly after the Bay of Pigs debacle.
The story was simple, but carried complex overtones. It was the tale of a woman, obsessed with the idea of sexual bondage and torture. She pressed her husband further and further, until he finally agreed to bind her before they made love. But he suffered a fatal heart attack, leaving the woman tied to the bed, with nothing but a corpse and her thoughts to keep her company.
He himself was close to cardiac arrest, his habits urging him to partake each morning in a breakfast of three eggs, whipped with whole milk, seasoned with salt and pepper, and fried in butter, in combination with fat English sausages, crispy strips of aromatic bacon, fried potatoes, less hashbrowns than stubby home fries, and several slices of toast, with copious amounts of butter and jam. Naturally, he always felt very good about breakfast. After all, why shouldn't the 'most important meal of the day' be comprised entirely of 'soul food'?
Despite his love for breakfast, his body disagreed heavily, and had packed on forty pounds in the last six months. Paul had seen his newfound authorship career a blessing, and had quit his old job as a diner cook, to pursue his passions. Unfortunately, one of his passions was bacon, and so, as the clock struck one o' clock P.M., he strolled into the kitchen of his New York studio apartment, and selected a tomato, smooth and flawless, for a BLT.
However, as he tugged at the handle of his refrigerator, he recalled a single, awful fact: he was out of lettuce.
I mean, bacon is meat, right? , he thought, so, all I really need to add is a green veggie, and a carb, right?
Right. He assured himself.
Still a work in progress. If anyone has ideas for any of my stories, please, HELP ME.
So, playing with idea of cosmic entites, particularly ones of an extradimensional nature. Thus far, I've created a crinoid-esque entity that takes over organics, and is made entirely of thought, of aether, that I like to call the Captivator.
“Gone are the days of Human vulnerability. Past is the time we should fear injury. Invalids, paraplegics, rejoice! Your salvation is at hand! The body you always wanted is yours for the taking! Now you can be strong enough to withstand any* disaster! Fast enough to escape your fears! Smart enough to bring the galaxy to your fingertips! The EVAS 4 is here!” -MitsuBrowning Enterprises advertisement for the first model of the fourth wave of Extra-Vehicular-Arms, Armor, and Augmentation System, the EVAS4.0, “built for skill and dressed to kill”, the MitsuBrowning M0.4 Jackal.
The EVAS gave us a new way to live. The space race had just fired up again with a fervor, the likes of which hasn’t been seen or felt since the 1960’s. Acts of terrorism, all too frequent these days, claimed few, and natural disasters took fewer. The first wave of suits weren’t sealed, more of an exoskeleton without a shell. They enhanced the user’s strength and allowed the viability of jetpacks to the military-industrial complex. Men could move with new freedom. By the time the first EVAS 2’s rolled in, jetpacking to work was commonplace to the average citizen.
“Since the Wright Brothers took that fateful flight in Kitty Hawk, mankind has reigned over the skies… clumsily. Bring finesse back to flight. Zephyrtech Industries: the future of 'Extra-Vehicular'". -Actual internet advertisement for the first model of EVAS2.0, the Zephyrtech Industries Aeromancer One, the first self contained suit, with a vacuum sealed shell, pressurized compartment, collapsible wings, and a massive tri-bine™ system designed to spin the wind current projected through the jets, providing a more stable thrust. It was pricey, but only until the other EVAS2.0’s released.
War, more than anything, changed. World War 3 was considered the first real conflict fought exclusively in orbit. The stratosphere was the playground of infantry. What were once considered combat recon had become the “Bravo-Alpha Mike-Foxtrots”, the “Guardian Angels”, and “The Birds of Prey”. They were named “Skywalkers” by their admirers, and “High-Altitude Combat Specialists” by their superiors. The “Air Force” was all too eager to become “United States Space Command”, and specialized in high-altitude, orbital, and interstellar defense, (and offense), constantly dueling and at odds with the Navy over whose jurisdiction was whose. The Navy, meanwhile, focused on their excellent, incredible, and uncompromising Space Marine Corps. They were gods among men, the five-man company racking up over two hundred confirmed kills in just one tour in orbit. They each earned Purple Hearts, two earned Silver Stars, one received a Congressional Medal of Honor, and another was given the British equivalent after singlehandedly defeating a German SAK Assault squad and rescuing not only the son of the Prime Minister, but also his entire platoon. Also present was the daughter of a certain Second Sky Lord Alloa, a prominent figure in the war at the time. Nuclear weapons were never even placed on the table. The risk was considered too great even when China had Germany in a chokehold, and Mexico penetrated the U.S. border. Once they controlled the sky over their enemy, they could drop troops into any soft target, easily shooting down or evading any anti-air efforts. Mexico took Texas, Nevada, and much of California.
“The EVAS 3 was actually a secret development. It was born out of a new breed of Patriotic American hackers, that had been specially designed to destroy enemy suit programming, and kill its enemy computers, stealing information as it went. This is where the first real artificial intelligences come in. The cool thing is, the guys in the suits, operating these complex weapons and modified armor, these, these, fucking wizards were just American nerds. Oh, yeah, did I mention we built it in Mexico-controlled Texas? Yeah. It was awesome.” -Mitch Grandeau, A.K.A. “L33C4”, (“Leech”), infamous “Tech Rebel”, self proclaimed “Technomancer”.
The EVAS3.0 was horrifying to witness throughout Texas. It could march through a concentration camp, and with a wave of its hand, deactivate the guards’ weapons. Another wave, and they couldn’t move. It could short enemy superconductors, drain power, (L33C4), or even turn some poor sap’s suit into a bomb. It looked like magic, it felt like The Force, and Mexico’s robotics engineers couldn’t stop it when it sabotaged their drones. In the end, the U.S. declared Texas won, while Mexico called it neutral territory. The U.S. Army recruited as many former Tech Rebels as they could, and after much debate, and some playful cyber-vandalism, officially named the department of hacker warriors the “Technomancer’s Guild”. Their emblem changed several times the first year, but finally settled on a line pyramid. Some say it’s a four-sided die, others that it represents the All-Seeing Eye on the dollar, some still that it dates back to Egyptian warrior wizards. The Technomancer’s Guild has declined to clarify.
Mankind’s reach stretched throughout the solar system, the furthest space station being Atë Station, and on the opposite end, Allegheri Station, specially shielded to protect it from the sun’s heat and radiation. We found new secrets. We uncovered new evidence that either we are not alone, or we are not the first intelligent life here. A strange configuration of glass and hematite that had strangely resonant quality was found imbedded deep in the ice of Europa. We played this “instrument”, producing a fluctuating subsonic to hypersonic hum that could be felt in the orbiting ship. Still, no one answered. The subterranean moon colony stretched wide enough to warrant political boundaries between lunar territories. Short hair was in, Mohawks, fauxhawks, and other similar hairstyles were big favorites for all genders. Social unrest on Earth was particularly due to a small number of people who denounced the use of powered armor, claiming it to be an affront to God. After several acts of “righteous terrorism” on Osiris Colony, martial law was placed, and a power hungry General became a power-hungry Warden.
The EVAS4.0 was released not in a wave of corporations rushing to the same end, but in quiet personal research and development. Small independent EVAS firms popped up, Private Ventures, Lord Byron and Co., Durandal Arms and Armour, each bringing something new and different and amazing to the table. Private Ventures designed custom works of art that floated like butterflies and stung like bees, Lord Byron and Co. built a suit with such extraordinary cyber-warfare capabilities that it had to be sold illegally. Durandal Arms and Armour crafted an EVAS that could withstand antivehicle munitions and even meteorite impacts. Twas the golden age of the Augmentation Generation.
The Augmentation Generation. What a name. What a title. We were the first generation to live, birth to death, encased in exoskeletons. We were the first to proclaim loudly and arrantly that the EVAS was the future of human evolution. How little did we know, how short was our sight, how conceited we were, to take evolution for granted.
CHAPTER 1-1: THE FINDER
My ship floated in limbo among the stars. So great is the space between Earth and Mars, that a vessel as small as the Jupiter’s Piece could wait for months here, unnoticed by all. But so great is my extranet presence that waiting here would be not only counterintuitive, but would be the epitome of profit’s opposite. My career is a lonely one, but it must remain so. Someone who does what I do can only be in the gaze of the public until someone recognizes them. But I am careful. Even when the Disappearings started, I was careful.
As per my extranet site’s instructions, a message hovers over my main viewscreen. Attached to it is a transfer of one hundred fifty thousand dollars, and a name: Lana DuGaulle. The only other contents are the words: “Find her”.
See, this is what I’m referring to. I like this anonymity. I don’t need to know my clients. They don’t need to know me. All I need is what they want with a healthy check behind it. All they need is someone to do what they can’t. Which I can.
So, first thing’s first: cup of coffee. The chalky, dehydrated disc of grit in an aluminum canister simply and fittingly labeled ‘COFFEE’ was neither good nor bad. It contained all the necessary properties to make it coffee, and yet I was certain that it was not. Sometimes I wondered if it was just freeze-dried. Other times I reminded myself that everything was freeze-dried.
Next came breakfast. I remember I was quite hungry that morning, having spent the day before with a normal breakfast, but a ‘liquid lunch’ and dinner. Sure, bourbon isn’t food, but once you’ve had enough, it feels like it should be. But that day was the kind of day when you know if you don’t start it right, you’ll end it wrong. Knowing this, I went for the gold, so to speak. A packet of beige powder, two short brown sticks, and a gritty white square barely filled a quarter of the steel plate I set into the Rehydrator. I pulled out a full plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. God, I love toast. It’s just crispy bread, but something changes when you toast it. I don’t know what it is, but no matter what you put on toast, it just gets better. Even that fake butter shit you don’t have to rehydrate is good on toast. I went for the that first. There are few foods more unsatisfying and chewy than cold toast. Cold bacon? Sure. Cold eggs? They’re a little weird, but sure. Cold toast? Why don’t you just kill me now and save me the suffering?
In any case, I removed my helmet, savoring the little squeal of the seal as the suit decompressed, and ran a couple searches on Lana DuGaulle while I munched on that crunchy tan square of wonder. Earthnet came up with nothing. Police database had nothing. But I hit the motherlode when I punched her name into Osiris Security. Apparently, she’d only ever lived on the lunar colony, holding occupations as a nurse, a teacher’s assistant, and a data entry clerk. There was nothing special, nothing that would mark her as a target. She was unmarried, no children, and only twenty-six years old. I remember thinking, even then, how eerie it was that she was so ridiculously normal. Her medical records were even less interesting: broken leg when she was seven, recorded as an typical childhood accident, various standard vaccinations and inoculations, twenty-six years of age, one hundred and ninety-two pounds, five feet, two inches tall. No Cancer, no Diabetes, no Hepatitis, not even HPV. No crabs, Chlamydia, syphilis, or anything indicating a subversive sexual history. She was last seen in the always-crowded Osiris Sector 4, Cochrane Shopping Mall, retail district. I hated cases like these.
I filed her under Missing Person- Mundane, where all of the missing person cases featuring subjects of extreme normality I receive inevitably go. I had no interest in this case, save the intrigue that the $150,000 check alone had caused.
I remember being asked once how I make a living. My response had been “I do stuff, people pay me.” They asked what it was that I did. For brevity’s sake, I’d said, “I find things. I build things. People buy both.” Which, in hindsight, was a grotesque oversimplification of my career, or careers.
In truth, I do two things. I build suits for people who can afford them, and I find things for people who can afford that service. I am very expensive. That having been said, any suit with the Private Ventures label seems to be fairly highly regarded. Last I heard, one of my favorite pieces went on auction with a final tag of just over twenty million dollars. I sold it for two hundred thousand. Hindsight, as they say, is 20-20. It’s a shame foresight isn’t the same.
CHAPTER 1-2: The Lawman
This Osiris Colony was my home. Its citizens were my children. Children are, by their very nature, unreliable witnesses. They have trouble distinguishing between their imagination and reality. They have trouble being objective observers. They fear the unknown. They fear change, malevolent or otherwise, and most of all, they crave distraction, entertainment. So imagine the blur of myriad emotion when the Disappearings began.
Six citizens, six of my children were taken. One from a bustling stock exchange floor; two from crowded ports; one from the busiest mall in the colony; and two from their homes, one in the day, one at night. I feared the worst, but after eighteen hours, protocol is to end the search. The last had been gone three rotes. I needed to find those people. In almost two hundred years, we’d never had an unsolved case. Not ever.
I was single, and having no children, one might assume my paternal instincts had been directed toward the colony. One might be right. I had been Head of Security of the Osiris Security Administration, (or “O-sec” as the locals say), for nearly five years now. Just look at the numbers and see for yourself the difference I made in my short time in office. Just thirty-six years old, and I had dropped the crime rate by over twenty per cent. I started with three tenets: Logos, Ethos, and Eros. Osiris had become quite… for lack of a better word, irate with us. You see, there was an uprising when I was about ten years old. It was the almighty and all-overreacting will of the people against the guns and tech of O-Sec. O-Sec won in a burst of tyranny and violence. My father was an activist. He believed in things. I couldn’t now say whether the ideals and people he followed were right or wrong. But he died fighting O-Sec, and my baby brother lost everything. They took his father, his limbs, and skin sensitivity in over thirty percent of his body. They, we also took away any chance for him to have a normal life. They gave him advanced implants, but his body rejected them. He was forced to find alternative means of regaining control. He suffered from multiple personalities, schizophrenia, manic dementia, and the most catatonic depression I’d ever even heard of. I had to be the father figure. The only things he kept were my father’s crusade, and my father’s hatred. It was no spacewalk.
I applied to O-Sec as soon as I turned twenty-five, the minimum legal age. I passed my psych exam with flying colors, my examiner even labeling me as “exactly what the administration needs right now” on his report. As it turned out, I was able to eradicate twenty years of hatred, and fear of O-Sec in just four short years.
Anyway, back to my initial three tenets. These were three basic initiatives I wanted every single officer, agent, or representative to follow. Logos: I demanded full disclosure. We kept no secrets. Of course, with more panicking details, for example, when Typhus evolved, and everyone was sick, we played it off as though it were a much more avoidable threat, recommending that everyone sanitize their suits as frequently as possible, and minimize face to face contact with strangers. Of course, that specific order hindered the second tenet temporarily, but I reinforced it all the same. Pathos: It was an order that demanded as much “face time” with the public as we could. It was an attempt to humanize the officers that the people so demonized. It worked perfectly, after the Typhus was over. I received reports of more positive outcomes to potentially violent situations than I’d ever seen. I remember vividly. A few of them made me cry. The third tenet, the most controversial, was the only secret the O-Sec had after my administration. Eros simply pushed an initiative to fraternize outside the administration, which had become a serious problem, and was on the verge of becoming inbreeding. It was born in the hope that gradually, we could remove this, this schism, between O-Sec and the citizens of Osiris American Moon Colony. All three tenets worked miracles. We were on our way to progress.
On this particular day, the day the Disappearings started, there were no other events of significance. We slammed a local still, putting out moonshine of questionable quality. We picked up two hitchhikers from the Aphrodite station, both wanted for breaking and entering. Neither was armed. Osiris was in perfect harmony. Then, a panicked call to our Emergency Services. The twelve digit number was encrypted, jammed from an outside source. The call was also jammed, but we were able to extract four words from the noise: “They took my dad.” Officially, that was our first lead. Unofficially, this call meant nothing. We got prank calls every day, some credible, some incredible. We investigated every one to the best of our ability. Sometimes, things get away from you.
CHAPTER 1-3: The Emissary
The darkness would hide us, this I knew. The radiation in this system would conceal our thermal output, as well as our radio traffic. This, I also knew. No matter how strong my faith, I knew also that someday, someone would catch up to us. I lived in fear of this every day. God had warned me of this. He had warned me of another, a chosen one, like myself, with the capabilities to stop my divine work. But faith without works is dead, and my faith is very much alive.
My ship is great, and mighty. Its weapons are unconventional, and therefore advantageous. Its armor is thick, and sturdy. Its thrusters are reliable, and well kept. My subjects are loyal, devoted to my God. And when he speaks, they are captivated. When I speak, they are captivated.
My God lived within me. He spoke through me. He gave me His strength, his will, and I in turn, gave him my uncompromising allegiance. I have proven my worth.
He gave us names. He told us to watch them. There were six of them. We were to observe them, monitor their every movement. I knew not why we studied them, documented their every activity, but we did it all the same.
“Lana Avril DuGaulle, twenty-six years of age, one hundred and ninety-two pounds, five feet, two inches tall. She lives a life of little consequence. She is known to have a nurturing nature, and is sympathetic, and empathetic to the needs and desires of others. She has suffered only minor tragedy in her life, including the loss of a family pet bird in her childhood, and a grandmother, in her teens. She currently is unemployed, living off of her family’s savings. She is neither married, nor is a parent, and seldom interacts socially, indicating levels of loneliness ranking between moderate to severe. Daily contacts: none. Transportation habits include: Home> Astral Springs Café, Cochrane Shopping Mall, Osiris Colony, U.S. division, Sector Four> Rare Necessities Retail, Cochrane Shopping Mall, Osiris Colony, U.S. Division, Sector Four> ACGS Pet Shop, Cochrane Shopping Mall, Osiris Colony, U.S. Division, Sector 4. Other habits include: abstinence from premarital sex and illicit chemical usage, abstinence from alcoholic beverages, regular Sunday Mass attendance at St. Alonzo’s Catholic Chapel, Osiris Colony, U.S. Division, Sector Two.”
We learned everything we could. Our ship’s sensors had been modified to be able to see even the serial numbers on a mark’s suit. We learned enough to write biographies on our subjects. Six of them. Then, they vanished.
Once I could not walk, God helped me stand. Once I could not fight, God gave me the fire of His spirit. Once I could not speak, and God gave me his voice. Once, no one would listen, and God gave me his presence. My suit is God’s shield, my will is His sword, and my ship is His holy ark. In the same fashion, God gave me his resolve when the Disappearings began. He told me, “Fret not that your wards have gone. Their greatest work is being done. Our greatest work cannot even begin until theirs is finished. Have faith.” I had responded, “Faith is all I am.”
Faith.
CHAPTER 2-1: The Finder
Errands today. First, I need to aquire a simple AI. I guess what I really needed was an assistant. Fuck that.
Here's my first shot at a sex scene. Challenge: not allowed to overtly use any explicit sexual terminology
Untitled
Practice
The bed is soft, but small. My knees spill over the sides, threatening to take my feet, my legs, then me with them. My bra is tight, almost stifling. The straps stretch against my fingers when I tug at them, inciting feelings in you the more I fidget. Good feelings. The bed yields against my weight as I roll, gracefully, I hope, off the left side. The white sheets pair a nice compliment with the beige of the room around it. My bra clasps resist little against my experienced fingers. I twist gently, then tug, and the straps come loose. Cool relief spreads across my back, just below my shoulderblades. I trace my fingers up and down my body, focusing around my thighs. Your breath is hot. Even from here, I can feel it. My bra feels light as air as I lift it up and over my head. My nipples ache, and stand off my breasts like little mountains. My breasts are supple and springy, and my hands need not be firm as I tug at my nipples and squeeze my breasts. They are like balloons, filled with mashed potato. The thought makes me smile. I can see the bulge forming at your groin, straining against the pant leg it is trapped in. Soft, slightly prickly warmth meets my fingers as I slip them beneath the waistband of my panties, blue boyshorts with no lace and no nonsense. I part my lips, and the gelatinous flesh is hot and slippery between them. There is a little spark of pleasure every time my fingers so much as twitch down there, lighting across my body, promising to force out little moans if I continue. The bed is fluffy and inviting, agreeing with a break creak when I lay on it. My fingers slip easily inside and you can barely take it. I can see a vein on your neck, threatening to explode. I beckon, and your mouth kisses mine, then moves lower, to please another pair of lips. Little moans escape me and my muscles gently spasm in response to your tongue’s advance. I must have you within me. You are like a rock, or some sort of diamond. You are as a rocketship, preparing to do what rocketships do best, but whether you end up in all the wonder of space, or trapped in orbit, doomed to mediocrity, only time would tell.
We set up your equipment together, my tongue bouncing and caressing a stone, your stone, and my body aching for our union. Your clothing is half gone, thrown aside like the flag of a surrendering nation after a war. You have grown. You push me gently, back down against the mattress. It springs against me, but only a little. Your fingers are like fire inside me, sending waves of warmth up my body to crash against the cap of my skull. You part my legs, the flesh tingling as you touch it. You brush me gently with the tip, and then you are inside me, barreling through like a train. My head is beautiful chaos, a maelstrom of sensation; your thighs pound against mine as though you wanted to hurt me with the force, and then you are gone with a great burst of pleasure and moisture.
A hand beneath my stomach flips me over, and I begin to prop myself up on my hands and knees. I am still struggling up when you reenter me. The force is exciting, and another orgasm reaches a point of no return as I stumble forward into new pillows, flinging them in every direction. You feel like a skyscraper inside me. Like the Empire State Building. Your fingers clamp into my buttocks as you explore my insides, leaving red prints where your hands were. My brain is a blur of white as I place a hand against your stomach. I need a break. My lips caress you as I suck you into my mouth, my hand tickling you, gently squeezing. It feels like jumbo jellybeans. I can’t breathe, but I don’t feel that it’s a priority at the moment. I suck you deeper, and I can feel you flex in my throat. I pop you out, and cough a little, but I like it. You stand, a little smile on your face, and lay on your back, cock standing up at attention, looking massive in the moment.
There are those that say Hell is not a place, but an idea, a concept to describe the torment we humans desire for those who have wronged us, or who we believe deserve it. I cannot say as to the aspect of Hell, but I have seen its effect. It wreaked havoc on our town, and threatens to spread. I cannot even predict where it will go next. All I can do is tell you what I’ve seen, what I’ve felt, and what I’ve experienced. It is up to you whether or not what I have to tell will be useful. All I can do is hope you see this before they see you.
It all started with a flash drive. I volunteer at the local library, filing and organizing and occasionally signing up new patrons for library cards. I remember vividly, the smell of the novels I was alphabetizing. I can still recall the exact tone of Edith’s voice when she asked me where the lost and found box was. “I put it in the back office, on the filing cabinet.” She thanked me and went on her way. I didn’t give it a second thought until I was closing everything down for the night. I put the last copy of Duma Key on the shelf, when I heard a rustling noise and a sound like someone shaking a box of cereal behind the door of the dark office. I’d just come from there. There’s no way anyone could have gotten behind me. Besides, the library doors were locked. What if it’s a burglar? My mind asked, and quickly answered itself, A burglar in a public library? More likely some kind of serial killer or something. Oh geez. I did not want to get murdered in a library. I scanned the floor and nearby tables for any kind of a weapon. The best I could find was an issue of Time from a very long time ago, Nelson Mandela smiling on the cover against a cloudless blue sky. I rolled it, tighter and tighter, until I felt it was physically impossible to compress it any more, and held it in my hand like a fencer at a duel. En Garde! I grabbed the knob and twisted. Locked. That’s right. There went my element of surprise. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys, when I remembered that the key I needed was on the Library keyring at the front desk. Great, now the killer has the advantage. I crept on all fours, struggling to keep my breathing silent and my body below the windows. That’s when I heard a doorknob turn. Clickity-clack went the knob, and my head pivoted at astonishing speed, though the world seemed in slow-motion, like a backflip in an action movie. THE OFFICE! The door was open just a crack. And the only way it could be so is if it were unlocked from the inside. Maybe it’s just Harry! It’s gotta be Harry! But I’d seen Harry the custodian leave at least an hour ago. I shuffled forward on my hands and knees, breath stuck in my throat like the thickest of phlegm. I could see through the gap between door and frame now. The light fell in a sheer, narrow line, illuminating a corner of the desk, a quarter of the keyboard, the edge of the monitor, and ran up the side of the filing cabinet, and finally ended upon a white shoebox, the logo crossed out with a magic marker, and “LOST AND” just barely visible in the faint ray. I raised the magazine to my face, ready to jab whatever lay beyond the door and, hyperventilating, slung my foot forward as hard as I could and shouted the first thing that came to mind.
“ON YOUR KNEES! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”
The office was empty. There were no ninjas above the ceiling tiles, no assassin under the desk. Not even a bomb in the shoebox. All that was inside the Lost and Found box was two library cards, a beaten and scratched Zippo that looked like it had seen at least three World Wars, an electronic cigarette with a well-gnawed mouthpiece, and a little black flash drive with a red button. This last item piqued my interest. Curiosity got the best of me, and I pressed the little switch forward, exposing the silver connector. Seems normal enough, I thought, and inserted it into an open port on the CPU under the desk. The monitor sparked to life, presenting me with several options. I spun the cursor into place, and clicked “Open folder to view files”. Just a folder, titled “click me”. I obliged, hoping to find someone’s homemade sex tapes. Instead, three Microsoft Word documents lay in wait. I clicked the first, titled “Tsthogga”. It opened up to a wall of text, of gibberish. I read, if reading it could be called, the first line:
“ARKHA NI TSOGGA; ARKHA NI SCHIHAAG; RAKN AR CHUN”. A code, perhaps? It continued on for apparently forty-nine pages. I lost interest and clicked the second document, named “WELCOME”. This one proved more fruitful, but not by much:
“WELCOME TO THE NEW AGE” was the sole message of this document. I opened the third, titled “INSTRUCTIONS”, without much hope for any decent content. I was sorely mistaken.
“Catch them in their homes, as they sleep. Open them as you would an animal. Wear gloves, as blood is slippery, and you must not lose grip. Take hold of their arms from opposite directions and pull until dislocation is achieved. Repeat with legs. Further care must be taken with smaller joints. Continue with knees, elbows, ankles, wrists, the 28 joints of the fingers, and the 28 joints of the toes. The eyes must be removed. She will not tolerate failure to remove them, and will not accept the sacrifice unless they are unseeing. Extreme care must be taken for self-preparation, namely the heating of a steel rod until glowing, to ensure that the removal of one’s own eyes does not lead to waste. Beforehand, a mixture must be drunk, consisting of one part human bone puree, one part Belladonna, two parts human blood, one part Diphenhydramine HCl, and one drop of Her solution. It is recommended that the bone be pre-broken in order to form a more palatable consistency. It is also recommended that a spoon of the proper size be chosen before undertaking, and should be sharpened with either a file or angle grinder for greater ease of completion.
Transcendence will occur in one to four hours, depending on Her desire to feed. NOTE: A Sigil will not expedite this transaction.”
WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST READ? WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST OPEN- WHAT THE FUCK DID WE FIND? My mind raced, and my heart followed suit. Suddenly, I had the awful suspicion that someone was watching me, and that that someone wanted me to open these files. I also had a feeling that I’d just done something bad. Scratch that. Something very bad.
Against my better judgment, I slipped the flash drive into my jeans pocket, and put the computer in Hibernate mode. I was never sure of the difference between Sleep and Hibernate, but “Hibernate” sounded much more restful, and I’m sure the old Compaq needed a break too.
When I locked the doors again, I found myself staring through the glass into the library, certain that at any moment, a dark figure would crab-walk out of the office and up the wall. Once satisfied that this was not the case, I walked carefully out into the nigh-empty parking lot. Only one car, my car, sat out there, looking completely and utterly alone in the light of a single streetlamp.
I started off toward my car at a brisk walk, whipping out my keys as I went. As soon as they were clear of my pocket, my stride became a panicked sprint, as my brain screamed IT’S BEHIND YOU! IT’S RIGHT BEHIND YOU! I pounded the UNLOCK button on the remote as I lunged wildly at the driver’s door. The headlights flashed, I slung the door open, leapt inside, and slammed it shut. I barely even noticed that I’d slapped the LOCK switch on the console when I turned, wide eyed, to see what was chasing me. There was nothing there but the library, dark, silent, and empty, the eight windows displaying naught but the dim power-saving lights and literature, stacked, organized, and alphabetized. I took a deep breath, and to my great surprise, and likely yours, I laughed until my stomach hurt. It subsided into high-pitched chuckles and a high-pitched sigh before I heard the rapid ding-ding-ding of a passenger without a seatbelt. I didn’t even realize I’d put the key in the ignition. I reached across with my left, and tugged the belt into position, locking it into place with its usual satisfying click. Still, the ding-ding-ding continued. There was a ringing in my ears that crescendoed to a roar as my eyes slowly rose to meet the rear-view mirror. They saw only a box of books on the passenger side. The car only knows weight. You’re being silly. For once, my internal voice was right. I unbuckled and leaned over the console to tug a belt around the books, covering the word “Donations”, and latched it. I did the same, and the ding-ding-ding ceased. Thank fucking God. Another glance into the rearview mirror told me everything I needed to know about tonight. There were purple bags under my eyes, bags so deep and miserable they could almost be called baggage. I needed to hibernate, myself.
Despite my paranoia, the ride home was fourteen minutes of heart-pounding normality. Journey played on the radio, followed by Foreigner, followed by Joe Walsh. Joe was singing something about his Maserati, and losing his license when I pulled up into my apartment complex’s parking lot, full, as usual. I roamed, as usual, searching for a space. I found one, as usual, by the dumpsters in the back. The smell of rot and antiquity greeted me as it almost always did, (except on Thursday, as Thursday is Trash Day), as I opened the car door, and made my way around the building to the front door. I punched in my code, and the lock buzzed to let me in. The lobby was empty, save for an old sofa and sad looking plastic plant in a red clay pot. I stood, debating between the stairs and elevator when I realized I was wasting quite a bit of time deciding. I chose the elevator, Muzak playing softly as I poked the luminous button marked “3”. A slight stutter, as usual, as the mechanisms whirred to life, and the elevator rose at an unnoticeable yet substantial speed to let me off on my floor. As it typically was, the hall was empty. This time, however, I felt the gaze of eighteen peepholes as I meandered down the hall to my door. I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder as I unlatched the three locks. But when it opened, I could barely force myself to enter my own home. The light switches were only a few feet away, but the weight of the darkness made them feel miles off. Under incandescent light, my fears subsided. There was nothing here except what should be. My couch sat innocently in front of the TV, inviting me to plop down and veg out, and when I declined, it seemed to understand. I stumbled down the hall, to the bathroom, and hit the light in there as well. I didn’t even bother to look inside. A few more steps, one more door, and there it was: my bed, so soft and so warm, and so familiar. I lay upon it without pulling down the sheets, and closed my eyes for what felt like a second.
Timothy was small. Timothy was young. Timothy was weak. He remained all three of these things until I found him. Until I saved him. He spent his days pushed around by his classmates, and his nights pushed around by his brothers. The youngest of a single mother's three boys, Timothy was set for failure from the start. Add to that the facts that his father was not the same as his brothers', and that his brothers were twins, and his life reads like a Possession instruction manual.
I started small. After all, I didn't want to scare him, not yet. I just wanted him to know he wasn't alone. I felt sorry for him. My sympathy, however, was heavily outweighed by my necessity. You see, I lost my last human. They aren't dead, I just can't find them. Evicted without a notice, as they say, with a crucifix and holy water. The Father even wore a purple stole. William Peter Blatty couldn't have put it together better himself.
But, I digress. Where was I? Ah, yes. I started small. Very small, just a little note, written in condensation on his bathroom mirror, transient and untraceable. "Hello, Timothy." Then, again, in ballpoint pen on his Bible's table of contents. "I can hear your thoughts." That didn't end up working properly, as they didn't even go to church at the time, but I thought it was worth a shot. They got a real kick out of it later, though. Actually, that's an understatement. It was fucking hilarious.
I didn't move anything until a week afterward. Timothy was getting his weekly ass-kicking in the locker room, during third period double gym, when I found something very interesting. One of little Timothy's two assailants had a Swiss Army knife in his pocket.
It was a simple matter to get the blade open in his jeans, and even pop it out onto the tile floor without drawing attention. The problem was getting Timothy to see it.
That little four-eyed idiot geek fuck just laid there and took it for, shit, another five minutes at least, before his stupid little fuck fingers grabbed ahold it. But oh, did he go crazy when he got it!
Sure, I had to guide his hand a little. After all, a kid that age doesn't know to stab upward at a forty-five degree angle into the base of the skull to turn another human into a vegetable, or that severing the brachial artery is as deadly, if not more so, than cutting the carotid.
Timothy learned both that day.
It was kind of fun, putting together the crime scene. I used everything I'd ever seen, from the time I made a woman pull out her husband's eye with cooking tongs while he lay drugged and unconscious, and the cops showed up in the middle of it, all the way to that time the girl I was possessing at the time was really, really, really into Law & Order.
Timothy, that scrawny little bitch, had dropped the knife down a shower drain, and was now sitting on the floor and sobbing like a molested child. I suppose, in a way, he was.
So, I, in my infinite wisdom, popped the little red multitool out, where, (thank fucking Lucifer, like, unholy shit was that lucky.), it had lodged itself in, falling sideways just as the pipe tapered. Phew. I quickly dropped it in the toilet. I tried to show him what I was doing, but that little faggot just sat and wailed. I shoulda made him look. I was stupid to just let him cry, but, I dunno, I'm a softie for sad outcast kids.
Let me tell you it is no small matter getting a terrified child to shut the fucking heaven up. Like, I totally empathize with that woman, what was her name, nah, forget it, you know, the one that shook her kid to death. That's what I felt like doing right then.
I'm not proud of what I did then. I'm not. But there were two things I needed to do. First, I had to make Timothy enjoy killing. I had to corrupt him. Second, well, actually this wasn't necessary, but I needed a trick to shut him up. So I, uh, ugh I blew him. I did. I did my best to mimic what I figured Scarlet Johansen's lips would do. At least I was able to do it through his shorts. Blecchhkk I don't even wanna think about uuggghhbareback.
Okay, anyway, blocked memories aside, Timmy had just creamed his jeans after killing one student and crippling the other for life. He's deep in the shit. Especially because his wounds don't look that bad. I gotta say, I am proud of what I did then. It was like art. First, I broke Timmy's nose. I felt as though a great quantity of blood spilled would make Timothy's situation seem more dire. Nah, he was fine. Aside from the crying, and the confusing orgasm.
But then I broke two ribs. He was now most certainly not fine, and cried, and cried. When teachers finally noticed the sound- hang on, I gotta go off on a tangent here. Those teachers took forty five Satanblessed minutes to realize there was a child screaming with two broken ribs, a comatose football player, and a dead juvenile delinquent in the gym locker room. What the everliving fuck happened to the U.S. educational system? I thought we had the best one! I bet it was fucking W. No Child Left Behind- fuck you, George W., you'll never be as cool as your dad!
I can judge G.W.B. You can't. I mean, heavens, man, I possessed the guy from 2001 to 2003. The guy was so stressed over the terrorist attack that he was super vulnerable, so I jumped to him from Cheney. Although, I can say with some patriotic pride, as an All-American demon, that while I had him, my fight was for vengeance for Uncle Sam. I made up the whole "nuclear weapons in the middle-east" thing first. After they busted me on it, I made up a rockin' rumor about Georgie trying to get Iraqi oil. Boy, I was good. But then, Colin Powell. Not a lot of folks know, but Colin is a fully ordained minister in the Church of Satan. Basically, my district manager. He took me off the case, and confiscated my guy. Which sucks, 'cause he was just getting over his erectile dysfunction and Laura, to this day, looks fine as hell.
Unholy shit, did I get distracted. Sorry about that.
Point is, I got Timmy's perfect crime set up. Not a single incriminating fingerprint, and the whole thing looks like self defense. Timmy's bullying problem was over. But a new problem had just begun.
Timothy's mother was concerned. She was worried enough to hire a psychiatrist. A Christian psychiatrist. I don't mean that the guy was Christian. Well, he was, but I mean that his methods and his entire approach was Bible and Church-based. Man, if you though normal psychiatrists were bad...
We are free, to the point that we have restaurants that will serve a red wine and lasagna, fried chicken and waffles, and salmon steak with side rice pilaf and lemon-caper butter, all to the same table.
We are free, to the point that our gun carrying citizens see fit to form their own special club in which to discuss their firearms, all things related to firearms, and anything in their lives that could potentially be linked back to firearms.
We are free, to the point that we will arrest any individual who is caught while bartering sexual favors for monetary return, unless, of course, a camera is involved, with the intent to distribute the recording. Prostitution becomes pornography very, very easily.
We are free, to the point that we are allowed the time, and resources to plot, supply, and fund acts of terrorism, designed to destroy our nation's morals or structure. And we are allowed to remain Anonymous.
We are free, to the point that idiot wannabe writers can click-clack away at their keyboards to criticize a complex system of government, forming not only the Three Branches, but a dense webway of autonomic social cues locking us biologically into a set series of behaviours like insects, obedient to the Queen's pheromones.
We are free, at a price.
Harper's Mill Police Department, 300 Main St. Harper's Mill, Virginia, 24551, 1997 AD. I just killed a cop. I didn't mean to. I swear. I didn't know who he was. That's a pretty excuse, I know. Maybe it would make more sense if I mentioned I thought he was a different cop. No, wait, no, that sounds worse. He was a dirty cop. Not the one I killed, the one I thought he was. That guy, he's a killer, and I've seen him give drugs to kids. He trades 'em for sex. I swear. I have proof. Photographs. But I can't tell you where it is. I can't trust you, I'm sorry.
I can tell you where to find the bodies. There's one, under the pier, on the south shore. There's another buried in the backyard of 126 Majestic Pines Rd. The third, buried in the backyard of 1850 Kemper St. The last one is at the bottom of the river, off the bridge downtown, the one that leads off to Calumet.
I swear to God. I swear to God.
1850 Kemper St. Apt. 1; Harper's Mill, Virginia, 24551; Barrett Farrar, Landlord; 1997 AD
I’ve seen this man too many times. He travels from table to table like a drunken panther. He is sleek in his black coat. His smile almost pleasant, if it weren’t for the slick gloss coat of whiskey that smears across his lips whenever he licks them. The hunting hours start at 5pm each Monday, Wednesday and Friday when he orders a water and whiskey and sour. He compliments the wait staff: a comment about my shade of lipstick, an appreciative once over of Marcus’ choice in over coat.
Next comes the steady sitting at table 4 near the door, sipping from his glass. I avoid catching his eyes when I buss past him, keeping my gaze trained on the wet path my towel makes as I clear tables. Women never approach him, but they appear to appreciate his initial company when he slides down next to them at the bar. They are charmed; he is aggressive in a lion-like manner with his smooth brown mane and he uses words like “miss” and “young lady”. I see him leave with a variety of personalities, both short leather skirts and pleated blossom blouses; woman who look easy and woman who make him do paces to appease their pride.
I know, and have witnessed, that some men bring black nights to women who should have expected as much, at least in this place and places like it. But, each of his one night ladies always come back. And they are never wounded more than they are in pride when he steps off with another who is not them. He’s the cleanest sleaze I’ve seen.
He came alone at first for three months, until recently. A woman follows in with hair as brown as his and a mirror tilt to her smile that only comes from shared parentage. She names herself Karen, his sister, and sits down at the end of the bar to pester me with tales of her brother, one embarrassing snippet to cut him down every time he slicks his way into another woman. I have trouble understanding them, together and related. When he comes over to speak to her, he stands away to her left. If there was anyone who at this bar who shifts to timid and wounded, it is him when he sees her. Later, I learn they are partners. She is the fisher-woman and he is the bait.
The tab, a combination of his, Karen’s, and his night woman’s drinks, is paid by the sister. She leaves a size-able tip that sweetens our wariness but doesn’t take the edge off of the fake-ness of her smile. I used to believe she was a feminist, with her brashness and take no prisoners attitude. But now I know she’s an asshole, nondiscriminatory in her prejudices and with a raw ability to find flaws in even the most agreeable people that walk through our doors. Some nights I want to lean over and slap her. But sometimes (often more then I’d like to admit) she’s more right than most. ‘Women, as much as men,’ she tells me, ‘perpetuate sexism. This is why I have to be such as asshole,’ she leans over close to me, ‘to smack the prissiness out of them. Men get called misogynistic, but I have the ‘get out of jail free’ card.’ She points down to her pants. ‘My vagina.’
I think she’s hateful and sour, but I get paid to give her drinks and for all her words she doesn’t create trouble or pester us when we’re busy. When I first witnessed her brother, Bruce, talk a woman into sleeping with him I thought he was the asshole. But when juxtaposed to his sister, his smile at least shows an honesty when he talks to them. He has a twenty-first century romanticism about him, built around phones with names attached to numbers he’ll never have to try to remember. A one night wonder man, transparent.
Notes:
I always imagined this Narrator to be a pregnant woman. She is not wild or particularly brash, a bit sheltered who went though the acclimation to the city already, but has yet to really feel comfortable.
@Hanleth I like how she isn't nervous about them, she just looks down on them. But then, I wonder where her sense of superiority comes from. Maybe she's happily married to a career man, and has recently moved to the city to be with him?
But maybe, instead, she sees a bit of herself in them? Sees power she wouldn't mind having?
I'm talking out of my ass here, btw.
Can't wait to see whether or not you finish it. I don't finish most of mine.
