I think I found Hell

Lincoln Newberry, ex film director, 35., the puppeteer, nr. 4 For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil. Genesis 3:5

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(the untold)

So here we are. You are probably dead by now. World crushed you like a worthless piece of crap. Already back then you were not really able to fight for yourself or decided for yourself – it was always someone else who did it. Even when you took decisions, my dear Elijah, it was so easy to change them, and that was not even me who did it.

I was not the guy to control everything back then. All I really wanted was your friendship, you know. You gave me a hand, promised me life different than before, promised acceptance, but at the next moment you took it all away, your bright blue eyes were full fear and judgement. You looked at me like I, not the humanity, were the abomination of the nature. You decided that Ella and Will were more worthy than I ever was. You thought, it is fair. You blamed me. Told me, it was my fault. Told me, I did not know how to compromise. Told me, I only use people for my own games. But I did not. Not yet. I just wanted you to look at me the same way as I did look at you.

But you never did. Even when you considered it, you changed your mind with the slightest whisper. How long it took them to convince you that I was rotten from inside and that my friendship was only a façade? How long it took them to convince you that I was evil, that I was dangerous, murderous even? Day? Two days? Month? When I gave you everything, every piece of my soul, it still was not enough, what did you want me to do, rip out my heart and put it in front of you to prove that I am worth enough? Did you want me to put my ambitions, my true self aside, and become another follower who only praises your talents? If so, congratulations, it worked. I changed myself, from the core to top. I changed who I was, but not for your liking. You changed me, with every bit of poison you drunk and ruined our friendship, but the only one who I praised, at the end, was myself.

You taught me a valuable lesson, that I should never forget, and I am thankful for that – blood is thicker than water. Your friends will let you down, if you will not change for their taste. Because I did not, and you could not live with it. You tried to fight me, the person who I was. And I tried to do everything I could to prove you – I am worthy. I am worth attention and admiration. I won the competition – you told me I changed because of the prize, and yes, I needed the money, my family needed, but you know what, there was thing I wished more than that – for you to say that I did well. I stayed true to my values, I did not bend for what the corporations wanted me to do. Even when everyone else admitted my talents, the worth of my ideas, you did not. Probably, it was too late. For us, to ever be the boys we were when we met, and when you thought – we could be friends.

So I moved on. You did not really give me a chance. We went different roads, and all you took from our friendship were the things you wanted to – whispers others told you about me. But I moved on. I took the fame you wanted. I took the stories you wanted to make as flagships for hope and changed them into cruel mirrors of realty. Invited you to every showing I had. You came once, we did not even say hello to each other. You seemed disappointed that I never used my position to bring people hope.

And here we are – in the world I saw coming. In a different way, of course, but where are your hopes, your dreams you praised so much? You wanted to bring them hope, but you created me. The monster, as your friends called me. You created me. You showed me the way to the hearts of the humanity. And I took it all, and shred it into pieces. I hope you realised – it was all for you. Every role of a traitor – I hope you know, it was you. I hope you understand that I tried to save the world in a different way.

Yes, I probably am a monster now. But I am a monster that can still help my family. I can help those, who I find worthy of help. But you – you probably are dead. And trust me, if you ever, for whatever kind of a miracle, would show up alive in front of those gates, they would never open for you. What vale you could bring, if it is so easy to bend you?

Ye, probably I was not the kindest kid around. Probably I was corrupted. Probably, deep inside, you saw something evil in me. But you never really tried to understand, did you? And look where I brought us both. I am here, in safety. You are, in the best case – somewhere hiding, deep inside a cave or old building, praying for this to end, but know one thing – world has ended. I always told you, it will happen, but you decided not to listen. This might be hell, but I better rule here than die in the field.

Dear Elijah, (I probably should have started with this) I really hope you are dead.

[ofblairs]

Arabella had always been nervous around the idea of settling down, of finding someone who could love her. Her parents always discouraged that idea. She had enough cousins and family members that if she were to never have an heir or heiress, the family business would thrive. Don’t lose your goals by getting lost with love her mother had told her. She wondered why, but she also learned how to use people early on from her father. You have to pick the people in your life closely he’d tell her, and here she was, somehow following her parents’ orders despite them being dead. Maybe it was as tribute, maybe her guilty heart felt responsible for their murder. But ask her now if she ever would change anything in her life, and she couldn’t tell you. Jade ruined her, but she wasn’t sure if she could ever stay with her family.

To Arabella, trust was more important than love. She loved her family (she had to, right?), but she never trusted a word out of their mouths. Jade? Well, she thinks she might’ve loved her. But never could she have trusted her. Trust was the key to her heart and her insecurities, if she could find someone she trusted then they’d have every part of her. She never did find anyone like that, she had always been guarded. Sure, she wanted to be the type to believe in a sweet, passionate type of love. Instead she got used to not truly ever letting anyone touch her where it mattered most: not her heart, but her head. Her heart could run wild, but her mind? That’s where all her intimate thoughts where. She couldn’t just like anyone in and see that side of her, the side that ended up still being just a scared little girl. She played on that now, just to let others think she needed their protection when they were really just shields; they were there to keep her out of harms way. But sometimes, she remembers her humanity. Arabella had seen the slums of the earth, but she also had seen how kindness had helped her get through the toughest of time.

Especially now, for instance. When her fake yet seemingly genuine smiles could put anyone at ease, she remembered why she wanted to leave Jade and her life of crime behind so bad in the first place. What she couldn’t figure out was Lincoln. She supposed that evidentially, they did have some of the same intentions. He was comfortable in his potion of power, she was comfortable with her minor comforts in her arrangement with the Governor. There was always more she could take, and she most definitely does. Her habit of stealing hadn’t been quenched, she realized it only became stronger upon seeing what the Governor had and she did not. Jealousy was an ugly emotion, but she wore it so well like highlighter on her sharp cheekbones. The Governor probably noticed, but if he cared then he would’ve punished her by sending her out. Why would she stop stealing extra rations from someone who had it all?

The most irritating thing about Lincoln was how he saw right through her. He wanted to figure out who she really was, and she wasn’t going to let him have that. Directors were always so perceptive, and here she was, trying to hide every inch of who she once was. Maybe if she believed, she could be the cute little farm girl. But obviously, he wasn’t going to let her have that.

She made a face at the pet name, not used to such in formalities. Sure, she had been bare before him when he wanted to t a k e from her but there was always something in return; an extra ration, something softer to sleep on, something better than what she had now. He wasn’t very talkative then, she followed her orders and left once the deed was down. Still, she played it cool, licking her bottom lip once with a sharp nod. Maybe they were playing each other, maybe she was falling for a trap. But what she felt towards him wasn’t affection, nor was it attraction. It was pure interest and curiosity. What did he want from her, what could she do to him, who was going to win their game? His intentions were forever vague, so the only way to step up was to play into his game a little bit. After all, you needed to roll the dice to move a step and she thought she’d have her wits about her. “That’s not something I’d ever thought I’d hear you say.”

She likes it, however. She likes being in charge, not in the bedroom, but in other affairs. She likes the control that she can bring upon herself and unleash towards others. Power had always been something pleasuring, and Stanford’s prison experiment had shown just that. Perhaps Princeton was a mock of that.

She knows that it’s a demand. Hiding it with a smile won’t do him any good. Nodding once, she set her shoved back with the supplies, knowing the others would tend to it later. Wiping her hair from her face, she raised an eyebrow, caution written all over her face. “Lead the way then.”

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It takes hours to hunt a rabbit – traps, right hideouts, right moment – one shot was all you had, because of the noise that had no other connotation than death, rabbits flew into the bushes and the day was lost. Hunting bears was different – it took days to build traps and hideouts, just to make sure the hunter himself does not turn into the pray. Arabella was a bit from both – it will take a long time, sufficient defence was needed and all the shots needed to be right.

First step was done – he had surprised her, caught her attention. It made things easier. Even if she followed him only because she needed to, because he was in position to give orders and she was in position to take them, there was an underlying interest in her actions, and for now, it was all he needed. Maybe, deep inside, she, like any other girl, waited for her Cinderella story to unfold. In world after it’s end though, there is now need for pumpkin to turn into a carriage, because pumpkins on their own are too valuable. As the nice farmer girl she defiantly knows it. She did not need prince or pretty dress, by now he knew that, but what exactly she was after? Was it just the comfort, was it something more, was she also poisoned by the sweet touch of power that slowly eats any good intentions one could have?

He started to walk to his apartment side. Though, to say it was an apartment was a bit wrong. It was a one and a half floor house, far enough from any other living soul, where Lincoln could feel safe and unbothered. Before that he used to live in apartment building, but all this “let’s be friendly and talk to each other all the time” was not really his thing. He was more this “leave me alone and no issues will raise” guy, so it is not hard to see that the socialism spirit that was leading the apartment buildings was not for his taste. Yes, he needed wood for his fireplace to keep the house warm. Yes, he needed to walk a bit longer than the usual citizen needed to. Yes, it was harder for Richard to get hold of him in the middle of night, but that was nothing compared to blessed silence that allowed Lincoln to think. And even the governor realised that Lincoln is so much better when he is allowed to think.

So Arabella was quite privileged – he rarely did take people to his place. But he wanted to impress, it was worth it. They walked for a while, in silence, side by side, and Lincoln mostly looked at the girl rather than the road who he knew so well.

“Do you like being a farmer? This is no trick question, I am just curious” he smiled the friendly smile. Before that, Lincoln never really asked personal questions - she was little interest to him. He did not care whether she tells the truth, sometimes lies people offer tell more about them than they think. The things one chooses as the proper, acceptable answers holds more meaning than the positions and places where they are by now.

There it was – his little paradise, Sometimes, if he spent several days inside his rooms, he could forget, that outside is nothing but the last island of humanity, a false hope of survival. Truth was, one day they will also end, because of monsters, diseases, lack of children, radiation, murder each other – who knew, but when you put people under such stress and with so little space, so little freedom… revolutions happened, but revolution is a no hope, no solution – she is Chrono, the God of time, eating her own children, when they grow stronger. England knew this pain so well after they decapitated Charles I, they put Oliver Cromwell in power, just to occupy Ireland and then, after some time, dig him out from the ground and also decapitated. Faces of power never live long enough. Only the shadows can hope to live longer than regimes.

“So, this I were I live,” he told, unlocking the doors. “Do come in. What Can I offer you, water, coffee, tea, juice wine or whiskey, maybe something else?” He brought her to the living room, with fireplace, two lovely coaches and several artworks on the stone walls. He felt comfortable with her being here. After all, all his skeletons were locked in. So his eyes were not suspicious, he gave her that look, almost like an accidental slip. Slowly building up everything.

[broken-kingshanewest]

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

the life behind the mask is  never easy

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(lakeside stories)

[oliver-darzi-blog]

a i r –

He’s gasping, choking on the rough material that was suddenly roped around his neck, yanking him up viciously and digging into his throat, cutting his windpipe and – air – air –

Oliver paws helplessly at the coarse material that was starting to cut off more and more of his breaths until there was nothing left but a dry rasp and a weak attempt of escape from his captor who was clearly bigger than him - stronger than him - and violently a n g r y.

He can barely manage to take a breath, tears starting to prick at the corner of his eyes and this is everything he feared, this is everything that spiked those chemicals in his system and sparked those thoughts in his head - being on the outside and just one day - accidentally - unknowingly - 

And Oliver knows all too well how anyone can be a m o n s t e r just as much as anyone can be a victim to them and people walking down streets being brainwashed of everything they’ve known to be rewritten by strangers in passing cars and people walking past lakes and being killed by strangers emerging from the trees and don’t you s e e that the world is made up of things that only want to hurt you, don’t you s e e that everyone will just use you one day and he – can’t – breathe.

The stranger has him on a leash and Oliver’s never felt so small, so pathetic as he gasps for air, the person unrelenting on his tight grip; he’s panicking with red warning alarms going off in his head and if he wasn’t being strangled, he’d be hyperventilating until he died. 

And if he’s dying like he knows he will one day, if he’s dying today; if this is his last breath, then -

“I-I’m s-sorry.”

Hardly a waste of a last breath if his whole life’s been a waste; Oliver can see black spots dotting his vision and he’s not sure if it’s the lack of oxygen or the paranoia hitting an all-time high and both are making his throat close up and -

He finds himself toppling to the ground again, the pressure around his neck abruptly cut off, though he can still feel the ghost of it tugging around his throat - and Oliver’s never been more thankful for fresh air, for dirt on his cheek.

Vision blurred from the lack of oxygen and tears that were starting to leak more freely now and Oliver can’t make out who’s staring down at him - this m o n s t e r leering down at his weakness and he wishes he was stronger than this, wishes he was somebody who could fight back against all the biting teeth of strangers and shadows of his mind but he’s him - he’s Oliver, poor, pitiful Oliver who was always so w e a k, curled up into a ball and crying.

Pathetic.

No wonder people stare at him - they’re all wondering how a human as miserable as him could’ve even survived in the world before this fucking apocalypse.

“I-I just… just - just tripped and I-I’m sorry it won’t h-happen again and I’m s-sorry I fucked up and please - please…”

And of course - he’s whimpering. 

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

The hand of a man can shelter and can destroy, the touch of his fingertips can express romantic love or burning hatred. He can either save a life or take it – so easy, with one gesture, holding up a gun, with one slip of a potion in someone’s drink, or just walking away from someone who needs help. Death is easy. When the world has ended, when civilization has killed all the gods – the only god is man, and the power corrupts him, deeply tears in pieces his conscience, silencing the voice that has never been too loud. Destiny is casted merely for the supporting role, and no Osacars will be given for it anymore – as the blood and tears are created only by men, and only for those public holds their breath and sings songs of glory.

In his hands Lincoln was holding someone who could die right now, or he could spare his miserable life, allow him to tag along powerful for a bit longer, hold to his false hopes for a bit longer, if he had any. The feeling of power, of control gave almost similar effect as cocaine. He never felt so much in control as three seconds form killing someone. He never felt, that he could control his own life well enough – too many unknown elements were lined up in the equation, and he never really could control his scripts till the very end – sometimes things just happened and Lincoln went with it. He was never really able to control people around him – not till the end, not all of them. But now, with the very basic, primal power, he was controlling everything – his victim’s future, hopes, and dreams… everything. It was Lincoln’s decision to give him another sunrise or to take it away from him.

The young one was grasping for the air, and Lincoln felt how his body slowly gave up fighting. But he did not really put up a huge fight anyways – he was too weak to fight against Newberry, too… small, and not in a physical meaning. And his potential last words were not curses, rude song lyrics or anything like that – it was an apology.

Lincoln let go of the belt allowing Oliver to fall on the ground. Moment of control was gone. He did not want to be a monster, he did not want to kill this boy, who, probably, was nothing more than just a passer, who daydreamed about times better than those, when coffee places and shops were open almost 24 hours in day, when people around him were alive, not resurrected monsters. Maybe that was it.

What he saw in front of him was no threat, definitely not a guy who had a secret agenda to steal something from Lincoln – just a miserable soul, and Lincoln had no idea how he made it to Princeton. Probably it was the skill set, valuable as everything else was of no importance, and if so, than those skills had nothing to do with staying alive – that was not his talent.

Lincoln had seen a lot of tragedies – war torn families in the Middle East, villagers that are afraid to move around in Africa, fourteen years old prostitutes in post-Yugoslavia, underage teenagers ODing in Miami, and the same age teens in London who could not imagine a night out without ecstasy. He had seen storms, earthquakes, he had seen the end of the world, but the biggest tragedy of them all were humans themselves. Humans, who could not take care of themselves, who allowed others to take decisions for them. Humans like this little prick, who cried in front of death rather than fight it as men would do. He was a kid, nothing else, but a kid, who needs his mommy to protect him. 

Lincoln could use it.

“Stop whimpering, it is annoying,” Lincoln just said, his voice had no shade of sympathy or regret.

“Who are you and what you were doing here?” he asked after seconds of silence, at the same time picking up his clothing, cleaning them of dirt and dressing, not for a moment letting kid escape his stare. “Do not make me beat the words out of you”

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10-20!

10, 14, 15 16-20 are already done!

11. Do they getattached to their weapons sentimentally, give them names etc?

No. Like humans already have names,an Lincoln tends to call them by numbers, but when it comes to weapons likenormal weapons that even child can use according to the laws in several USAstates, he never does the. He simply believes that a shotgun is nothingcompared to determined slave.

12. What is theirsexual orientation?

Lincoln really does not like to labelhimself. Apart from the fact that he strongly identifies with his gender asmale, everything else can change. As strong supporter of Freud’s theory aboutinnate bisexuality, Lincoln has experimented, and successfully, with bothgenders, though he is more into women.

13. What kind ofsituations are they likely to avoid?

The ones someone has control overhim. Lincoln knows that control is the most important thing, and that controlover others in the only thing that keeps him safe, so he panics a bit insituations like that. Also, he avoids talking about feeling as his family.

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1, 8, 10, 15, 18, 26, 33, 39

1. What is their name?Do they go by the same name they did pre-war?

Lincoln Newberry is also his pre-warname, as a famous director he did not really feel the need to change it. Helikes when people recognize him, that gives him sense of importance, as hisactual job and position in the village is hidden.

8.Describe theirgeneral appearance, post a screenshot or draw them

When you meet him, the chances are,his wearing one of those three outfits (except for very suit day when he has abow tie, or very, very sports day when he wears a hoodie, or very naked daywhen he wears nothing but swimming shorts):

one two three

10. What is theirweapon of choice?

He is not really into weapons, he likes to usehumans for this purpose, but he does poses a shotgun, hidden in his house, anda hand gun he took from Kate and still carries around sometimes.

15. Describe theirmorality. Is it black & white or are there grey areas?

It has always been quite black –Lincoln sees humanity as rotten and is quite blind to his own faults. For himself,he is the hero for his family and he would do everything to protect them,however, what he tends not to see is the price he is ready to pay to getthings, he believes that if person can be manipulated, or if person cannot protecthimself/herself they are not worth and their loss is nothing but a neededcasualty. He would be surprised if people would say that is what makes himevil.

33. How do they reactto being humiliated, intentionally or otherwise?

He fights back. Basically throughouthis high school people made fun of him for being different, and he did not do alot, he had Elijah as his only friend, and he thought it is fine. But when in universityhe started to realise that if he will not stand up for himself, nobody elsewill, he started to fight back, and his revenge was always unproportioned. Forinstance, a girl once told that his short film lacks goal in her critical essaythat was an assignment for the course. Lincoln managed to get her expelled.

39. When the going getstough, your sole survivor….

… pushes everyone else in the way andruns away as fast as possible, and later drinks some good whiskey to wash awaythe disgusting taste of death and weakness.

18 and 26 already done! :)

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14, 26

26 is done already, :) 

14. Do they have any fears or phobias?

He is afraid to be pushed out from the group, that people will stop liking him, and turn against him, that he will not be able to manipulate them, and lose his resources.  Also, he has claustrophobia, who he is trying to fight by putting himself in small rooms, thinking to achieve something similar to immunity to his fear. 

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16-32!

16. Which faction/group(s) are they affiliated with, and why?

Right now, he support governor and his ways, as it is the best position to be in at the situation. Lincoln supports the ones on powers, but searches other connections also, to make sure when something goes down, he stays at the top. Moreover, the governor promised to take his family in when they will show in front of the gates, so this far – he is quite interested to see things staying as they are.

17. Which faction/group(s) do they dislike, and why?

Lincoln does not feel the need to take the sides. He hates the groups everyone hates. He is not really a huge fan of zombies for obvious reasons, and he does not like ventures either, however, he is quite sure he would talk his way out of any problems he might have with them. For him, love and hate is things you act according to your side, but deeply he hates almost every human being, seeing how they waist their lives with senseless choices.

18. Did they find romance in the commonwealth? Who are they with?

His black note book is literally the closest thing he has for a friend, not even talking about a loved one. He loved once, and that was back in high school.

19 What do they love the most about their romantic partner(s)?

His notebook never misquotes Shakespeare.

20. Do they suffer from any mental health issues?

Lincoln is sociopath, but he is not diagnosed and has no knowledge of it. He thinks there might be something a bit wrong in his brains, but mostly he associates it with the fact that the world he sees is more realistic than the one that others see.

21. Do they partake in anything that could be considered escapism?

Though the world has ended and he knows that, Lincoln writes up a lot of script ideas and even work on them, thinks about people who he would cast and draws the full scenes, like just in two or three months all this will be over, and he will get back to work. He understands that it is pointless, but without his films and stories he feels quite lonely.

22. Do they have any memories that make them physically cringe with embarrassment?

When he was 14, he liked this girl from his school. They had math together. Lincoln was good with numbers, she not that much, so he helped her and confused wish to keep her free private teacher for love. He wrote her a poem, inspired by the undying lines of John Keats and sent it to her house. Day by day he sent a letter, all together 14. He thought himself extremely romantic. Next Monday he came to school, his letters were everywhere – someone (the girl himself, obviously), had copied them and glued around the school. Everyone was quoting the words he thought to be so private and laughing in his face. The topic was popular for around month, Lincoln acted sick most of the time, but even when he graduated, some assholes still quoted lines from badly crafted poems.

23 Describe their butt. You heard me.

You know, when you look at something, and think – nice ass. Yep, exactly, that is what you see on him. Like, if you swim, run, used to direct movies which includes fucking a lot of young, hopeful girls, play tennis and dance, how can you not have a nice ass? British gentleman is brought up in a special way that guarantees it.

24. What are their insecurities?

He needs to be liked. He is afraid that no one will like him for his true self, so he learnt how to create a new one, then one that people like or fear, Lincoln does not care that much, as long as they respect him. Throughout the process he did manage to loose most of what made him himself, but the fears of becoming a laughing subject still makes him hide the bits of him that are left true.

25. What boosts their confidence?

Every time when he manages to break someone, find his/her weak spot, every time when a manipulation goes as he imagined – he remembers that despite everything he can always win over with his words. That gives him feeling of security and superiority..

26. What makes them angry?

His own failure and failure of others, as well as weak people who cannot stand up for themselves – Lincoln does not understand how they are still alive in world so violent when much more stable and valuable people are dead.

27. Do they cry easily? What’s likely to set off the waterworks?

He cries almost never. Sometimes, thoughts about the idea that his little sister is dead makes his eyes wet, but he does not allow himself to cry, because that could make the situation a bit more realistic.

28. How do they cheer themselves up, or how would other characters cheer them up?

Interesting personalities is the key. Lincoln gets really excited when he meets someone about who he knows a good movie could be made, and he tends to forget it will never happen.

29. What do they miss the most about pre-war life?

His fame, his work, camera, stage – his work as a director. Because then he was admired, loved, and that was all he ever needed in life.

30. Who is their bff post-war?

Still his notebook. Also, that notebook was his bff also before the war.

31. Has the post-war commonwealth changed them physically?

He is in better physical form, since he has a lot of time on his hands, he picked up more sport activities than before, moreover, he wants to gain more security for himself that way.

32. Has the post-war commonwealth changed them mentally?

He became even rougher, more suspicious, he did not trust anything or anyone. He started to care whether people lie or tell the truth, because suddenly his future was dependent on it.

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

(lakeside stories)

[apexproditor-deactivated2016063]

Kaiden picked the quietest spots in Princeton, at all times. He considered himself an extrovert, sure, but if there was anything the apocalypse had brought him, it was silence – moments to think. And his current thought was, well, how he wanted to make the most of his life now that his dreams were crushed. Kaiden never wanted to be heroic, he never desired to be useful to society, and thus his options were narrowed down to but two options: simply survive until the world somehow corrects itself, or become a better person through all this adversity. But alas, the latter took more effort. 

Stopping by the lake, Kaiden bent over to pick up a pebble, rolling it around in his palm before he threw it with a flick of his wrist; it skipped a few times before sinking next to a man he’d never met. A stranger whom, actually, looked somewhat familiar. Perhaps, at a smaller award show for film. Kaiden’s band wasn’t Top Charts material, but they had certainly landed enough of a cult following for him to be able to attend such events. As the man waded out from the water, K concluded that he knew who this was: Lincoln Newberry, director. He most certainly hoped the other man knew him from his career, however, and not the tabloids which focused on his promiscuous behaviour – and of course, the ‘incident’. That, or it was better that Newberry didn’t know him at all.

“Excuse me for staring, but you’re..” His brows drew together as he idly swept his lower lip with his tongue. “Lincoln right? You used to make movies?” Huffing a dry laugh, Kaiden tangled his fingers in his hair as he gestured to him with his free hand; he couldn’t help but notice how amusing it was how far everyone fell from their pedestals, even the filmmaker before him. “And now here you are, asking for hypothermia. I’m appalled. I expected a more cinematic cause of death from you,” he teased.

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Some directors made movies just as a moving, immortal statues for themselves, for their bright minds and rotten souls. Some made movies to make their mistresses famous. Some made movies, because they wanted to get all the possible money in the industry (yes, Bay, I saw you doing that). Some directors wanted to give humanity a hope, Lincoln just wanted to cut it open and show the world how disgusting it is. And he was really good with it, step by step he showed how there is nothing romantic or beautiful about humans, how they cheat and mistreat others, how ugly is the face of jealousy and how it can lead to a murder. Wasn’t it jealousy of Ella and Will that had destroyed his friendship with Elijah? They had chosen their own fall – they could have created something great together, share the money and fame, but they decided to stay on the safe part and turn his only friend away from him. Where were they now? Probably dead already before the apocalypse. They used to ask him, where he found the grotesque images of humanity, behind his back used to tell that he was the evil, Lucifer himself, that it was his soul he painted on the silver screen, not theirs. But they were so wrong. All he ever needed was a touch of acceptance, a human, normal need for admiration. If they were not ready to give it, he just went out and asked world for it, and world gave it to him.

Since then, he had always dreamed bigger. That is also how his swimming morning started. There were not a lot of places where to improve around here, so he worked with what he had. He started with and indoor pool, after a squash game, when his body screamed for something that would make muscles calm again. He moved on to swimming outside, when environment was a bit more challenging, and then, when the autumn came, he did not stop, when winter came, he also did not stop, and now here he was, hoping the nerves in his body will not decide to play a really dark joke.

But he was not alone anymore. Something splashed right next to him. Someone was standing on the water side. Standing and staring. Usually it was Lincoln who stared, and no wonder people did not like it. He moved to the shore, went to his things and picked up a towel, starting to dry himself off. His body was freezing, and to achieve the goal of not dying, he needed to get dressed quickly enough. After this, a small run would not hurt. But the stranger… not really a stranger. He knew his name. Lincoln knew his.

Not because he had interviewed him. Not because he knew numbers of citizens by heart. He was from his life before. When the spotlight and red carpet were real, when he told banal speeches while getting awards, when he scared and amazed people around him, when his little sister used to sit in the first row of his premiers just to tell everyone that her brother made this. And he – he also belonged to that world.

“I directed movies. And sometimes wrote scripts,” make. Lincoln hated the word. Kids in kindergarten made Lego stories. Films were directed. He did not mean to be rude, he never did, except in very rare occasions, but this was not one of them, at least, not yet. “But you used to make scandals. Kaiden Hendrix, correct me if I am wrong,” He dropped the towel on the ground and grabbed his underwear.

“But in order not to suffer from such non-cinematic death, I am very sorry…” he took off his swimming shorts and put on his underwear, then trousers, not even trying to hide. Like really, he was on the lake side. There was no place to hide. Usually, there was no one to hide from also. Last, he picked up his jumper, and while still holding it in his hands, he gave a serious look to this Kaiden guy.

“I have not seen you around,” he finally said, looking Kaiden straight in the eyes. “You come here often?”

[apocalyptic-comedown]

Sole Survivor Ask Meme - Send me numbers to answer!

[margaretstmaur]

apocalyptic-comedown:

What is their name? Do they go by the same name they did pre-war?

What was their relationship like with their spouse?

What are other people likely to notice about them first?

Are they introverted or extroverted?

Describe their voice

Describe their most fond pre-war memory

Describe their smile

Describe their general appearance, post a screenshot or draw them

What were their hobbies pre-war?

What is their weapon of choice?

Do they get attached to their weapons sentimentally, give them names etc?

What is their sexual orientation?

What kind of situations are they likely to avoid?

Do they have any fears or phobias?

Describe their morality. Is it black & white or are there grey areas?

Which faction/group(s) are they affiliated with, and why?

Which faction/group(s) do they dislike, and why?

Did they find romance in the commonwealth? Who are they with?

What do they love the most about their romantic partner(s)?

Do they suffer from any mental health issues?

Do they partake in anything that could be considered escapism?

Do they have any memories that make them physically cringe with embarrassment?

Describe their butt. You heard me.

What are their insecurities?

What boosts their confidence?

What makes them angry?

Do they cry easily? What’s likely to set off the waterworks?

How do they cheer themselves up, or how would other characters cheer them up?

What do they miss the most about pre-war life?

Who is their bff post-war?

Has the post-war commonwealth changed them physically?

Has the post-war commonwealth changed them mentally?

How do they react to being humiliated, intentionally or otherwise?

Do they/did they dance? Describe their funky moves.

How do they feel about ghouls?

How do they feel about synths?

They’re in a bar fight. Did they start the fight, are they getting beaten on, or are they trying to break it up?

What ’S.P.E.C.I.A.L’ stats do they value/embody?

When the going gets tough, your sole survivor….

Who do they think is indisputably the most important person in Vault 101: He who shelters us from the harshness of the atomic wasteland, and to whom we owe everything we have, including our lives?

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

(lakeside stories)

[oliver-darzi-blog]

He really wishes he could work from his little cot.

Simple, easy, perfect - monitoring the comms, checking the radios and satellites, occasionally fucking around with the radio waves and electrical systems just for fun - just like the good old days, when things were almost bearable.

Not this.

Not this forced walking with stiff limbs, dragging himself out of bed every morning and dreading the sunlight that hits his face; shaky breaths and trembling hands as he takes step after step into this world that’s always been bad, into this world that somehow found a way to be worse.

And of course, the Governor would hardly even care for his fears - positively spitting in his face with laughter when Oliver explained that he just couldn’t - he just can’t be outside and you’ve made it this far, haven’t you, kid? Suck it up.

He can’t find the words to explain how the ants start to crawl into his veins when he feels dirt underneath his shoes, how every breath of air feels like a knife to his throat, how the open space makes him feel too small and how every second exposed to this world i n f e c t s him in ways that the other survivors don’t understand.

Head down and quick steps, shuffling through town at a time that’s too early for anyone else to be bothering him - he makes his way past the crystalline lake, halfway there and fuck -

He’s not paying attention properly and his legs tangle onto something on the ground, bringing the slumped man down to the hard ground, knocking the wind out of his breath.

Almost instantly, Oliver’s scrabbling at his feet, trying to untangle himself from - clothes? - trying to get himself off the ground with no success, the fear starting to spike into his system as he twists around, something like footsteps coming closer and Oliver can only pray it’s not a zombie, pray that it’s just his imagination, though his paranoia tells him otherwise.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck - shit, I’m sorry, fuck get me out of here, h e l p - “

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

There were several reasons, why Lincoln enjoyed swimming so much, especially in this cold, barely tolerable temperature – but mostly because those were the moments he was able to spend alone with his thoughts or without them, those were the moments when he could try to remember every part of his sisters face without getting caught off guard. This was his private time, when no decisions were to be made for others, no advice to give to governor was asked. He was almost a decent human with emotions, pains and dreams in moments like this, he was less of a humanity hating, corrupted director, and more just a grown man who fights against nature, as humans have done it for centuries, mostly lost, but always keen to try again and again. Pushing over his limits, training himself tosurvive – previous time he was not ready. He could run, a bit, could fight, a bit, after all, time after time he had picked some bar fights, but he was not a survivor tip really, not on his own, and as much as he relied on his skill to manipulate minds and hearts of the ones around him, he quite well realised that one they, people just might not be t h e r e.

Every morning when he was here, it was quite around here. Only birds, wind and his heart pounding in his burning flesh. It was almost happiness, the exhaustion, hunger and adrenaline that makes one think – he can move the mountains, win wars and fight with bears. And was it too much to ask to allow him to enjoy those moments, in times, when really there was not a lot to enjoy? Apparently, yes.

First, he had heard steps. Then he heard a noise and quickly located that it came from the side where he had left his clothes and towel were. His perfectly soft, dark blue jumper he had just washed yesterday. His clean, dark trousers. His nice and warm towel. Someone, something was right now tangling himself into them.For a man, who highly values his appearance, Lincoln took it as a personal offense.

“Bloody hell, what on this earth is wrong with you?” He shouted in a nice Scottish manner already from a distance and quickly ran over. That was not a zombie (obviously) or an outsider who was trying to steal and destroy his things, but just a random passer, who probably was blind or really, really dreamy, because it is quite hard not to see a bunch of stuff just laying on the ground. Or maybe he did on purpose, no matter how twisted his idea of success was then, Newberry was not happy.

Lincoln,at least, in daylight, was not physically aggressive. He probably killed with looks and carefully planned how to destroy a person, but rarely got his hands dirty. However, this screaming, hopeless creature had just ruined his moment. Lincoln did not think for long, when kid cried for help. What was he supposed to do,like he was the one who randomly showed up and tangled himself in Lincoln’s finest outfit? But, as a proper gentleman, Lincoln could not just ignore the cry and just stand there looking how the stranger just lies there, on the ground, which, of course, was dirty and cold and strangles himself with a towel.If he needed help that badly, it was Lincoln’s burden to give him a hand.

Or a belt. He took it from the ground and put it around kid’s neck and pulled him up, standing behind his back;stranger probably had trouble breathing. After all, he asked for help, not oxygen.

“So, this is better?” he silently asked, quickly taking a look around. No one to see them. For this play he did not need spectators. “Are you blind, sir” He even sounded polite, but anger was poorly masked,and he was still holding Oliver’s neck quite strongly

[precursorpress]

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

He was detail oriented. He knew things about others they had not noticed. His notebook was his best friend. Well, probably, it was his only friend.

[ofblairs]

Jade Harvey had been a force to be reckon with. She made Arabella believe that the fluttery, fairy tale love existed when it was really the chemicals in her brain slightly altering (by Jade’s doing of course). She was able to bring down even the strongest of men to their knees, weak and bloody all by herself. Eventually, Arabella became this too. She may not have gotten what she originally wanted, but she was transformed. Not into a blossoming actress who ruled the streets of Hollywood, but more like the mobster who terrorized the residents in Brooklyn.

All of that wasn’t important anymore, and the role she now played was based on survival. The Governor won’t last long on his throne, even Arabella knew this. That was why she was so damn nice to everyone, it was a blissful manipulation. Find those weak enough to fall for her charm and have them back her up in case of an outbreak; every queen needed an army and though she was far from royalty, she wasn’t above gaining insurance. Perhaps it was wrong for her to use people like that, but she didn’t think there was anything evil about it, she was useful as well. She could help others out. They never saw her with a crossbow, but she knew how to kill.

So what did Lincoln want from her? Their dance seemed familiar, only there was no delicate prose surrounding their words. Sure, she was lightly flirting but that’s simply her nature. She relied on her docile features, she knew people underestimated her at first glance. But lately, her sharp edges could cut like glass and her airy voice had an undercoating of steel. There was no way she could still relate herself to Hepburn, the end of the world took away the opportunity for her to make an impact. She couldn’t complain. Eventually, she did make some impact. She wasn’t a saint, but she took out men who were no better than she. Whether they be supposed holy priests swindling right under his churchgoers or ruthless hitmen, she was eliminating them. She was stealing right back from them, and that had to make things better, right?

Why was she useful to him, she didn’t know. She didn’t understand it when Jade thought she was useful either, but she supposed it was because she was naive. At the time, of course. Now? Had she really changed? Here she was, intrigued yet terrified of whatever it was he wanted to say to her. Here she was, ready to be alone with someone who very well could hurt her-yet she was so adamant on being strong enough. Was she an older woman now, or was she still the girl with the bow who had been scared of going to prison?

“No, no. Don’t paint me as desperate to get into your apartment, you should know how everyone has ears everywhere. Survival is one thing, but gossip spreads no matter the civilization.” She gave him a stern look, assessing her control. He may think she didn’t have a say in this, but she could easily go to the Governor, tell him of whatever treacherous deeds he had been thinking of in the privacy of his apartment. She looked behind her, staring at the other farmers who were utterly busy with their mediocrity. “Fine, but when? Now?” She raised an eyebrow, curiosity sparking in her eyes. She was cautious, she would always be cautious as she looked at him. He was like a snake, and she was smart enough to know this. Young as she might be, she knows the danger of men in positions of power and she wonders exactly what he wanted to do with her.

Surely he can’t just want her for sex at the moment, she wasn’t told that.

“Oh, I’m sure.” With her lips closed together, she offered a glimmer of a smile. She couldn’t hide the look of trepidation as her eyes landed on his face.

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

Lincoln rarely failed – in his career, in his assessments about people in his life, rarely lost money in poker games and almost always knew which piece of art will be valuable next week. The only thing he had failed to achieve in his life was, as others tend to call it – happy marriage.It was not that he wanted to tie himself to someone, or that he like loved someone, or that he wanted to settle down or that he wanted to buy a white house and ten dogs… he already had a white house and he used to have a dog before it died. But he was growing older, step by step he started to become of that age when proper man get married. He was not proper and not pretended to be, he was a modern artist, a shocker, provoker, anything but proper. But he still had tried to find a wife – for the simple reason that he believed his mind and genes should have some continuity. Sadly, he was not immortal, and mortality gives an unexplained wish for continuity. He would probably become a horrible father, as classic bed time stories were not for his taste, but his father was also not really brilliant, and look – Lincoln turned out just fine.

But as gallant, pleasant and in other ways dream-husband material he was, it just did not work out. He wanted a classic wife – not too successful,but not completely unemployed, probably someone from fashion or acting field –like that would be expected, wouldn’t it? Also, she needed to be smart, but nottoo smart, so she would not start to control him. Pretty, so their kids would be pretty, healthy and active. Turned out, it was an impossible combination.Women in his life were either dumb and naïve, and Lincoln played with them but then got bored really fast, or they were too smart, and bored him with their properness, but most of them were plain crazy. Somehow he always got the crazyones. Maybe because sex with them was so good.

He had suffered a lot because of women. Like the one that threatened to kill herself and before that write a book about him, if he will not marry her. Or the one that stalked him in almost every award ceremony and day of filming. Or the one that went to meet his parents, on her own, just after their first day. Or the one who bought engagement ring for his money.Lincoln still had that ring, somewhere, in his valet, and he had no idea why he was keeping it. Probably to remind himself that marriage is the only stupid idea he had developed in his life.

So here he was – in the world so small that with his luck,all the women here were potentially crazy, including this pretty diva in front of him who so badly tried to be a nice florist girl that brings flowers to church on Sundays. He just could not believe that.

“Whatever you say, my love,” he decided not to pick an argument. Probably, he should try to let her play him. Gain the sense of control and safety. It could turn into a great opportunity. Now she was worried, too conscious of his actions, she looked at him and saw the enemy,something she needs to be afraid of, and it would take too long for her to relax and trust him, if he will not do something about it. Try to “slip”, play a mistake, make her underestimate Lincoln… fall in love with her.  That was his eureka moment, and he did not manage to hide his smile. Women in her position believes that she can bring any man down on his knees, make him love her and forget his head. She will stop fearing him if he will turn in the regular guy – weak before her talents. He needed to do it slowly, small steps, but why not, there was not a lot to rush for anyways.

When? Well, did he really just came over here to invite her out? He would have sent her a note then. He did not like farms that much, in fact, he did not like them at all.

“I think now,” it was not really clear from the tone of hisvoice was it an offer or demand, but his face expression was playful.

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

(lakeside stories)

Early morning, a bit after seven. The silence was unnerving for some but pure pleasure for him. There he was, tall and dressed in nothing but swimming shorts, on the shore of a perfectly calm Lake Carnegie, just across the stadiums, standing in the cold wind for a second. His jumper and trousers were folded and put on his bag, around meter away from water line. Finally he was not trembling from cold anymore. Brought up in Great Britain he was used to windy weather, wind seemed to be almost everywhere – on the street, seaside and in bedrooms. Everyone talked about the rain but people seemed to forget that the wind was the worst thing – so many scarfs and hats and hopes were lost because of it.

He would give a world to be able to walk London streets again. Safe, not afraid from the virus and its children. Walk across the millennium bridge, look at Tate, and eat at that brunch place ten meters away from Tate Modern. He always had cancelled his meal there. That was not his side of the city. Well, now it was too late, he will never know whether the breakfast food tasted as good as it looked.

He started to walk slowly into the water, till the moment he could jump. Coldness buried him, but with first moment he felt his body burning. He did not feel pain anymore, only the burn in his veins. Swimming helped him to relax, as almost no one liked playing tennis and the courts were badly damaged, as it really was not the top priority in this village. After all, even restaurant worked only once a week. So he was swimming, three times a week, hour or two, depending how many thoughts he wanted to wash away. This was his alone time, one against one, human versus nature, every time playing around the idea – what would happen if his body would refuse to obey? Drowning is not a peaceful death, but then again – it was not his intention. Death. If it ever would come to this he would prefer for it to be peaceful. Like, when he is old. To be honest, his dream death would be simple – around age of 70 between a girl’s (who is one third his age) legs. Leave this world with pleasure and leave a girl trauma for life. Perfect.

He was swimming for around half an hour – till his mind was clear from any disruptive thoughts. Now he was slowly walking out from the water, to pick up his towel, get dressed and back to regular life. Moment of peace was slowly leaving him.

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

(the black book)

[lestanjager-blog]

Lestan tried to get along here with no problems but he saw the issues here, it wasn’t his fault if the place had problems to begin with. Did he feel like it was his duty to fix them? Well, not really, but this was his home now and he preferred to not feel like he was going to be executed at any moment in his home. He wasn’t a martyr but he didn’t like feeling like in a supposed safe haven, he was in so much danger.

The Cajun wasn’t stupid either, he saw Lincoln, didn’t know his name, but he did know that he was the Governor’s little rat, but he saw him everywhere and he couldn’t help but get the feeling that he was watching him. 

On the third day, Lestan was getting tired of the man just hanging in the background of his life. What could it hurt to have one conversation? He just needed to see what this man would do with the spotlight was on him.

Approaching him with a smile, Lestan offered a hand, “Hi, I believe you did my interviews when I got here, but I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

For some, he was a famous director, who brought horror on the silver screen in such a glamorous way that was almost addicting. For some he was a dreamy  artists out of his own time. For some – he conducted interviews. And for a small bunch of people he was the one, who worked hand in hand with the governor, taking and executing decisions that makes blood boil in one’s vains. That was his nice, little secret, because one Lincoln knew – the hate thrown his way would be no good for him anymore. Because now, he could pretend to care, make people trust him, come to him, when they had done wrong – oh, how sad it could end for them. But he spared trouble, if he wanted, if they had something to give him. Other names, other stories than puny robbery of carrots. It was all a game, who could bet more walked free. Who had nothing to bet walked outside.

He did not take an issue of people disliking him for conducting interviews – after all, those who were in were in because he recommended them. And even unconsciously people were thankful. At least those, who did not had a different agenda. Those, who did not believe in give and you shall be given – they were different. He had his own mantra – take, and you shall be given. Take power, and you will be given more power. This notion had turned him into the corrupt villain of his stories as he was, but, as naïve as every villain, he saw justice in his way of life. Justice his family deserved, and never cross a man who wants to protect his family.

Number 21 had finally decided to break the awkward play they both had played lately, and Lincoln was fine with that, after all, he was just a director who was trying to find his place in the world after end. His job was just a job, like everyone else, right? He knew his play well.

“You might be true, though so many faces pass me during those interviews.” Lincoln was almost sad. He took his hand with firm grip - he was well built, no office freak whatsoever. Then, allowing some second to pass, he did the regular trying-t- remember expression, which, of course, brought back the name Lincoln pretended not to know. “You are Lestan, am I right? It is a nice evening, isn’t it?” he had turned on this pleasant small talk intonation, letting shadow of a smile settle on his face. Just another citizen, happy that spring seems to slowly come over, which means better life, bigger rations and more sun – who would not be happy? His notebook page was showing a sketch of nearby houses in the background and Lestan in front of them. Artist, who would be afraid of one? Except, if the artist is van Gogh. Than one should protect his ears.

And then, he decided to give the man what he needed – his name.

“My name is Lincoln,”

[ofblairs]

Once upon a time Arabella was meant to take over the family business, no wait, she was going to be a florist-no! She was going to be on Broadway, singing and dancing till her heart went out, acting till she couldn’t figure out who she was anymore. She was going to be a classic diva, with glamorous curls and red lipstick that could set a man to his knees while she crooned pretty little words to the press. Oh I’m Arabella Franklin, surely you’ve heard of me? She dreamt of saying that to someone, of elegantly long nails digging deep into men’s throats while they bled out before her, begging to stay alive-

Wait, now the lines were getting blurry. That was no dream or story, that was what eventually happened with her and her knight and shining princess. Or evil queen, the archetype didn’t necessarily matter anymore. Instead, here she was, letting men use her body and pulling out roots from the dying earth just for some semblance of food. Winter had been decreasing, so the Governor lightly ordered them to start planting now. It was far from her dream, far from the life she ever wanted but she wondered then: perhaps this was freedom. All her life she had been the child who was in places she shouldn’t be, she played in dirt and preferred to be one with nature long ago, her Catholic school upbringing did nothing to curb her ever so natural desires, and her parents grooming her to be the ultimate business shark, the brightest CEO they could’ve possibly hope for mattered nothing when she punished them.

She punished people consistently, she punished her parents for constantly pushing her until she s h a t t e r e d. She punished Jade for hurting her by cheating on her several times, doing that misdeed even when she knew Jade would have her indecencies killed by her. She’s currently punishing Amhiel for throwing her in jail, where life was far from glamorous. Her parents were now dead, and Jade didn’t matter, so of course she was going to stick to the one thing that kept her who she was before the end of the world: a spoiled brat.

Underneath her modest attitude and cheerful smiles, she was a brat. She wanted everything that wasn’t hers, she would never be satisfied. Being abused was one thing, being without any materialistic item was now just brutal. 

She wondered who she once was before her life became consumed by the spoils in her life. That time period before she met Jade had to be the only time she ever truly was herself, only for her personality to be shoved in a box and forced away, only to be unlocked eight years later. Now here she was, standing in front of Lincoln, his harsh smile and cold words sending a sharp chill down her spine. Still, she kept her composure, she was good at it. Her smile stayed darling, but she was fuming inside. She hated it when people didn’t fall for her charms, or her acting. She knew Lincoln wouldn’t, he was the one in charge of all the shots.

He was the one who had to tell her what to do.

Their roles were vastly different, she was either the muse to his art or she was a moldable object that he could transform into anything he wanted her to. Stand up straighter, pout a little brighter, and you’ve got the perfect shot. But she didn’t have a stage, and he didn’t have a crew; they were professionals without their equipment. He would constantly be making a movie in his life, and she would constantly be playing a new role. A farmer who was also a prostitute seemed to be fitting; a payment of protection seemed to be the only thing that truly mattered anyways. She knew what she could get out of Richard, she knew that her soft hands and sharp features could bring him down to a person, and not the God he wanted everyone else to think him as.

“I’m appalled,” she started, chin raising as she stared at Lincoln, “these things shouldn’t be discussed out in the open, I thought that much was obvious.” There was her actual self slipping through the small cracks. “However, if you were to invite me somewhere private? Well, maybe I’ll listen.”

Arabella was far from intrigued, she was terrified of what he might tell her. Still, with a dazzling smile, she tilted her head. “I’m not very charmed by you either, you know.”

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

The easiest way how to make people do what you want is to promise them – it will lead to their goal. So the key to the hearts of others were their goals, dreams, and hidden wishes. Their dark, twisted fantasies they are too afraid to mention out load – get them and you will know what to do, all the weapons will be in your hands, and you will see the world kneel down for you. It was that easy.

But the trick was this – not everyone screams their fantasies out load. People hide their true wishes behind masks that are socially acceptable for their families, their friends or social status. Because those who are poor will be ridiculed, if they would wish for a golden bath. Those, who are ugly will be ridiculed for their dream of becoming a model or actor. It was the task of highest importance to make sure that hopeless gets the hope, and everything else will follow.

What was her dream, her goal, her hope? Definitely not to sell her flesh for some minor comfort, she seemed too smart to be only that. Because Lincoln would never do it without a bigger plan in his head, and he doubted she would. Like Kate… it might have seemed that her goal was to be admired, but her true motivation was to survive on any occasions. Most likely she failed with that by now, but who knows, maybe she was still out there, making her living out of nothing, because he knew, she could. So what was that little Arabella wanted so badly? She was ready to be dehumanized every time when governor had had a worst day, every time when he wanted to make Lincoln turn a bit happier, because he felt that Lincoln, in general, was too depressed for a person in his position. Lincoln always replied that it was because of his artistic nature. Artists are allowed to do a lot of strange things.

She was good with words, wasn’t she? And a bit naïve, trying to show that she had any choice in this situation. But he might as well let her. There was always time to push her into a corner a bit later. Watch your tongue little one, someone might think you are something more than a florist. But Lincoln did not allow himself to say it out loud. Time and place. Time and place.

“Everyone is too busy by trying to survive to listen, but if you want me to invite you somewhere so badly… I might give it to you. Would you like to visit my apartment?” he asked and smiled. His apartment was his artwork, as the governor had managed to collect the best things for himself and people close to him. He even had art work on the walls, wine and whiskey in his bar and though it was nothing like his previous living spaces, it was more than a lot of them had. But not to impress (maybe, a bit), he asked the girl there. After all, that was his playground. His rules, his are of comfort, his stage. What role she would play there? Amazed little country girl, jealous lady or would the cracks of her mask let a bit more of her arrogance to show?

Did she try to also offend him? Well, fair enough, he had started it.

“I know, because I have not tried yet,” another smile. That he gave for free, everything else had a price. How much she was ready to pay to fulfill her dreams and what were they?

[ipainteddanteoneverywall-blog]

(the black book)

The day was low, people tried finish their last works and move home, if what they had could even be called home. Some had a bed, some mattress, some individual apartments, like he did. Some fought for it, some were protected by patrols. The silent, invisible machinery of this village was as old as the world – corruption was everywhere, the question was, when the one who steal will run out of favours to give, when the one who was useful will turn into problem. Time after time someone was sent outside. It was punishment that scared the weak ones and the strong ones, because it was a pure chance, touch of luck that could turn an adventure into the capital punishment. It was fear of death that kept this village going. Time after time snitches appeared, hoping for some bonuses, and they got them, and that only encouraged the culture of shadows and whispers. The need to align with the winning party was the key in every system, it always upholding kings, presidents and dictators.

But every system has the doubtful, silent resistance, thieves and unworthy who hide their true faces. Most of them never made it through the gate. Some did. Suspicion never left Lincoln’s mind. He had promised his loyalty to the system and got a guarantee for his family, when (not if, he could not even think about the idea they are not alive), they come, and Lincoln could not risk it. Sometimes, in his dreams he could hear his father ranting how civilization never learned from history, could hear his little sister reading Dante out loud and could see his mother making cheese cake. She always made cheesecakes for his birthdays.

He had never missed any cheesecake the way he missed it now. Because cheesecake meant safety, it meant home, it meant days when there was nothing to worry about, only which actress to take with him to Academy Awards or Cannes, only worry about whether he needs a new house or a car or a suit or not. Those were the easy times, when the worst thing in his life was a bad plot twist or a bad quality tracing shot. Then his biggest obstacle from nature was uneven ground for dolly. Now basically everything tried to kill them, even those walls once could break down and destroy them, because they – they were nothing. Just a puny, little human beings.

Lincoln needed to do everything to stop the system from breaking. Find the root of doubt and destroy it before it sees sunlight. Only then the healthy part of this society will flourish. However, it is hard to know that the seed under the surface is rotten, just need to look for the little signs. Like a word that slips. Like a sentence that seems fake. Like an extra though given when something is asked. It was a puzzle, and every piece was either a lead or imagination.

For people around here, he was a director. So the fact that he walked around with notebook was nothing strange. Sometimes he actually did a sketch a scene or mark down ideas for a scene or even remembered a song he would put in a movie when one of his characters died, but most of the time he just wrote details about people, their words and actions, put together profiles of each and every habitant of this village.

He was the puppeteer, and today he decided to check how the puppet nr 21 is doing. Number 21 was an interesting picture – came to this town with medical supplies, and with a story about his past that Lincoln was not buying. Through the interviews he conducted he usually felt a lie, but this time it was a notion, but he was not entirely sure about what exactly.

So he decided to get to know nr. 21 a bit better. Like, normal people would take them out for a chat, drink a coffee or go to the restaurant in the holiday evening. Lincoln was not the type. He was the “always around type”, randomly showing up while the target is close by, suddenly he is everywhere in his subjects life, he knows his routine, his friends, the tone of his voice and how it changes in different situations. Every detail, that is so important for one of his films, now is so important for his work here, for the governor, for the future of this village.

It was the day three of his surveillance. He was standing around five meters away from Lestan, with an open notebook, sketching the scene, at least, it seemed so.

@lestanjager​