#c izzy

[kadavernagh]

[Wrapped in suspiciously nice packaging is a taped-up cardboard box. Inside the cardboard box is a confirmation letter to DECOMPOSITION MONTHLY. There’s no explanation for what’s coming in said boxes, but it’s a prepaid 12-month subscription.

Regan,

Thought it would go well with the museum. 

Merry Christmas,

Izzy"]

[kadavernagh]

@cursedmaestro replied to your post “[pm] I got out of Granny Smith's deal. The yogurt...”:

[pm] He gave me the deal to work at his store when he needed to run errands with an hour's notice. I thought it was too good to be true, and it was. As soon as he left, someone I'd rather die before seeing walked in. No way that wasn't on purpose. Also, just show up next time I have an impromptu shift. I'm physically incapable of leaving.

​[pm] He-- so the deal is truly off? The ten people? That is it; they are no longer needed? I don't see how that can be. I suspect you have become involved in something even worse.

You are physically incapable of leaving the frozen yogurt store... well, I suppose you trapped yourself, then. Did you put a time limit or other limitation around this deal, or are you serving toppings for centuries?

[kadavernagh]

[pm] I got out of Granny Smith's deal. The yogurt guy tricked me worse than Granny Smith ever could. But no one died. So you got what you wanted.

@cursedmaestro

[Pm] What do you mean you "got out of it"? What is worse? Isidore! This is not what I wanted either, you amadan. How do I know you are not simply lying to me so I will not interfere with your meeting of the initial deal?

[kadavernagh]

@cursedmaestro replied to your post “What are your top five songs on your ‘on repeat’...”:

[del: what the fuck...........] [No message is sent.]

​

[agentcharlespearce-blog]

Friends in Low Places || Charles & Izzy

Well, they’d finally managed it. Agent Caverly had gone above and beyond, and the personnel files were finally updated and organized. It was now his job to go through them and familiarize himself with the recent arrivals. He was about halfway through the stack when he froze, reading and re-reading the name at the top.

He knew this one.

Setting the file down, he closed his eyes, struggling to breathe. The name alone brought back memories. And memories brought him back.

They couldn’t have known. That was his mantra, in the month following the explosion. They couldn’t have known what would happen. Surely they hadn’t maimed him on purpose. They’d teased him about his accent, yes, about his lifestyle, but for it all, Charles had thought they’d--well, bonded. He’d never had many friends—proper friends, in the working class sense of the word. You simply accustomed yourself to the company of those around you—children of your parents’ friends, schoolmates, an affection born of convenience rather than choice. But with those men on the front, he felt they’d overcome something. A rigid class division worn away by the comradery of service. He’d actually thought they’d liked him, as he liked them.

That’s why the thoughts pained him. The ones that came to him in the middle of the night, those first few days in the hospital. The treacherous thoughts, full of hateful whispers about why he was in that bed. About the faulty intelligence he’d been given, and had they done it on purpose? Sent him and his operatives there with the intention of seeing them fall? No. There was no reason, no rationality to it. And now Isaac was here…the very man who’d given him the information.

Charles got to his feet, tugging on his coat and walking down to the barracks. He didn’t know what drove him to it, whether enthusiasm at seeing his friend again or an urge to confront the man who’d all but given him this cane. But he had to find him…had to confirm his presence, somehow. And sure enough, there he was, cleaning his rifle as though he’d always been there, just out of sight.

“Raven.”