Atrophy

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

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Dean.Walker

in collaboration w/ @silvermist1116

A Quiet Place To Chat. The Halloween Festival.

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As Emily committed the heist of the century it begged the question: where was Sully?

Sully was in trouble.

His eyes darted to and fro in near panic, searching for a solution that was not there. His teeth clenched, his knees trembled, and his muscles tightened. He felt like he was about to explode. It was funny how something as simple as an overfilled tank could immediately make him abandon his duties as head of the toga line. How the hell was every porta-john in the world either occupied or nuked to total oblivion? He moved with the energy of a nervous dancer as he threaded through the crowd, further and further away from his friends and the toga party. Alternatives began to play out in his mind. Trash can? No, too public. The last thing he needed was to get slapped with an indecent exposure charge. He was pretty sure that kind of thing could get you labeled as a sex offender, and try convincing somebody that it was only for taking a leak in public when his mugshot had a mustache. Subtly wade out into the ocean? No, he didn’t want to either piss on or piss off Poseidon.

Head further and further away from everyone else until he found a grouping of trees thick enough to cover himself from any prying eyes?

Now that couldn’t possibly go wrong.

Sully did just that. He vanished into the treeline near the haunted house and hiked a couple hundred feet further into the woods, just in case someone spotted his shadow and thought Bigfoot was hanging around the Halloween Festival. He found a decent enough spot, bunched his toga up, leaned towards the tree to steady himself with his hand, and released a massive sigh of relief. Crisis averted. Sully absentmindedly motioned to dump a Chalice full of soapy water on his hands, only to realize he was Dionysus without his cup. He slapped his forehead, remembering that he’d left it with Drake in case he dropped it down the porta-john because no amount of self-cleaning would convince him that it would be safe to drink from the Chalice ever again if that happened. Okay, he just wouldn’t give out anymore high fives until he found some hand sanitizer.

Sully turned to head back to the festival, and then turned again, and then turned back to the tree whose night he had ruined. His eyes narrowed. Right. The festival was over that way, wasn’t it? He began stomping through the forest in a drunken stupor, snapping twigs and crunching leaves.

Dean didn’t care for the festival. He’s aged out of all the bullshit kids got up to, but he’d gotten word from one of his dealers about seeing Sully here. After he found a picture of him on his social media, he spread that around to his people and told them to keep an eye out. He shadow stepped onto the dock. He remembered everything about the place. Island hasn’t changed in thirty years. He kept to quiet places, looking for Sully and found him in a conga line yelling “Toga!” with a bunch of other kids. He waited for him to separate. He was a patient guy. Meant nothing to him if it took hours or minutes. Sully finally branched off to go to the bathroom, he followed behind him into the forest and bided his time. He didn’t want his piss all over him, so he waited for him to finish peeing, before coming up behind him in the shadows.

He grabbed him and threw him into a tree. “Hey, Sully. Good to see you again. You ready to answer my questions this time?”

Sully’s first thought when he hit the tree was that he’d tripped over a particularly aggressive branch. The booze dampened enough of the blow that he wasn’t immediately stunned when he heard the sound of bark breaking behind him as his shoulder cracked into the tree. His second thought was why was it that everytime a strong and handsome biker pinned him to something it was never in the way he’d imagined it happening. His third thought when he realized the man was the same guy who’d shoved a gun in his mouth and kicked him in his teeth was oh shit.

“Oh hey buddy, yeah man, funny running into you here of all places. Questions?” said Sully, his words slurring together. “Oh man, I'd love to answer some questions. Oh but I forgot!”

Sully pushed himself off of the tree and made a poor effort to try and stumble past Dean. He was almost cartoonishly drunk. He moved and spoke in such a way that he seemed less like an actual drunk person and more like a bad actor portraying a drunk in a made for TV movie. All that was missing was some hiccups and he’d be a total caricature.

“I gotta lead a toga line. Hey man, you like to party? Only one rule. You gotta wear a toga, but it’s cool. I got one right here,” said Sully, patting his belly as if to suggest he was offering Dean the toga he was wearing. “Hey what’s your name, man? You still got my jacket?”

Dean chuckled. Oh man, it’s been awhile since he’s had to deal with a drunk. Loved those times quite a bit. A bit of entertainment.

He pushed Sully back into the tree, this time he kept his hand on his shoulder and looked him right in his blurry eyes. Not every day he meets a man that’s as tall and as big as him. Given their first meeting and now, he gets the feeling Sully’s all fluff. Not much of a threat if he’s not gonna throw his weight around to protect himself.

He gave Sully a heavy handed slap to the face. Wouldn’t leave a mark, but it would sting. “Listen, Sully, focus. Now you seem like a nice and reasonable guy. Fucking drunk as hell, but still got your wits about you. How about you tell me where I can find Tayla Choi. About yeh high.” He lowered his hand to below his chin. “Asian, skinny as hell, but pretty cute. I’m sure you’ve seen her. You Coven yahoos had to have a meeting for you all to show up at the club that night. I bet she was there. Tell me what I wanna know and you’re free to go.”

Sully rubbed his cheek. Dean’s instincts were right in regards to Sully not being much of a fighter. Unless they were on a gridiron and a football was in Dean’s hands Sully was about as threatening as an overstuffed teddy bear. Outside of any kind of business involving a certain snake, Sully could count the number of fights he had been in as an adult on one finger and that had been with Dean last week. However, that didn’t mean he was a pacifist, and his hair wasn’t long enough for him to pretend he was dressed as Jesus. There would be no turning of the other cheek.

“There was no meeting,” said Sully. Well, what he actually said sounded like “snow meeting”, but anyone not drunk would be able to get the point. “Is that how bikers do it? Have to have a meeting before heading to the titty bar? Y’all got someone who keeps minutes?”

Sully saw the look in Dean’s eye and changed the subject before another slap came his way.

“Oh wait, you said Tayla CHOI! Iheard you wrong the last time, must’ve been all the sand in my ears. Yeah, hold on, lemme think…”

Sully hadn’t been around when Tayla was at her lowest. He had heard this and that from Ashley and a few of the others he’d stayed in touch with, but his memory of Tayla was firmly isolated in the era before she’d figured out how to bypass the childproof caps on the pill bottles. She was fun and crazy in the good way. He’d liked hanging out with her. Hell, even if he didn’t like hanging out with her, even if he did have to deal with her struggling with addiction and all the lying and guilt and frustration that came with it, even if they had never talked and she was just another rando belonging to the coven it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t about to sell her out to some obsessive and violent loser creep who clearly couldn’t take the hint.

Sully snapped his fingers.

“That’s right! Now I remember where you can find Tayla. You can actually find her right—” Sully suddenly rocketed his knee up between Dean’s legs, looking to give the weirdo his receipt by crushing his pride and joy with a cheapshot. ”—HERE!

Dean got the feeling Sully would try and worm his way out of answering him. He didn’t rise to the jabs about bikers having meetings before they did anything. He let him talk. The talkers usually let something slip. He had hoped he would, but he didn’t. He got a shot to the crotch instead. Pain exploded on his dick.

“Motherfuck-” He grabbed Sully on his way down, gripping his toga so tight it would rip off of him if he didn’t fall with Dean’s momentum.

“Hey! Not again!” yelled Sully as Dean attempted to once again steal his wardrobe.

The world teeter tottered as Sully was pulled down to the ground with Dean, getting mud on his crisp white toga. He was all instinct right now, but that instinct was running on a significant time delay considering he had drank more red wine than what would've been consumed by the prototypical book club consisting solely of affluent suburban mothers. He reached down with his meaty palm, scooped up a load of mud, and slung it at Dean’s eyes. Meanwhile, he chopped desperately at Dean’s wrist with his hand so he could break his grasp, stumble to his feet, and begin to run away.

The longer this went on the more Dean was losing his cool. The dick shot was a low blow. Slinging mud in his eyes, a cheat shot. A man Sully’s size could’ve done a lot more damage if he just punched him in the face. He wiped up the mess and stumbled to his feet. He didn’t bother running after Sully. He wouldn’t waste his energy. He slipped into the shadows and appeared a second before Sully ran passed him, arm stretched out, and clotheslined the fucking idiot. His massive body hit the ground and Dean got on top of him, giving him a good punch to the face.

“Now answer the fucking question. Where the hell is Tayla Choi?” he asked him in a low voice. It matched the quiet of the forest. No one would be able to hear him like a private conversation between close friends.

“I don’t fucking know, man!” said Sully, wheezing from hitting the ground and muffled by his hand that had moved to himself. His face hurt like a motherfucker. Even if he could wiggle out from underneath Dean he was too drunk and sluggardly to beat him in a fight. “I don’t know! Last week was the first time I’ve seen her in like ten years and she left within five minutes. As far as I know that’s the last anyone has seen of her. So c’mon, man, just get offa me. And gimme back my jacket!”

“See, wasn’t that easy? Should’ve said so from the start, so here’s what you’re going to do.” He formed a shadow and stuck his hand inside, pulling out Sully’s jacket. “I put my number in your pocket.” He dropped his jacket in the mud beside him. “You see her, you call me right away.” He grabbed him by the hair and pulled his face closer to his. “You have a week. I don’t hear from you by,” he checked his watch, “10pm next Thursday, then I’ll pay you another visit. Next time I won’t be so nice.” He pushed his head away, letting it slam back into the ground. “We have an understanding?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” said Sully, barely understanding how he’d even gotten here as he stared vacantly at his dirty letterman jacket, his voice flat. “We have an understanding…”

“Good. See you in a week.” Dean slipped into the shadows and disappeared.

Sully grimaced. He understood one thing. He had to warn Tayla.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

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Interactions: 317/Jasper's Art@NoriWasHere & (Apologies to) Jack @Blizz
(Stumbling All Over) The Halloween Festival

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Faces and masks blurred and became static as Sloane pushed through the gathered crowd huddled around the vendors. She moved with no actual destination in mind, only following after the kneejerk that told her she had to get away and clear her head before she started saying too much. Harsh words were like a stick of dynamite with a wick cut just a bit too long—they could be used to clear out the rocks in someone’s brain, or it could be picked up by someone quick enough and whipped back at the sender, falling at their feet right beside a wooden slat crate that read filled with TNT. It wasn’t as if Anya’s pleas of her attempting to use tact fell entirely on deaf ears. Sloane had been trying (poorly) to keep her sharp tongue tucked away for the past few weeks, but somewhere between drink one and drink four the scabbard had become loosened and liable to slip.

She just needed to be away from the others, otherwise she’d cut someone and get hurt in the process again. Only she didn’t want to be away from the others. She wanted to be a part of them, accepted as one of them, treated as one of them. Sloane wanted to attend slumber parties and summon demons. She wanted to wrap herself up in a bedsheet and parade around like an asshole. She wanted to tease and flirt and make out and hook up and act like she was a teenager again because when she was a teenager she didn’t have the chance to act like that. She wanted a redo. She was tired of being the responsible one. She was jealous. She had always been jealous. She was sick of being around not because she was actually liked and wanted but because of what she could offer.

Wait, no, oh god, the world tilted. She wasn’t just metaphorically sick, she was actually about to be legitimately sick. No, no, no. Her heart tap danced in arrhythmic panic. Her eyes darted around for a place of privacy in a sea of stalls that warped and bent like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. She felt a chill run down her spine. She stumbled, a clammy hand shooting out to catch the corner of a table for balance. The world righted itself. Sloane took a deep breath. She was fine. Of course she was fine. She wasn’t drunk. It was just thinking about the others that had nearly made her violently ill. She was totally in control of—oh no no nonono! There was another sudden surge as she clamped a hand over her mouth. Her cheeks puffed like a croaking bullfrog and then diminished with another false alarm that turned out to only be a muted and dainty burp.

See? She gestured to the world that was paying her no attention. Not drunk.

Sloane looked up and for a moment thought she was about to experience another wave of naus—sorry, “vertigo”—as she came face to face with a canvas painting of bright swirling colors arranged in seemingly random, chaotic patterns. Generally abstract art was not her bag, but it was both somehow absolutely beautiful and deeply unsettling. Was it a Jackson Pollock? A print, obviously, an original wouldn’t be displayed in some booth run by what appeared to be a wild pack of bohemian hipsters. In the center of the painting, isolated away through the waves of warm and vibrant colors by a sea of black, was a lone drop of blue. Sloane felt her throat tighten with a choke, as she never felt a deeper connection in her life to something than she did the little drop of blue. She must’ve gotten something in her eye, too, as it began to well up. Through her blurry vision she saw the initials signed near the bottom corner of the painting: JW.

Jasper Wilde.

The well went immediately dry, the blockade in her throat cleared by a ragged, heated breath. The abstract dashes and drops became concrete images corrupted by memory. The little drop of blue didn’t just connect with Sloane; it was Sloane, with the black the clothes she had once dressed in to seize some kind of identity with a hope to connect to others. The forest greens and golden yellows and fiery reds spiraled out with splayed roots of a tree, representing the members of the Sycamore Coven, none of which dared to grow near her. She recalled real moments of rooms growing quiet when she entered, of shoulders turning from her when she spoke, of plans being made in front of her face without an offering of an invitation. The faces in the memories were blurred abstracts like those in the crowd mixed with the paint on the canvas except for one that prominently stood out: stupid Jasper, shining and adored by all and irrationally intolerant of her.

It was a simple leap in logic. Everybody liked Jasper. Jasper didn’t like her. Therefore, everybody didn’t like her because of Jasper. How could someone be so petty and so fucking obsessive to paint an ode to another person’s loneliness, a loneliness that they should be held responsible for? Her lip quivered. Her teeth clenched. Her fist tightened. She punched a hand into her jacket and pulled out her wallet like it was a gun and she was about to go postal. She drew the attention of the art dealer, a young woman with a head full of tight curls and wearing as much jewelry as she was clothing, with two snaps of her fingers followed by a jabbing thrust towards the 18x24 insult.

“How much?"

When Jack decided to stop being Sloane’s shadow and actually approach the woman she had shifted away from the 317 booth and towards the one of the pop-up bars, unaware of the presence of the offending artist, the rest of Sycamore, or the PRA due to the mere separation caused by a few tent flaps. Sloane had found herself an area of privacy in the crowd behind the gathering of drink tents and bars. It wasn’t quite an area that was obviously off-limits, but it was clearly not meant to be an area for festival goers to gather. It was its own isolated bubble, popped only by the murmur of the crowd and the rumble of approaching toga chants. However, at any moment the chance glance between tents would reveal the lady in red behind them.

Sloane huddled by a stack of empty crates, the painting wrapped in brown paper sitting upon them like a makeshift easel, a drink in one hand, the other gently massaging the bridge of her nose that still stung when she touched it. She didn’t even jump when Jack appeared, merely giving him a slow glance. Her dark eyes were hooded and hazy with a deep disconnect and the drunkenness, and moved with the kind of choppiness of a video that was constantly buffering. There was an entire five seconds of blankness before Sloane’s lips twitched in confirmation that she acknowledged his existence.

"Sloane, what is it that troubles you tonight? It isn't Drake, or me, is it?" asked Jack.

“Nothing troubles me, Jack. I apologize for earlier. To be blunt, teleportation never sat well with me. I think that I’m simply just a bit old fashioned in that regard,” said Sloane. Her words were slow and slurred and accompanied by another strange giggle that didn’t match the somber vacancy in her eyes. She jiggled the red solo cup in her hand to emphasize the pun and pull her focus away from the memory of her parents so confidently rushing through a portal and leaving her behind just like everybody else does. She took a sip of the drink, made a pained expression, and choked out, “I’m good. Really. Say, do you like art?”

Sloane let go of the cup but it did not fall. Instead, it hung in suspended animation about four feet off of the ground, her hexmark etched next to the recycling symbol on the bottom of the cup. She had one hand in her pocket on her channeler while the other pulled a knife out from underneath her coat. With three quick and shockingly precise slashes she cut the brown wrapping paper around Jasper’s painting, leaving the bottom unsliced so that it draped down from the painting and over the crates. Like the cup, the knife hung in the air as Sloane let go of it. She pulled her channeler out of her pocket.

“Jasper made this piece for me. Can you believe it? Anyway, I love art. When I was a little girl I wanted to become an artist of some kind. It didn’t matter what, as long as it was creative. Only I was no good at it. My father said I just wasn’t born with the knack for art. My mother was more honest about it. She told me I just didn’t have any talent and that I should stop wasting everybody’s time. In retrospect, it was a pretty harsh thing to say to a seven-year-old.” As Sloane spoke, she began to trace a hexmark onto the painting with her channeler. “I wonder if Jasper’s mother told him the same. I don’t have the talent, it’s true, but I still have an eye for good art. He should’ve listened to his mother instead of wasting paint on this derivative piece of shit.”

She pulled her channeler back, reached forward, and booped the little drop of blue with her finger. The blue circle and orange cross of her hexmark glowed and then vanished as the paint on the canvas glitched. It became wet again before cascading off of the sheet like a waterfall, splashing off of the brown paper before it tumbled to the ground and sprayed up onto Sloane’s boots. The canvas had been completely reset except for the initials in the corner. It was a beautiful painting of nothing by Jasper Wilde, a critical self-reflection on what the man’s opinions were actually worth. Sloane blinked, grabbed her knife, and turned to Jack.

“I hope you really didn’t come here because you were worried that I might be upset at you, Jack,” she said, closing the knife and putting it back in her jacket. “You shouldn’t obsess so much about what other people think about you. It is so terribly unhealthy. As long as you’re doing the right thing it doesn’t matter what they think, say, or create. Got it?"

“An-y-way,” Sloane grabbed the old fashioned frozen in the air and took a drink. “Since you’re here, could you transfer that piece to my apartment for me? I don’t want to have to carry it around for the rest of the night. Oh, actually, you know what? Perhaps you should take it instead. Consider it a gift. Hang it up across from your bed. That way you can wake up every morning, see Nothing, and think of me. Then you'll be able to remember exactly what else, besides precisely what I may have already asked for, that I need from you.”

Sloane turned her crooked nose up, waved Jack off with a dismissive shooing motion, and drained her drink.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

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Interactions: Anya @Fernstone
The Halloween Festival: Money Making Area

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Ezra politely stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his polished shoe as he clocked Anya’s approach. He kept the butt of the cigarette pinched between his fingers instead of just littering on the ground. He gave Anya a polite smile, one that did not waiver even as the woman started to make excuses for her friend and further wasted his time. If Sloane Faris didn’t want to speak then she didn’t want to speak, it was as simple as that. He knew more than anyone else how nice it was to not speak to people. Besides, getting ignored like he was just some other Joe Schmo was a rarity for Ezra Vanburen. He’d been surprised by it, sure, but it hadn’t annoyed him. If anything had annoyed him it was knowing that what followed would be another round of charades where people were just needlessly polite to him to protect some kind of fragility they presumed he had, as if he were a Fabergé egg instead of a man who owned several.

However, this woman was more than just some toady trying to do a quick round of PR to protect her peer. It had been by no accident to mention that she was a businesswoman. Anya had a look in her eye and a rhythm to her speech of someone doing some advanced mathematics. This wasn’t just a mere bootlicking apology, it was an angle. Ms. Baksh was doing trigonometry. Before she had only had Ezra’s politeness, the kind of unfocused standby state he could exist in while being around people he did not want to deal with, but now she held his actual interest.

So, there were two ways to take what she had said. Either Ezra could take it at face value, shake her hand, and wish her a good night, or he could go with his assumption. He translated what Ms. Baksh had said from the apology that it had appeared as to the offer that it actually was: “I know that woman. You’re wasting your time with her. I am a much better investment.” Perhaps he was just reading into it too much, but he didn’t stay as successful as he was by having bad hunches. Now all that was needed was to test her mettle. Find out what kind of person she was.

“Please, you can just call me Ezra. Mr. Vanburen was my father,” said Ezra, offering Anya a handshake. “From what I hear Ms. Faris has many difficult nights. I had been hoping to discuss relieving her of some of those burdens, but it appears my timing was off yet again.”

Sloane’s red hat was vanishing into the crowd.

“I would love to hear more about your business, Ms. Baksh,” said Ezra, eyes following Carmen Sandiego as she made her great escape. “I wouldn’t be keeping you from anything, would I?”

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Interactions: Linqian @Fernstone
Objectifications: Leon @AtomicEmperor Drake@Punished GN
Elysian Fields, Cloud Nine.

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Bodies, bodies, bodies were exciting, -citing, -citing!

Soft curves and hard abs slick with sweat. Teeth and nails wet with blood. The deliciously sweet scent of musk. The pervasive and clinging stench of death. A tight, form-fitting sheet awarding those with zero imagination while providing fuel for the future for those who simply have too much but can never get enough. A black, form-covering sheet, rubbernecked by those imagining the possibilities, the casualty of someone who just can never get enough. A writhing mound of flesh, hard to separate where one begins and ends. An mass grave found beneath the floorboards, impossible to tell what belongs to who.

People were social animals and so was she.

Until today she didn’t believe in Heaven, but it was real. Turns out it was located between two big hunks of hard iron. Good thing for all those other people. Leon was a killer too but hey, he went to church so that absolves everything right? She was going to become a praying girl again. First prayer: dear god, let his wild side come out tonight. She’d tug his leash, make sure he was a good boy, teach him to roll over and play fetch, then forget about him the second he goes out to play in traffic and gets hit by a freight truck. Just replace him with another dog. Hey, big guy upstairs, ya listening right? Don’t make her fuckstart the apocalypse before they had their own personal rapture.

God, her thirst was unquenchable. She backed up just a little bit more now that Emily wasn’t on her ass. Hey, what happened to her drink—

“What the fuck, bro?” whined Vashti as the Chalice was snatched from her hands by Linqian, a splash of wine staining her white toga with droplets of red. Vashti wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out at Linqian, her hands a bit too preoccupied with careful positioning to lash out at her and snap her neck. She didn’t just want “available”—well, she did, obviously, look at him, goddamn—she wanted her dumb, sad muscle boy too. She wanted to make him forget all about his bitch wife, make him get down on his knees, produce a ring with a little bit of grave dirt on it, shit his pants in excitement when she says, “Yes, yes, oh yes, a thousand times yes, bro!”, leave his ass up on the altar, block his number, steal his sweater, and make him sadder than ever.

Why was that so hard to understand?

She stared at Linqian as she walked away. Then she really started to stare as Linqian began to change. Leon’s dog ears might pick up the high pitch sucking of air as Vashti bit back on her lip. Drake would certainly feel her nails dig into his body. She squirmed between the two strong men, not with the earlier ecstasy but with the panicked determination of a mountain climber who had become wedged between two rocks, in an attempt to escape and pull Linqian into the line beside her but she was stuck. She was stuck. They had caged her in and locked her up with a honeypot of dumb meaty men.

A trickle of thin blood dripped down her lip.

Or maybe it was just wine.

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Interactions: Leon (mentioned) @AtomicEmperor the 317 @NoriWasHere Linqian @FernStone Layla @Estylwen
Toga Town, USA. The Halloween Festival.

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Sully visibly cringed as the toga-ball spiked Linqian in the face, flopping (he hoped) harmlessly over her head. His passing game had always been a weak point. He mouthed an apology towards Linqian as words were near impossible to hear over the chant that had become like an incantation. It was hypnotic, really, casting a charm over the whole festival and pulling people to it like rats to the piper. It even managed to reach Ares and draw him away from sharpening his swords and fletching his arrows. Leon called out to join the toga line and Sully accepted in response.

Yet there had been a moment of hesitation.

In that moment Sully experienced a sudden spike of anxiety, a syringe of adrenaline jabbed straight in the heart that made him feel like his chest was about to explode and filled him with the urge to run away and hide in a toilet somewhere. Here’s the thing: Sully liked Leon, Sully looked up to Leon, at one point Sully probably thought he was in love with Leon before realizing (probably) it was more of an adoration (maybe) than an actual emotional attraction (surely). However, the last person he would want to see him belligerently drunk while sweating through a toga and looking like a stupid fat fuck out of shape piece of shit who thought they could pull off a mustache was Leon.

However, there was also a troubling thought: what would happen if Sully, the conductor, abandoned the line? Would the charm break and everyone go back to meandering around in their essential worker but sexy costume? Or would the crowd turn and the toga party become a toga travesty? He had to keep going. He had to keep the train on the tracks. He couldn’t let it derail. For the sake of the safety of all of mankind he’d stay. Plus, despite how inferior Leon’s mere existence made him feel he still wanted to see his Big Brother. As long as Leon kept the proselytizing to a minimum and didn’t wolf out Sully was genuinely happy to have him around.

Unfortunately there would be no moment to catch up and no chance to catch up as more revelers were coming. Linqian had adorned her toga and became—well, honestly, the one semester of Greek Mythology that Sully took in college because it sounded easier than any of the other classes was wearing a little thin. Souvlaki? He was pretty sure Souvlaki was one. Souvlaki was being delivered across the River Styx by Charon the Bee. Meanwhile, a curious pack of muses were arriving to witness the gods. Even the birds had to stop and watch the spectacle. One of the muses stepped forth and asked if they could join.

“Of course, friend! The Toga Line is for all!” shouted Sully, tossing a toga Alex’s way as well as one towards their towering and very distracting friend that was nearby. Sully wiped his lip with the back of his hand. That guy fucks.

There wasn’t really enough of the Chalice to go around at this point. Plus, frankly, he’d kind of lost track of it, but he was sure once it was empty somebody would pass it back up front. Nevertheless, they needed to secure more drinks or cups at the very least.

“Come little bee! Guide us to the nectar,” said Sully to Layla, before calling back over his shoulder. “TOGAS! TO THE DRINK LINE! TOGA, TOGA, TOGA!”

Continuing to drive the line forward, Sully reached out towards Linqian and Layla. Unless Linqian was able to break free, she’d be swung back somewhere to the middle. Layla, meanwhile, would take point in front of Sully and guide their parade, and perhaps serve as a stand-in for Sully when the inevitable call of nature came and he had to slip away to break the seal.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

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Interactions: Anya @Fernstone & Jack @Blizz
(Teleporting All Over) The Halloween Festival

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Drunken friend? Sloane gave Jack a look that lacked the typical vacancy in her eyes, showing her confusion and indigent rejection of the statement. Drunk? She didn’t like being drunk and she liked how she felt right now. She felt warm and tingly, like she was in a hot, steamy bath while sipping on a hot chamomile tea and reading a steamy romance novel. She wasn’t drunk. She couldn’t be drunk. If she were drunk then that meant she had been overserved, and the waitstaff were responsible professionals. Perhaps Jack was drunk. That must be it, of course, that was it, Jack was clearly drunk because ooooh! Ooooooh!

Anya. Anya was drunk. Obviously Anya was drunk. Yeah, Anya could hardly even stand up out of her chair. Sloane covered up a little smile with her hand as she followed Anya and Jack outside. She had never seen Anya drunk before, but wow, yeah, the way she walked in an almost perfectly straight line out the door made is sooooo obvious that she was trying as hard as she could not to appear completely wasted. Wow. Anya really hadn’t been holding back tonight. She must’ve desperately wanted one fun night to forget about all the terrible things in the world right now almost as much as Sloane did. Except obviously Sloane wasn’t drunk unlike Anya, who was clearly drunk and not like Sloane who wasn’t. Drunk, that is.

Where were they even going? The festival was the other—wait!

Before Sloane could protest against Jack teleporting them it happened. She felt like her body was dumped inside of a cocktail shaker and vigorously shaken over ice until she was nice and frothy, then she was flipped in the ass over head by an amateur bartender trying to show off but failing to snap the lid all of the way down as they tossed the shaker in the air. Sloane spilled out from the teleportation, a desperate and lucky catch upon Jack’s robes the only thing keeping her from becoming a human party foul as she just avoided spilling out onto the ground. Her body stopped but the world kept spinning. She let go of Jack, tilted her head back, covered her face, and held her breath as her body continued to swirl and mix because of Jack’s stupid teleportation spell and nothing else.

She pulled her hand away from her eyes, blinking rapidly at the chorus of singsong voices chanting toga, toga, toga. As Sloane was about to turn to take a look when Anya stumbled into her (because she was, despite how well she hid it, obviously soooo drunk, and the teleportation probably didn’t help with that). Sloane let out an absolutely foreign sounding girlish giggle as Anya “steadied” herself by bracing her hands on Sloane’s shoulders, allowing her friend to steer her so that she wouldn’t fall even if it meant being spun quickly in a half circle.

”...Best to get work out of the way so we can enjoy the rest of the night!”

“I mean I should but…”

She had only even mentioned her stall to further push the conversation away from Drake.
It would be fine, really. Her employees were handpicked by her after all. They would really only need her if there was an issue they couldn’t fix, and the amount of things that qualified as that had become smaller and smaller and smaller. Sloane still got heavily involved when dealing with certain parts of her clientele and anything involving antiques of substantial value, but the souvenir side of things was essentially self-sufficient. Tonight should just be about fun and honestly, those strangely familiar voices chanting about a toga sounded like they were having a ton of it.

Sloane tried to turn to get a look at the party, but as she turned her head Anya shifted her in the other direction. She turned her head the other way and Anya shifted them again. Another strange sounding giggle saw the wardens had their backs turned, hopped the fence, and fled out from Sloane’s mouth before she could block it with her hand. Jack said something she couldn’t register as she tried to look back at Anya and once again found herself steered the other way. It started to make her feel like she was on a boat in choppy waters, the feeling of nausea making her clinch her eyes shut.

“Anya, how much did you—” Jack teleported them again. Acid and alcohol bubbled violently up to Sloane’s chest and quickened her heart rate as she nearly collapsed, just barely keeping herself from both sprawling and spewing onto the ground, hands grabbing at Anya for support. “—driiiiink. Ugh”

Sloane righted herself and held up her head to bat away any raised concerns.

“You know, I am quite capable of walking by myself, Mr. Hawthorne. Just because you were gone for ten years didn’t mean that I’d lost the ability to go places. I got around just fine without you,” said Sloane, the acid that still lingered in her throat reacting with the embarrassment burning in her cheeks, making her normally cold tone sound heated. What am I doing? Maybe, possibly, as ever so unlikely as it was, she could’ve been just a little, teeny tiny bit drunk. She held her head up and took a large breath in an attempt to calm herself. “If I need a magical Uber, I’ll tell you. I just…”

She couldn’t find the right words to express how she felt. Sloane only wanted to have a nice night, but now she only had a head full of steam. She didn’t even know why. It wasn’t like she was actually angry at Jack. Sure, perhaps he could do a little work to perfect his teleportation spells so that it didn’t cause motion sickness, but that wasn’t really the problem either. Everything just felt off. She wasn’t having fun anymore. She had just wanted to have fun. No, more than that: Sloane had wanted to pretend that she was someone else, but right now she was just a shitty and drunk version of herself dressed like a cartoon character from a television show she’d never even watched.

An annoyed sigh exploded out of Sloane as she sharply turned, violently flicking her hands out before shoving them down into the pockets of her red trench coat, hunching her shoulders, and walked away without caring whether or not the others followed her. Sloane stormed past her own stall, a surprisingly festive display staffed by a trio of witches selling a mixture of cutesy halloween decorations like tiny straw voodoo dolls in Halloween costumes, spooky bitch essentials like incense burners and tarot sets, and basic souvenir shop bullshittery like mugs with the cityline of St. Portwell on them and t-shirts with slogans like “Straight Outta Cracker Island” printed on them.

A man dressed in an Italian suit with slicked back hair was casually chatting with one of the witches. The witch waved and shouted at Sloane as the man turned with a smile that quickly faded as the woman in red blew right past them without even an acknowledgement. The smile fell from the man's face as he looked back at the witch who, looking apologetic, immediately began saying something. The man shrugged and stepped away from the stall, putting down the three-faced voodoo doll he had been holding and pulling out a cigarette. He was about to light it with a match when he paused, looking in the direction of where Sloane was heading and then back in the direction of where she’d come from. His eyes skipped over the shrouded Jack and lingered briefly on Anya. The little smile returned to his face as he lit his cigarette and turned, heading off in the opposite direction of Sloane.

---

Interactions: Linqian @Fernstone
Toga Town, USA. The Halloween Festival.

---

For over ten years Sullivan McPherson had been scared, gripped by a fear so strong that sometimes awake, nearly paralyzed and having to fight himself to get out of bed and go to work. It was a fear that had made him give up on his dreams, a fear that had pushed him into accepting a life of irrelevancy. It was a fear that not many of his peers seemed to have, despite how many of his peers tended to trigger the fear inside of him and cause his stomach to tighten with dread just by their very existence. It was a fear aggravated by grabbing drinks with the boys after a hard day's work and hearing their life stories, all of them that started with a “yeah, I could’ve been somebody if” and ended with them in the same bar as Sully drinking a light beer and bitching about their back.

Sully was simply afraid that he’d peaked at eighteen, as saving the world was hard to top—even when his role in it was being nothing more than a glorified waterboy. However, in this moment as he drunkening led a parade of revelers in togas through the Halloween Festival he no longer felt fear. This was his greatest achievement in life: his Mona Lisa, his Godfather, his Jordan Game 6. It was the Prince Superbowl Half-Time Show of spontaneous toga parties. It was his magnum opus. He was a man with a magnum away from being mentioned in the same breath with the likes of King, Kennedy, and Lennon. Tonight, he had truly ascended, going from the party god, to the God of Parties.

Unfortunately, there was absolutely positively no way he was going to remember a single damn thing, as he had already been a few drinks in when he made the decision to fully commit to his now forgotten “Sully” costume and shave his beard into a mustache. Yet in this moment he was glorious.

The toga party wasn’t just an excuse to be drunk and half-naked, although being drunk and half-naked was a perk. The toga party was about coming together. It was about putting down differences and embracing the things that really matter—the person right in front of you (otherwise they couldn’t have a conga line). But think about it, really think about it. They had Sycamore chanting with Greenwood. They had Greenwood sharing a drink with 8th Street. Even 8th Street was getting friendly with Sycamore, although it was hard to tell if Drake could breath given how hard that one girl was squeezing on to him. Three Covens, One Line. Can you dig it?

But of course Sully had no time to preach to his magical brothers and sister about how through unity they could run Cracker Island. He was too busy filling the Chalice, passing it back, chanting toga-toga-toga, leading the cult of Dionysus through the crowded fairgrounds and recruiting true believers. Sully wiped sweat from his eyes and smoothed his missing beard as the line snaked through the stalls. It was only through happenstance—no, no, it was fate, divine intervention—that he looked when he did and made direct eye contact with Linqian. He always liked Linqian. He especially liked partying with Linqian. She might not be a sister yet, for no matter how close the dress of her Little Red outfit was to a toga it was not a toga, but she was still a friend.

And she had just made the grave mistake of using a cell phone. Linqian may not have realized what she had just done, but Sully had transcended. He knew the rules. He knew what happened to people with phones. He had to save her. He would save her.

The moment would be documented in the camera roll on Linqian’s phone in a choppy stop-motion: Sully’s eyes widening in horror, his mouth dropping, his hand reaching into his toga. A balled up toga palmed in his hand, his arm raised and cocked back. His hand thrown forward, fingers spread, mouth still shouting, the rest of his face obscured by a balled up toga that had just been released. A toga spiraling like a football through the air towards the camera screen. Getting closer. And closer. And closer as it began to unravel, leaving the next few photos nothing but a blank white screen as the toga continued to fly towards Linqian.

“Linqian! TOGA!” hollered Sully, a bit late on his warning despite his purest of intentions. Inside the conga line she’d be safe from any kidnappers or brawlers who hated phone users. Plus, maybe she would jump between Drake and that one chick and let his boy stop having to worry about cracking a rib.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

---

The Greenwood Coven

in collaboration w/ @Punished GN

Near Cracker Island

---

The waves hit the shore…

Following the coordinates that Ruby put out (that Naomi thought was a bad idea given the shitshow that was a week ago), Naomi and James pushed through the foliage until they made it to the clearing in the middle. A few members of Greenwood were already there… Jess was there wearing a cowboy outfit, with her grandfather’s little leather hat that she had as her channeler on her head. Kashmira was there wearing an orange Saree, hands together that were painted with henna. Pearl was dressed as a Jiangshi by painting her skin. Most notably… Autumn was dressed as Didi Pickles, pushing a large stroller with a blanket in front of it.

“Heh, nice costumes, ya’ll,” James said as he walked up… he and Naomi were dressed up in Adidas tracksuits with a black fedoras and comically large gold chains… but James had his axe in hand.

“Why, thank you,” Kashmira said, “It’s not much of a costume, but…”

“To the white people, it is,” James chuckled, then he turned to Autumn. “And oooh boy, fuckin’... Didi Pickles?” He laughed.

“It’s so we can put your axe and Sully’s cup in here,” Autumn answered.

“What do you think is gonna happen?” James raised Shango’s Axe in the air. “We gonna start another gang war?”

“Ruby thinks we should be prepared just in case… we did get outed, after all,” Autumn said.

“Good point, good point,” James said as he slung the axe over his shoulder. “Where is Ruby anyway?”

“She said “she had business” to attend to,” Jess said, finger-quoting. “She’ll catch up.”

“So, are we gonna hop on the Ferry, or is Amelia gonna teleport us there?” James asked.

“Amelia… when she gets here,” Pearl answered.

“Is Sully coming?” James asked,

“From what I heard, yes,” Autumn answered before she shrugged, “I guess we just wait.”

That was when Naomi pulled a blunt out of her pocket and grinned.

“Let’s spark up before the Ass-Eater gets here!”

“Too late! You’re busted, buddy!” bellowed a deep, disembodied voice.

The bushes shook violently as a silhouette moved behind them, the figure large enough to be the fabled sasquatch, accompanied by a quiet string of curses as they struggled to break through the natural barrier of the brush. The figure finally broke through and revealed himself not to be the world’s most outgoing bigfoot but rather just a large man wearing worn-in dress shoes, a pair of dark slacks, a loose-fitting suit jacket, and a white button-up shirt and a black tie that appeared to have been tied by a toddler. Lines of golden tape were wrapped around the wrists of the jacket. The man was sporting a neatly trimmed mustache, the razor burn still fresh on his neck, and he gave the group a shit-eating grin as he adjusted the nametag pinned to his jacket that read Sully.

The Chalice, of course, was accompanying him, although it was currently acting as a hat stand for his airline pilot cap. Sully snatched the cap and, with a needlessly theatrical flourish, donned it and put the final touches on his costume.

“Ta-da. Pretty good, huh?!” said Sully, rubbing his upper lip. “But….be real, the mustache doesn’t give off molesty vibes, does it?”

“Nice,” Naomi chuckled, as she tried to sneakily put the blunt back before Sully put ass on it.

“Y’know, I don’t think the mustache is bad,” James said as he slung his axe over both of his shoulders, “But, you look weird as fuck without a beard, y’know?”

James chuckled.

“Me? Beard or no beard, I’m a pretty boy, hehehehe!” James laughed.

“Oh, lord,” Naomi said with a roll of her eyes.

“You two, put your Agents in here,” Autumn said as she threw the blanket over the stroller.

“Two seconds,” said Sully as he took a chug from the Chalice before casually tossing it into the stroller. He wasn’t going to get fleeced out of fifteen dollars at the festival for a badly poured Miller Lite. “Don’t let that baby out of your sight.”

Then James put his axe in the stroller and Autumn threw the cover right back over it. She still had her necklace around her neck.

“Yeah, Rubes is real scared that a gang war is gonna break out the one time the cops are gonna be crawling all over something that’s not a donut shop or a minority,” Jessica said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head… then she chuckled.

“Okay, so if we see a group of people finger snapping and dancing around with knives we beat feet,” said Sully with a laugh, doubting that there would actually be any conflict at the Halloween Festival. What kind of assholes would want to ruin something like that?

His phone chimed as he got a text message. Sully had felt so guilty about ignoring Auri regarding his well-being, especially after she’d dropped the bombshell on him about their dead friends (he’d remembered the phone call, but not the night), that he made sure to keep his phone charged and to check in with her every morning—even if it meant having to come up with excuses for missing the funerals rather than admitting that they just made him too uncomfortable. However, ever since that dream the damn thing had been getting blown up. This time it was just spam. He swiped it away as a lightbulb turned on in his head.

“You know, I got a way we don’t have to worry about the police if shit does pop off. If you roll with one of theirs the others will leave you alone,” said Sully, rubbing his chin. Cops were essentially like a gang in that way. “Drake, an old high school slash Sycamore buddy of mine is on the force—but he’s cool, really!” Sully waved his hands frantically as if trying to preemptively slap off the accusations of being a narc. Unaware of the events from last week, Sully added, “He’s not the punch-a-minority type at all!”

“But honestly, he’s been texting me and I get the vibe that he needs to be around people. He’s had a real rough go at it lately,” said Sully. “I’d feel like a real dick if I didn’t hang out with him tonight. Cool if I invite him?”

Jess put her hands behind her head as she looked at Sully and shrugged, “I mean, if he’s a friend of yours, he’s a friend of ours!”

“He gotta pass the vibecheck first!” James clapped his hands together, a devious grin’s on his face.

“Yeah, we gotta see if he’s chill like us!” Naomi said.

“I mean,” Autumn began. “If the others are okay with it, I am.”

“Heck yeah!” Sully pumped his fist. He decided it was best to keep to himself that he wanted to keep Drake in his sights to make sure he wasn’t going to do something reckless. He was ninety-five percent sure that text had just been a joke, but just in case he wanted Drake to be under his responsible adult supervision. “Yeah, we can totally jump him in. Hold on, lemme give him a call.”

Sully stepped a couple feet away from the group and called Drake, “Hey bay-bay. I’m about to head to the festival with some folks. You wanna just roll together instead of trying to find each other in the crowd, man?”

”We can, but I’m on the ferry right now with Victoria, Amanda, and Nikki!" Drake began, "Wait, what costume are you rolling in? We could have been matching!"

“Shit dude maybe it ain’t too late. I’m going as Sully,” said Sully, not realizing that the bit didn’t land without the visual and even then it was milquetoast at best. Hearing that Drake was with people took a little of the edge off. “What are you going as?” he asked, putting his hand over the receiver as he loudly whispered to the Greenwood Coven. “He’s in. We’re coordinating.”

Naomi raised a thumb as Drake answered with an obnoxious yell:

”I’m goin as ZOOOOOOOOOS!”

Sully ripped the phone away from his ear in pain, only putting it back as Drake stopped yelling. “Like caged elephants and lions and shit? That sounds complicated.”

”Naw, I just got this toga, these sandals, a fake beard and white hair, and I’m Gucci!” Drake answered.

“Oh right. I could make that work,” said Sully, looking around at nothing but trees and shrubs. “Anyway, being the Chosen One I no longer take public transportation. Exclusively teleportation from here on out. Y’all choose a meeting place and my crew will swing by. See you soon, bro.”

Sully hung up the phone and turned to the members of Greenwood, “Anybody got a white sheet?”

“What? You’re going as a Klan Me-” James said with a shit-eating grin, before he got jabbed by Naomi’s elbow.

“Cut it out,” Naomi said.

“Oh, is that a bad idea?” said Sully, sharing the shit-eating grin. “I figured since it’s on Cracker Island…”

The bushes rustled, and everyone’s eyes were brought there as they hoped it wasn’t an intruder. However, it was none other than Amelia Taylor Dallon, wearing blue jeans tucked into cowboy boots and a black long-sleeve button-up shirt…

… With cat ears on.

“Yooooooooooo!” James shouted, “Don’t tell me that’s your fucking costume?”

Amelia nodded, “Yes.”

“Putting cat ears over regular ass clothes is not a costume,”

“Yes it is.”

“I mean, technically, I’m not wearing a costume,” Kashmira added.

“It’s different, tho,” Jessica said.

“How so?” Kashmira said.

“Because there’s nothing wrong with not wearing a costume,” said Sully. “But calling just cat ears a costume just feels…I dunno, man. It feels like a copout. Some people here shaved their beard for this—like Jess. What’s the actual costume supposed to be? Person who forgot it was Halloween until ten minutes before they were supposed to go to the party?”

That’s what I’m saying!” Jess said as she reached down for her fake revolvers, “I’m the last cowboy in this town, ya’ll!”

“I’m a lil’ kitty!” Amelia said, not realizing the full implication of what she just fucking said, “I mean, you two are no event wearing costumes either!” Amelia shot back.

“Hold on; I expected ya’ll not to get it!” Naomi laughed, “But ever hear of Run-DMC?” Then she gestured downwards.

“No,” Amelia responded.

“Of course you wouldn’t!” Naomi said, “Ain’t your girlfriend dressing up as a Mo-”

“Oh, hold on, everyone!” James raised his hands to accentuate his point, “We are getting off track here. We’re supposed to be teleporting to the island since, APPARENTLY hopping on a ferry is too good for us.”

He let the words hang in the air as he looked around, with his hands up.

“... So, let’s fucking get to the island already and get lit!”

Everyone cheered… and without further ado, a wind was summoned that carried leaves and the Greenwood Coven were teleported to Cracker Island.

---

Nikki Watanabe, Amanda, & Victoria Blackmore

The Halloween Festival, Docks to Festival Market.

---

South Side Life - Minus The Bear

---

---

Drake scratched his “beard”.

As part of this costume that Victoria made for him he had a wig and a fake beard that had that weird plant-crown thing. Drake had a toga on; naturally, Victoria wanted it to cover his whole chest, but Drake ain’t going to the gym for nothing! He let the left side hang and revealed his fucking dinner plate pecs! His costume.

He was Zeus.

Drake went over to the edge of the ferry and hung his head off it, getting barraged by the winds as he got closer and closer to Cracker Island! A funny ass name if he said so himself. However, he looked back at his sisters (and cousin), and the rest of them were dressed up as other Greek Gods. Victoria dressed up as Athena, Amanda dressed up as Artemis, Nikki dressed up as Hestia… and the Blackmore Triplets dressed up as Cerebus, one big dog costume. It was pretty goofy, but this was the first time Drake had attended the Halloween Festival in years since that was for kids! The boat docked and the Blackmores got off the boat, with Victoria pushing the stroller with her triplets.

“So…” Amanda said as she skipped. “Where are your friends at?”

“Shit, I gotta call Sully,” Drake said.

“While I do want to have that talk…” Victoria trailed off, “I’m not going to have the triplets around while you all drink.”

“It’s cool…” Drake went through his contacts until he found Sully’s, and hit call…

…and a phone rang from behind Drake as Sully struck, wrapping his arms around Drake’s chest from behind and began lifting him in a bear hug.

“ZOOOOOOOOOS MY BOY! HA HA!” yelled Sully, a pained grunt escaping from his mouth as he felt his muscles rebel against the deadlift. He spun Drake around and exchanged with him the classic handshake that gets pulled into a hug, the universal sign of true bros everywhere. “Goddamn Drake you committed to the costume. You’re sculpted out of solid fucking marble man!”

It was at that moment Sully noticed the rest of the Blackmores, including the children. He pulled at the color of his button up and grimaced, acting before he could get chastised, “Oh, sorry Vic. Good to see you and the kiddos.”

“Hold on, lemme introduce everybody. This is Drake, Amanda, Victoria, and Nikki. And this is,” Sully stumbled over his words as he turned as he realized introducing them all as Greenwood was a bad, stupid, dumb idea. He gestured broadly at whatever members of the Greenwood Coven had followed behind him, “Uhhhh, this is everybody!”

“... THE GANG!” Jessica shouted.

“I’m James,” He said with a shit-eating grin.

“Naomi,” She said as she hugged him.

“Pearl,”

“Autumn,”

“Kashmira Sarai!”

“I’m the rootinus tootinus Jessica Rosefey!” She hopped over and extended a hand to Drake. “It's great to meet ya’!”

Drake looked down at her hand, then grinned.

“... Colorful group of friends you got here, Sully,” Drake said as he shook her hand.

“We’re missing the “leader” of our friend group, Rubes,” Jess said.

“She probably forgot to come!” James shouted.

“She said she’ll be her-”

“...Are those cat ears?!” Drake shouted. “And are you two wearing fedoras!?”

“Run-DMC…” Naomi facepalmed, “Ever heard of ‘em?”

Sully had shifted over to Autumn and was quite obvious as attempted to quietly dig through her stroller, nearly cutting his hand on James’s axe. He shoved something under his jacket and rejoined Drake by his side, loudly whispering to his friend as he winked at Naomi, “They’re Aerosmith’s backup singers. Now we can wait for Ruby to join us if we want or leave her a trail of breadcrumbs if we don’t, but first we should be mature, fiscally responsible adults.”

Sully pulled his hand out of his jacket, revealing the Chalice of their dreams, and threw his other arm around Drake’s shoulder. “Let’s pregame! Just one drink, I swear.”

---

“TOGA! TOGA! TOGA!”

One drink had become many. Two clearly drunk men stumbled their way through crowds surrounding the vendors, unbothered by the continuing rain or how they had gotten separated from the rest of their group. Red wine splashed from Sully’s Chalice as he pumped it up and down in the air with their chanting. Drake was still dressed like Zeus but at some point Sully had traded out his pilot costume and ascended Mt. Olympus for a toga of his own, anointing himself as the avatar of Dionysus. However, this Dionysus had gotten his pilot’s license, because Sully still wore the cap. The two had the brilliant idea to turn the Halloween Festival into a toga party, partially inspired by everyone’s inability to lay off Amelia for not wearing an actual costume. They were now on an extremely important mission. Their goal? Secure more togas.

If there was anywhere to find an abundance of white sheets large enough to cover a body, it had to be on Cracker Island.

“TOGA! TOGA! TOGA!”

The parading Parthenon party proceeded to bless the various stalls with their presence, empowered by the hands and voices raised at them in prayer and most certainly not anger or annoyance. Blitzed and bumbling, the bros were blissfully unaware that they were about to cross their paths with a sister of Scylla and a worshiper of Artemis. Blending her way through the crowds and the stalls was a young woman in a black channeling the spirit of an executioner: hood up, face covered. She stalked, shifted, and shoved her way closer to her destination, her mind so focused on the onetrack ahead of her that everything around her darkened as she tunneled oneward. She was locked in; a storm cloud chasing a murder of crows.

“TOGA! TOGA! TO-GYAH!!”

Sully and Vashti collided together, their two very important missions pulled to a grinding halt by a chance and literal run-in outside of Auri’s shuttered stall that knocked both of them down. Vashti was the first up, back to her feet with a lightning fast kip-up, eyes wild, fingers tensed back and ready to strike down the sudden assailant. Sully was much slower, content to take the moment on his back as he caught his breath and stared in amazement at the Chalice he still held above him, shocked by how none of the wine had spilled, forgetting that Drake and him had already drank the last fill. Sully managed to sit himself up, hoping that he didn’t soil the back of his toga with any mud, and found the Unabomber burning a hole through his skull. He only recognized Vashti when she pulled her shawl down. From the rumors he’d heard, he would’ve preferred that it had been the Unabomber.

“Hey, bro,” said Vashti as she squatted down and got eye level. “You seen Lila?”

“Uh, hey, uh, no,” said Sully, noting her intenseness even through his own drunkenness. She looked like she was ready to rip his head off. In times like these, there was only one solution. A splash of blood red wine slopped over the rim of the Chalice as Sully’s hand shook. “Want a drink?”

A frenzied look crossed Vashti’s face as her lips cracked and peeled apart, tongue scraping against her teeth as it tasted the wet air, her hand slicing through the air with swiftness and precision. Sully closed his eyes tight, his breathing stilled and his knuckles white.

The world went dark.

---

The rain stopped.

The clouds dispersed.

The sun had set.

The stars aligned.

“Toga, toga, toga!”

A conga line had formed: Sully, Drake, and Vashti. The hoodie had been ditched for a fresh, crisp toga that revealed old scars, new bruises, and detailed tattoos on Vashti’s arms of sea monsters, storms, and witches burning at the stake. She took a swig of the Chalice, the warmth of the wine melting her ice cold blood, and passed it back up the line, taking the opportunity to “accidentally” press up against Drake. For now, what Lila had coming her way was nothing more than a thought struggling to swim in the cesspool of Vashti’s mind. Thirsty glances at Drake’s physique and the feel-good buzz of alcohol that counteracted whatever else had run its course in her system helped to hold down the thoughts of Lila’s doom until the bubbles stopped coming to the surface, free of the violent thoughts until they bloated and bobbed back up to the surface like they always did regardless of how many stones she put in their pockets or cement blocks she tied to their limbs.

Vashti smiled.

“Toga, toga, toga!”

In the blink of an eye, the conga line began to reek of marijuana as another guest added on, grabbing onto the back of Vashti’s shoulders was none other than Ruby White. Also drunk off her tits and high as a kite, she had a toga of her own on, but it was unknown if that was her costume or she saw the conga line and decided to change attire (though with Ruby it could be one or the other).

“Toga, toga, toga!”

It was all fun and games…

“... Vashti.”

… Until the party pooper came.

Emily G. Reed, in fresh dragon pajamas after getting literally shit on and bombed. She had her fists on her hip as the disappointment on her face could be sensed by a blind man!

“... Where the hell were you?” Emily asked, tilting her head. “Those sluts beat me up!”

Vashti broke free of the toga line.

“I said I’ll handle it, Emily. Look!” she jerked her head towards Drake. “I’m trying to get that slut over there to beat me up, too. You know what they say: when the goalie’s six feet under you’re basically guaranteed to score. So come on dude, don’t cockblock me okay, geez!”

Then Vashti grabbed Emily’s wrist and began pulling her to join the line as she shouted, “Sully!! TOGA!!!”

“Wha- no!” Emily shook her head, before she looked at Drake, baring teeth as she stomped on the ground. “... BLACKMORE!”

“... Drake,” he said, flipping his fake wig. “Drake Blackmore. You forget there are like five... No, like seven. Seven of us.”

“Your slutty frie-”

A shadow loomed over Emily as Sully tossed a balled-up blanket her way, and it hit her directly in the face - unfurling somewhat as it draped down both sides of her. She was awestruck as she took a moment to pull the cloth off her and hold it in both hands. As she looked up at Vashti,

“Okay, I got the fuckin’ dragon pajamas Miranda got me to wear, but there is no way I am…”

---

Emily sighed. Wearing this stupid toga over her dragon costume, making her look even stupider.

“... Toga, toga… toga…” Emily muttered while in the conga line, doing this idiotic dance.

“... Please kill me.”

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

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Interactions: Anya @Fernstone & Jack @Blizz
Resort Bar. The Halloween Festival

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Sloane edged forward as Anya was about to dish out her heart’s desires, her eyes darting to the waitstaff to throw a look that could read as annoyance their way instead of delivering the actual disappointed face to Anya. Although Sloane wasn’t actually disappointed: she was jealous. I’m quite happy being single and romance doesn’t appeal to me were the kind of things statements she wished she could deliver with such earnesty and sincerity as Anya did, but while Anya had told the truth for Sloane they would’ve been a lie. Perhaps she could say something like I’m certain I’ll end up alone and romance refuses to work with me with some kind of conviction given their basis in reality, but who would want to hear it?

A fourth drink magically appeared before her, or perhaps she had just looked the wrong way when the server dropped it off. Nevertheless, she had someone to whom she could whisper her secrets. She told her drink that she was jealous of Jack too. Leaving Shimmer wasn’t an option for her—she had locked herself inside of a gilded cage of her own design—but she imagined despite Jack’s insistence that there would be hundreds of handsome men just dying to go on not only a globetrotting but a dimension hopping adventure.

“It sounds like Jack doesn’t trust our taste in men, Anya,” said Sloane, with a hint of humor and a click of her tongue.

Then again maybe it was just a hint of a slur coming from a woman whose wildest nights typically consisted of a small glass of red wine and two and a half aspirin. She swirled her drink, the ice clinking against the sides of the glass. Why’d they have to make the cups so small? Not that she was close to finishing this one anyway. While the last glass had been way too easy, the task of finishing this one seemed daunting. She stuck to drinking it like one of those perpetual motion toy birds people would put on their desk to say that they weren’t just a loan officer but a fun loan officer, only her motion was reversed—picking up her glass, wetting her lips without hardly taking a sip, setting it down, and picking it back up again to repeat.

Anya had mentioned her parents. Bad parents were just another thing that the two women had bonded over. It was surprising that Anya had even brought them up. When it came to most people Sloane acted as if her parents were dead, often simply putting it as “they’re gone” and fixing anyone who pushed further with a stare so uncomfortable they had to fold on their line of questioning. However, with Anya and Jade she had shared everything: their crimes, their abandonment, their general awfulness. She glanced at Jack, curious to ask if he also resented his parents, but certain that she could guess the answer judging by how he’d spent the past decade outside of their world.

Plus, something else was weighing on her mind and for some three solid reasons (plus a few sips of the fourth) she found the heavily guarded gate and barbed wire fence that surrounded her personal thoughts suddenly manned only by a single sleeping guard with the door left ajar.

“I saw Drake,” she said cautiously. “On the ferry. That’s why I wanted to come here. I was worried that we’d run into one another and it’d be a thing. I know I shouldn’t have said what I said, but it doesn’t even come close to justifying what he did. And then he just went about his life, not once thinking to call or even text an apology, not even checking in to see if I was still alive. I don’t get it.“

Her right hand began to tremble. She placed her other hand over it and squeezed it to make it stop. Drake not apologizing for striking her wasn’t the only injustice that existed in the Coven. Britney was welcomed back with open arms while the splinter faction that her actions had created were kept out in the rain. Layla had been stripped of something that, as detestful as it was, could defend her while they were all being hunted, yet Luca was left to suffer with whatever he was dealing with—she didn’t know the full scope of the Rot, but she had seen the meds. Jinhai was a jar in a cabinet and his sister was still a bitch but a bitch with more love in her life than Sloane ever had and yet she was still an ice cold bitch. And, for some reason so stupid she couldn’t comprehend, as if he was only doing it just to do it, Jasper still hated her for some inconceivable reason.

“I don’t get it,” she repeated, the follow-up question only in her head: Am I that unlikable? It shouldn’t bother me.

But it does.

“Whatever!” Sloane found the will inside of her to finish her drink, practically slammed the table with her hands, and stood with only the slightest of stumbles. “Drake doesn’t deserve to occupy any of our thoughts just like these hoity-toity snobs here wouldn’t deserve either of you if you had been interested. Let’s go back to the festival and check out the stalls.”

Sloane looked at her watch and frowned, “I should probably check in on mine, actually…”

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

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Interactions: Anya @Fernstone & Jack @Blizz
Resort Bar. The Halloween Festival

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What most people would mistake for breathing and blinking was actually an absolute avalanche of expressions, the mix of horror and amusement dusting off the slopes of Sloane’s face and melting as they mixed within her second drink. It wasn’t as tough to get down as the first one, at least until Anya mentioned the fisting. Sloane made what could only ever be described as some kind of noise, one that would be impossible to replicate if she tried, and immediately clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. It was actually a strategic maneuver that perfectly coincided with the appropriate time to show shock, as she wasn’t covering a gasp but rather covering up the old fashioned that she had snorted out of her nose. She kept her hand over her mouth until she was sure there was no evidence on her upper lip and to give herself something to bite to keep herself from screaming as the inside of her nose burned from the whiskey.

Maybe it’d go away if she took another sip of her drink. (It didn’t, but perhaps a bigger sip?)

"I have a feeling he only pretends to be so disgustingly stupid, and I'm well-versed in the art of lying to someone's face," said Jack. "But, your sacrifice will not be forgotten."

Lying was a weird habit to brag about. She didn’t really see any value in it anyway—there was never any need to lie if things were done right, while lying to protect people from the truth was just delaying the pain until later. Sloane looked at Jack, trying to discern if the only person he was lying to about being a good liar was himself. It was difficult to get a read on him, but that could just be because his face was obscured by the robes of his costume. It was unfair, but a small part of her was happy because it meant there existed a reality where he hadn’t just lied to her. Dishonesty was disgusting, unlike this old fashioned. It was starting to taste quite good.

“Yes, if you ever need anything just name it, Anya. But I don’t know about your theory, Jack. Sometimes people are just that stupid,” said Sloane, glancing out to the sea and thinking about how she’d seen Drake earlier. She went ahead and took that bigger sip. She might have finally acquired the taste for alcohol, but it still wasn’t making her feel good. Just a little too warm for comfort, actually. She was actually grateful to see that a cooling rain had startedt.

"As far as 'dates' go, it was the worst I’ve ever been on. It reminded me of why I haven't been dating for the last few years," said Anya. Sloane turned her head, interest piqued—and also to try and flag down another server. ”I don’t think I’ll be going on another anytime soon”

“I don’t know, Anya. Trevor is obviously a creep but if that was the worst date you went on I don’t see why you should give up on finding someone,” said Sloane, trading her empty glass for a full one. “Seriously. I’ve been on worse dates than that one this year.”

_Oh.
^Fuck!

One gulp and Sloane finished half her drink and, yes, if anybody asked the glass was half-empty. The panic set in, although panic in this case looked like a woman in her late twenties daintily dabbing at her lips with a cocktail napkin. Her dating life was not a subject that was up for discussion. It was something to keep locked away in her vault, next to all of her artifacts and counterfeits that were missing and a copy of her seven-year-plan for the city that was now absolutely useless because she was going to have to leave town after tonight. She had to pivot now and she had to pivot hard. So much for doing anything for Anya, Sloane was about to offer her up as a sacrifice again.

“You know what I think, Jack? I think to thank Anya for her sacrifice we should take it upon ourselves to find her an actual date with an actual guy who is deserving of someone so brilliant and beautiful. Don’t you think so too, Jack?” said Sloane, blinking out an SOS that even if Jack failed to pick up Anya would surely notice, so she tried blocking Anya from her view by brushing away at a phantom thread of hair. At all cost, she was going to avoid eye contact with Anya. She began to crane her neck, looking around the bar for eligible bachelors. “Surely we can find you someone here.”

“What’s your type anyway? You never really talk about guys,” said Sloane, forgetting what she had just told herself as she took a sip of her old fashioned and made eye contact with Anya. She didn’t pull her mouth away from the drink until her teeth touched glass, “Um, you too Jack. I’m sure we can find someone for you here too. I'll just play matchmaker. And keep an eye out for a server, also…”

Or a gun she could shoot herself with.

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Interactions: Don't worry, bro
Cracker Island. The Halloween Festival

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Rip.

Tear.

Rip and tear, tear and rip. Freshly polished nails flashing, claws slashing, in and out, animal style. Real savage ultraviolence. Faster and faster and faster. Teeth gnashing, eyes bulging, chest heaving. Rip and tear, tear and rip. Hands wet, face splattered. Kill, kill, kill. Soaked insides spilled all over the ground as limbs flew. Heavy breathing, seeing red. Hands ripping at her throat, claws tearing at her chest. More, more, more. All of history’s violence before this was just preamble, laying down the groundwork of brick after bloodsoaked brick for this massacre right here, right now.

Absolute carnage.

Pure horror.

No calls would be made when the body was discovered, drenched and eviscerated. No tape would be put up around the area, no sheriff would be shaking their head and questioning what sick fuck would do something like this, no lookie-loos would be trying to sneak a peek of the scene to add a little excitement to their boring routine. No time of death would be called, no next of kin would be called, and no funeral would be held. Nothing would come of the pointless violence, except perhaps the mild frustration of a groundskeeper as they went about picking up the torn up bits of synthetic fiber and cheap polyester that made up the shredded remnants of a giant stuffed bear and a crocodile onesie.

An act of frustration?

Or a warm-up?

The top of a black hoodie poked out from around the scene of the crime’s corner, nearly impossible to see in the rain. The storm continued to expand over the festival, the light drizzle gaining a bit of umph and turning into a proper rain shower. The black hoodie joined the crowd that was still too determined to have a good evening to let a little rain ruin it, unaware that they had become camouflage and human shields. Families with young children, teenagers on first dates, and young adults desperately trying to hang on to that qualifier paid little attention to the black hoodie as they passed by, unaware that they had just brushed against death but were fortunate enough for today to not be their day. The black hoodie pulled back its sleeve, massaged its wrist, and flexed its fingers.

Five digits, five targets.

Which little piggy was first?

But first: buzz buzz, buzz buzz! A neon pink phone vibrated in its pocket, the catchy pop song used for the ringtone drowned out by the noise of the festivities.

“Yeah?” said Vashti, muffled by the shawl covering the lower half of her face. She pulled the Leviathan’s Veil away from her mouth. “Sorry, what? What? Fucking what? Who!?”

A pause.

“You mean Lila?”

Another pause.

“Mmm, this kinda sounds like a hate crime, bro. Huh? Oh, no, I’ll take care of it, obvi. Can’t let them make us look weak. Hm? What do you mean by who’s them? Them as in Sycamore them. What other them is there?” asked Vashti, her eyes widening in shock as she cackled wickedly. “Ohmigawd, dude! Dude, stop! You’re the worst! I’m hanging up. Don’t you ever call this number again!”

For now the little pigs were safe, there was a loose bird that needed caging. Vashti pulled the shawl back up over her nose, covering the cruel smile on her face. With the shawl over her face and the black hood over her head she looked like the kind of person who attended a peaceful protest because it gave them the opportunity to throw molotov cocktails and smash in windows. A Halloween costume that was in poor taste at best and an understatement of things to come at worst.

Not like she gave a shit.

Time. To. Hunt.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

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Interactions: Anya @Fernstone & Jack @Blizz
Resort Bar. The Halloween Festival

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Sloane was ever thankful for Anya: there was no whinging over the change of plans and no unnecessary asking of what’s wrong, just a decisive agreement and a quick call to action. Sloane followed her and Jack to a shady spot and then, steeling herself for the nauseating jump, placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. Rain began to fall on them as the silhouette of an international thief, a southern gothic swamp witch, and a shade huddled together behind a stall. There was a passing gaggle of teenage girls, one complaining loudly about the rain, and after they passed the area behind the stall was completely empty. The three popped into existence on the other side of the island, about a hundred feet away from the resort, with Sloane massaging her temple as the shadows unwrapped themselves from her.

The large resort was dark and closed for the season, the orange and red leaves of the large trees nearby making the entire tropical island aesthetic of the resort feel extremely out of place. The beach looked like a husk of itself. In the summer large umbrellas, beach chairs, and volleyball nets would line the shores, but they had all been stored away for the winter leaving it barren except for the volleyball net posts and a couple of lifeguard stands. The beautiful sandy shores of Cracker Island, as they were referred to in the brochure, had been washed away by the tide, returning the beach to its naturally rocky self until the owners called for sand to be shipped in again before it reopened in May. Its reopening always shocked Sloane, who assumed people would rather summer in the Caribbeans or the Mediterranean than in temperate, always cloudy St. Portwell, but every year it opened back up without fail.

The majority of the resort might’ve appeared dead, but the bar itself was still very much alive as the trio made their way up the drive. The resort’s bar was split between two parts with the circular bar itself being the center. One part was a large, roofed patio right along the beach that could be closed off from the elements if needed and where the majority of partygoers in and out of costume appeared to be gathered. The other half of the bar was inside the resort and hidden behind a series of thick, velvety curtains. Nobody but staff, dressed in typical serving attire except for the addition of a mardi gras mask, seemed to move into the curtained off section.

Sloane led Anya and Jack up to the check-in station outside of the bar, getting them in with no trouble. The gaudy halloween decorations that hung around the rest of the festival were replaced in favor for more tasteful autumnal decor, uncarved pumpkins and gourds displayed with elaborate arrangement of corn husks. Thick, artificial wax candles hung from the ceiling, giving the bar a warm glow as the gathering storm clouds blocked out what could’ve been a beautiful sunset. A four piece string band was playing quietly at one end of the bar, largely ignored, their music drowned out by conversations from the movers and shakers of St. Portwell. They got their drinks, Sloane sticking true to her word, and found a high-top table to crowd around that overlooked the dreary beach.

“Well we made it a week,” said Sloane. “Cheers to the PRA, I guess.”

She raised her glass in a half-hearted salut and then took a sip of her old fashioned. It was an excellent drink wasted on someone who did not particularly drink or enjoy the taste of alcohol, often stating how she failed to see how anybody could enjoy losing control of their faculties. However, tonight was Halloween, and for Halloween she was going as somebody who actually enjoyed letting their hair down. As Linqian had eloquently put it, ”Nobody needs your protection. Nobody's making you worry about the city when you could live a great fucking life, sad and alone.” It was funny to Sloane. As it turned out, in the life she currently chose to live she also often felt sad and alone, she just hadn’t realized that was what she had been feeling until Linqian said it. She took another sip and actually winced as the second taste was more difficult to stomach than the first.

“But whatever. I don’t want to talk about any of that stuff tonight. Tonight I want to just pretend like I am living a normal life where I can enjoy some drinks with a couple of friends and chat about nothing,” said Sloane. Even when she was around friends she felt sad and alone. She didn’t feel like anyone actually knew her, not even Anya. They just knew a handful of Sloane facts like the ones on cards they put up next to the display of zoo animals in cages: did you know that the average Sloane can drink up to three cups of tea a day, buys approximately eight books a month yet only actually reads about half, and is a Capricorn? She looked down at her drink, speared the cherry with a cocktail straw, and pulled it off the straw with her teeth. She felt her stomach knot.

“Um,” was about as far as she got for conversation starters. It was easier to talk to people when there was a goal, a solvable crisis that at the end of the conversation she could look and go: there, we did it. She kept thinking about Linqian, and how Linqian had family that she cared about, and how that family cared about Linqian, whereas Sloane had only abstracts: the people, the city, the right thing. None of those things, as Linqian had pointed out, needed her. Goddamnit, did she even ask to pay for Jinhai’s funeral because she wanted to or because she simply liked the idea of someone tangible relying on her?The former, remember, you don’t care what others think, right? She finished her drink and waved over a cocktail server, ordering another old fashioned.

“So," Sloane shifted her weight, looking tired. "What do you want to talk about?”

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

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Interactions: Britney@Punished GN Layla@Estylwen Edict@AtomicEmperor & Linqian @Fernstone
Cracker Island. The Halloween Festival

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“Some way to greet an old friend, Vashti.”

Vashti's neck snapped towards the buzzing. Her face was frozen in a horrific expression like the paintings of a paranoid schizophrenic done on acid: her bottom lip curled out and mouth still hung and twisted from her latest “c’mon”, her noses wrinkled and upturned, her eyes buggy and wide as she gave the littlest of the bees a bleary once over, all of which was trying to escape out from the gullet of a toothy crocodile. Her lips unfroze and mouthed “old friend” as if it was the most perplexing thing someone has ever said to her. A reel of old film spun through and played her fuzzy memory, footage of a familiar bee standing in the background like an extra, before the film caught flame and spun loose. Then her mind went oh, oh, oh oh oh as she realized the truth: this bee was obviously just a no good goddamn liar. They weren’t friends.

What kind of psychopath lied about being friends with someone?

“Oh my bad, bro, I didn’t recognize you. Now buzz, buzz, Layla, buzz, buzz. I gotta talk to my friend Britney,” said Vashti as she gave Layla a friendly flashing of fangs. Her smile stretched the limits of her mouth as she fantasized about finding a tall building or a cliff and testing the baby bee’s ability to fly after she tore off its wings.

"I'm not scared of you, either. In fact. I'll kill you here and now if that's what you want," said Britney.

“See?” Vashti gestured to the bees. “Toxic.”

"Woah! Woooooah, God Damn, I guess you really embraced life as Emily's pet lizard!? Vashti twisted her body so that she could see the approaching dead man without turning her back on Britney’s hive. “Clear the fuck off, Nashty Hoor, before someone calls animal control."

“Good one,” Vashti laughed fakely at Greyson’s joke and held her hands up as if she were under arrest. She took a small step back, but the storm continued to expand.
What, were they having a reunion here or something? Linqian was here too. Her laugh shifted and became a genuine cackle as she noted their costumes, “Bro, that’s an amazing costume! You look just like the guy who doesn’t get laid after his senior prom.”Vashti squinted and, hands still held in surrender, pinched her right thumb and forefinger together until they were just separated by a hair. She began speaking at the same time as Linqian, “Is that why you’re with little dick riding h—”

Linqian was coming in hot, yelling fuck this fuck that like some fucking ignorant bitch, or perhaps it was more accurate to say that she was coming in cold. Vashti found herself the centerpiece in a snowglobe for the Florida Gators. What the heck was even happening? All she had wanted was one simple private conversation and everybody was acting like she was an absolute sociopath for it. Meanwhile, they’re behaving monstrously like they were complete and total animals. She felt adrenaline surge through her system as her fight or flight system kicked in. A quick headcount, factor in the witnesses, multiple by how much Emily would yell at her, and divided by how many fucks Vashti gave at the moment. Sadly, she was becoming far too coherent for how she had intended to be this evening.

"—huh?"

So when Linqian misspoke and made it sound like Vashti was getting invited to an impromptu orgy she got fully distracted by the false promise, noting that the hottie versus nottie ratio was unusually favorable. In that moment of excitement, she didn't notice what Linqian was moving to do.

“WAH!!” screamed Vashti in surprise as Linqian grabbed her wrist. The immediate shock of the cold was replaced by the searing heat of pain as the left sleeve of her costume began to stiffen as Linqian’s grip threatened to inflict Vashti’s hand with frostbite. Rationally, in this moment a person would want to get away from their source of pain as quickly as possible. However, in this moment, as with most any other moment, rationality wasn’t really something in Vashti’s kit. Thunder rumbled as the rain picked up, the storm continuing to expand and begin to threaten to encroach on the rest of the festival area. No, she had little to no rationality, but what she did have was instinct.

”Fuck right off before I shove my knee up your fucking crocodile ass.”

And instinct told her that those words would be Linqian’s last.

Linqian was close enough to feel the shift in Vashti’s body as her muscles tightened like a coil, getting ready to strike. The murderous intent was clear in Vashti’s eyes. There was the presence of something else too as her pupils momentarily became elongated and narrow as her eyes shifted to a putrid yellow-green before returning back to their normal bloodshot brown. She grinned, more a baring of teeth really, her tongue licking her canines hungrily. Linqian would see that her magic was hurting Vashti; she would also see that the woman did not care. Vashti couldn’t be to blame for anything that happened next. Linqian had just put her hand in the mouth of a crocodile.

Britney’s words bounced off of Vashti’s ears—if Emily was getting her ass kicked, then that just meant she was weak and unworthy. This was so, so, so much more vital than anything else in the world. Her free hand shot back and twitched in anticipation, overwhelmed by the bountiful buffet of options: even frozen meat was still meat. Snapping in her knee would’ve been poetic, while slicing open her stomach until her blouse matched the red of her hood would be beautifully artistic. No, no, no, both were too intense too quickly. For hurting Vashti it was clear that Linqian wanted the long, personalized experience, but there simply wasn’t time! Like bobbing for apples she would have to be quick if she wanted the prize, and there were just so many other juicy McIntoshes around that she couldn’t savor a sour Granny Smith like Linqian.

A simple tracheotomy then. The snow danced around her nails as they flashed through the air towards Linqian’s throat. Just moments prior Sabrina had stepped forward, her last name leaving her mouth at the same time Vashti took her swing. The intensity faded from Vashti’s eyes as her trajectory slowed down and diverted. If Linqian had made the mistake of standing her ground instead of backing down the hit would connect. However, it was no longer a lethal, spine-severing slash, but a mere painless and playful pat-pat of the cheek followed by Vashti wrenching her wrist free of Linqian’s grip with ease. She backed away from Linqian, smiling, her hand rubbing her wrist and trying to warm it.

“No need, Ms. Vanburen, no need! We're just fooling around,” said Vashti, chipper as ever, to Sabrina. Then she turned to the remnants of Sycamore.

“But god, you all are so fucking lame now. Lighten up, lighten up. It’s Halloween! I was just joking around with you, Britney. It was a prank, bro, a prank,” said Vashti with a little witch cackle, backstepping, body still tensed and ready to strike if anybody tried anything. She grabbed the massive stuffed bear off of the ground, its fur heavy with snow and rain, and slung it over her shoulders as if she were carrying a wounded soldier. “I know when I’m not welcome. Which reminds me, if you see Sloane tell her to drop by the manor again tomorrow. Emily should finally be free.”

Vashti smiled at a private joke and took a few more steps back into the darkness of the bad weather.

“Love your costumes by the way. Very cool. Very, very recognizable. Real easy to spot even in this weather. Anyway, I hope you all have fun tonight. I know I will. Party like there’s no tomorrow, bros,” she said, her voice falling flat. She became little more than a crowd surfing stuffed bear as she slipped back into the safety of a group of festival goers. A voice rumbled from the crowd like distant thunder as the rain continued, showing no sign of giving up just yet. It said, ''Be seeing you. Be seeing you real soon.”

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

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Interactions: Mentions Drake @Punished GN
Ferry. The Halloween Festival

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Sloane became one with the crowd as she was herded onto the ferry, just a Carmen Sandiego caught in a sea of Barbies, pirates, and superheroes. Soon she had faded from sight, her eye-catching red hat countered by her short stature, before suddenly reappearing at the bow of the ferry as she stepped upon a ledge. Normally she found the sea calming. Being around boats reminded her of the handful of times her family had actually felt like one, and the open water served as the greatest barrier there was to separate someone from their stressors. However, sailing lost all of its charm and mystique when it was aboard what was essentially a public bus on floaties, the smell of the salt and the whisper of the wind replaced by the stench of body odor and the shouting of children. Sloane was like a princess who had been dumped out of her palanquin while taking a tour of the market to be amongst the common people—immediately full of regret. Next time she’d take the yacht or, better yet, take Jack up on his services, even if a step through the shadows left her feeling queasy.

Sloane leaned against the railing, impatience wearing upon her as the ferry chugged across the harbor towards Cracker Island. Jinhai and Linqian’s situation weighed heavily upon her mind. She would uphold her end of the deal. Jinhai would have a memorial service and a burial. Even if everybody else was as financially irresponsible as Linqian and unable to contribute or as unbelievably callous as Linqian (fuck off, give the woman a break)and refused to contribute it would happen. She would make it happen. Sloane wanted to be able to visit him, even if “him” was just a slab of carved marble where ashes had been scattered. She sighed. The people she cared about kept being taken from her and she felt as if she was powerless to stop it. Hell, she couldn’t even get Emily’s cronies to let her have a conversation with the leader of 8th Street.

She couldn’t even let herself enjoy the Halloween Festival. Sloane shook her head. Emily, Jinhai, Father Wolf—none of those problems could be solved tonight. She’d have a drink or two, eat some funnel cake, critique the stands of the other vendors with Anya, and make Jack give her a lift home so she didn’t have to bother with public transportation ever again. The Halloween Festival was Sloane’s night and she was going to enjoy herself. Absolutely nobody would be able to ruin it.

A man’s voice cut through the murmur of the crowd and the second loop of the Monster Mash as he shouted, ”I’m goin as ZOOOOOOOOOS!”

Sloane immediately recognized the voice, the realization hitting her like a punch to the nose. Her eyes snapped in the direction of the shout as she pulled her hat down to cover her face and tucked her chin into her yellow scarf, becoming little more than a pair of dark eyes and a crooked, still healing nose. Drake was on the ferry with his sisters and his cousin, dressed in a toga, a white wig, and a fake beard. The blood hummed in her ears. He had an entire week to apologize, to come crawling back to her on his hands and knees, to beg for forgiveness and kiss the ring but instead there had been silence. No text, no call, no gifts or letters. She had assumed he had been rightfully hiding away in his room, staring at the wall, realizing how much he had screwed up. To see him out here having fun with his family was like an icicle to the heart. Jade was dead and he was prancing around half-naked dressed (and looking like) a Greek god.

Sloane hopped off of the ledge and disappeared back into the crowd, hopefully vanishing before Drake would notice her. She was ever so grateful for the common folk as her loyal, royal subjects used their bodies as barriers to protect their princess from the Blackmore barbarians.

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Interactions: Britney@Punished GN & Layla @Estylwen
Cracker Island. The Halloween Festival

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Hey, be cool okay?

Bright lights spun like a carnival wheel in kaleidoscope eyes. Arms swung and head bobbed to music nobody else heard. So many colors, some without names. Campfire smoke and wet leaves; the scent of the season. Everyone showing skin or in someone else’s. Bodies, pushing, being pushed, rushing to the next attraction. Cackling witches and booing spirits. Caramel apples and the elevated acceptance that the fun in fun-sized is being able to justify another candybar. Yet another justifiable excuse to paint a face like a cat. Smoke pouring from pumpkins that hid fog machines; smoke pouring from port-a-potties that hide giggling teens. Spaghetti for brains and peeled grapes for eyes, oh how spooky-ooky.

Don’t freak out dude.

Picture this: a crocodile cutting in a queue by pretending to know the ninja near the front. A crocodile getting scared by a bloody clown and grabbing the arm of a stranger. A crocodile chugging a bottle of water and tossing it on the ground: hydration was important, but fuck the world. A crocodile staring down at a row of festival games, paralyzed by the options. A crocodile sitting at a booth spraying a water gun, making the little horsey race faster,yah yah bitch yah yah. A crocodile hugging a massive bear, ignorant of the upset children and angry parents around it. A crocodile nodding its head up and down as it learned that calling six year old little bitches is frowned upon (even if they were little bitches), using its crocodile hands to make mister bear nod along in agreement. A crocodile and mister bear sharing a funnel cake on a bench, powder on mister bear’s snout.

See, the bear knows how to party.

So much more to do. So much more to do. What’s next? What’s next? Hay ride, corn maze, get a pumpkin beer in a glass boot? No, no, no. Gotta be something better, gotta be something bigger. Oh, welcome to the coven mister bear. Let’s find the rest of 8th street. No fuck them they’d just slow the night down. New friends? Find new friends. Anyone could be a new friend. Nah, friends suck. So what’s next? What’s next? What’s up? What’s going on? Oh right. Right, right, right. Gotta show mister bear the haunted house. “Haunted house, haunted hoooouse.” Okay mister bear maybe in a less annoying voice. Put a little bass in it. Haunted house, haunted house. Let’s, —go!”

A crocodile and a large, six-foot tall stuffed bear stopped in front of a beekeeper and two bees.

“Oh!” Vashti pointed at Britney and pushed up the snout on her crocodile onesie as if to confirm that she had the right person. Her heavily dilated eyes widened and shined like the high beams of an oncoming semi suddenly and swiftly rounding the bend on a winding mountain road moments before a wrecked car would be launched over the cliff. The darkening of the sky was no longer just courtesy of the murder of crows flying in front of the setting sun. A single raindrop splashed off the top of Britney’s costume as Vashti let go of the stuffed animal, the oversized bear slumping forward on its face. Vashti smiled a sharp little shark smile that only grew wider as she envisioned popping Britney’s eyeballs like grapes and squishing her brains in her hands like wet noodles.

“Hey bro! It’s been so long. Am I happy to see that you’re well!” shouted Vashti, her words coming out with a rapid fire ra-ta-ta-tat. Dark clouds gathered over a small portion of Cracker Island as a light localized drizzle began, a collective groan coming out of the mouths of nearby festival goers who had been lied to by the forecast. Vashti began to close the distance between herself and Britney, squashing down the head of the stuffed animal as she stepped on it. It was hard to see, but the rain parted around Vashti as she walked, with the only part of her costume getting wet being the crocodile tail that dragged behind her.

“So, so happy! So happy. Emily’s gonna be thrilled to hear that you’re here. Love the hazmat suit, super fucking fitting. Everything around you always turns toxic real fast. You know,” Vashti lowered her voice as she stared up at the much taller Britney, “I am really, really happy to see you, man. I—OY, WE’RE HAVING A FUCKING PRIVATE CONVERSATION HERE, BRO! SHIT!" Vashti swatted at the air between her and Layla, not even recognizing the former Coven member. “Give me some air, dude! Buzz off, bees! Buzz buzz!”

Vashti made shooing motion with her hands at Sabrina and Layla.

“God some fucking people, bro. Some fucking people. So rude,” said Vashti , lowering her voice but not slowing down her pace as she leaned back towards Britney. “I don’t even remember what I was saying so it’s probably not—oh yeah! I don’t have to tell Emily. You know how she tends to just make everything me, me, me. We should go before one of her little cronies sees ya. Get outta the rain. Catch up.” Vashti loudly popped her knuckles. “Talk. Come on."

"Come on, let's go."

"C’mon."

<sub>"C’mon."

"C’mon…”</sub>

---

Interactions: Anya @Fernstone & Jack @Blizz
Cracker Island, Outside Cracker Town, USA. The Halloween Festival

---

“Come on, let’s go,” said Sloane with an uncommon urgency in her voice as she slipped between Jack and Anya and readjusted her hat. Sloane had escaped from the ferry as quickly as she could without actually running, burying her face in her phone to appear busy and resist the urge to look over her shoulder at the Blackmores. It hadn’t been too difficult to spot Anya or Jack waiting for her at the entrance of one of the large, sprawling displays of merchant booths that someone on a committee somewhere had either cheekily or absentmindedly named Cracker Town.

“Shopping can wait. I need a drink,” said Sloane. “Not from one of the stalls. It’s all run-of-the-mill IPAs and cheap, unpalatable wine. You might as well be drinking spoiled grape juice. I can get us into the private party being held at the resort's bar across the island.”

It was a party hosted by the yacht club. She had gone a few years prior in hopes of doing some business and it had been an absolute nightmare. Nothing but stodgy codgers smoking cigars, drinking whiskey, and being too “friendly” with the waitstaff. Sloane couldn’t decide what had been worse about the experience: how she kept getting asked what her husband did, or the sudden spike in their interest when she mentioned she didn’t have one. Still, Jack's presence, or really the presence of any other man in general, was typically enough to keep them at bay. Anything was better than having to deal with Drake or, worse, being completely and utterly ignored by him.

“First round is on me.”