The Echevarria Shipping Company, near Warehouse 12
All day, she's watched them setting up past the fences. Lugging in... stage kit, amps, speakers, subs, canopies. Clearing space around Warehouse 12.
The fucking fire department's there. The fucking cops are there.
This is a thing that is happening in her back yard, and she wants very much to know why exactly she didn't know about it until now. It's a complete failing, on her part. A complete fucking affront. She doesn't like surprises, never has.
Picking up the phone on her desk, she dials out on the ancient touch pad and growls a missive out to the other end of the line. Security doubles tonight. No chances.
Her eyes cant down from the window, observe the place. The fences are just that - chain-link and razor wire, Warwick-vetted rent-a-cops patrolling it every twenty minutes or so.
The security chief, inside the security station, is busy getting his face melted off over the phone, the Alpha threatening that, should he prove to be as useless as his predecessor when it comes to keeping important files and dossiers locked up, there won't be enough of him left to fire.
The small row of warehouses inside the shipping yard lock up for the evening, and Yuisa makes doubly sure that nobody's looking when she slips a very special key into it's hiding spot.
The the offices close for the night, the shipping yard itself never truly sleeps. Security and Dockworkers are there in some capacity all night, even if it's quiet, and the rows of shipping containers create a strange maze for any who don't know their way around in the dark.
Finally, just past the old Portside Tavern, beyond where the huge shipping freighters moor for emptying, a set of spindly piers lay quiet with a handful of small runner boats roped to the pylons, bobbing on the black waves of Leiry Bay.
Something itches at the back of her mind. Pulls at a monstrous instinct below her skin as her eyes drift from her stronghold over to a party unfolding as costumed and masked idiots begin flooding into the space.
The verdict.
(TW: Drugs, mature themes, toxic relationships.)
The backstage area in the Seoul Arts Centre is alive with the sound of ballerinas rushing around like rabid peacocks. The illusion of grace is just that, an illusion. The truth is, half of them are hopped up on cocaine, supplies that their sponsors provide financing for. The other half are too young, too stupid, or too snobbish to realize one day they will end up being coke-trophies too, if they want to achieve greatness.
Jimin is a blur, like a cartoon on steroids, racing from one wall to the other, high on lollipops and coffee. Itâs unbelievable that during the performances, he even has grace, but he has, he always does. Outside in the spacious corridors, the flurry of backstage activity is heightened, but no one is paying attention to him yet. When itâs his time, heâll be shoved out to leap into a grand jetĂŠ and steal the show. Until then, heâs just a ghost, wandering around and peering into other peopleâs dressing rooms as if heâs lost something valuable. He can hear the more distant buzz of the guests, sipping champagne in the lobby as they wait for the show to start. They will have on their cocktail dresses, their gowns, and their firmly pressed suits, all worn like armor, empty eyes winged with liner and pocket watches showily flashed under the lights of the chandeliers. It's a special conundrum to dislike the audience he most appeals to.
Tonightâs performance is a variant of A Midsummer Nightâs Dream. Jimin is the water nymph, clad in form-fitting trousers in shifting shades of deep sapphire and soft cerulean that shimmer like the surface of a moonlit sea, catching every glint of light as if alive, hair is swept back effortlessly, damp with shimmering sprays that glisten like morning dew, with flecks of silver and lavender dusted across his freckled skin. He looks exquisite, but still, he doesnât like it. Heâd rather just have the leotard back. He isnât the greatest fan of change.
The damned irony.
Upstairs, he bumps into the dance troupe grouped together, already halfway through their prayer. Jimin crouches down, shuffle-hops, and lands somewhere in the middle before the ballet master realizes he wasn't there. They end with their hands thrown into the air, and it's that moment he realizes, something is off. As he stands at the side of the stage waiting for his cue, he peeks around the screen at the audience, squinting past the lights, taking only a proper look at the first row. Then he looks up at the VIP boxes, and there he sees him. His father. Heâs got his fingers interlaced again, resting on the edge of the balcony. As if he gives a fuck about ballet, as if heâs spent his life going to these shows, and heâs riveted to every move.
âJimin, in fiveââ the stage director hisses, and pats him on the arm in passing. He closes his eyes, asks his mother for good luck, and then springs forward.
(9PM, Seoul Arts Centre, the Performance)
He pirouettes on the spot, and in the space of that single movement, he lets his arms unfurl gracefully, tracing a long, flowing arc through the air. His hands glide like ribbons in motion, swirling with the same fluidity as a streak of moonlight as he leaps into a grand jetĂŠ, all grace and precision. He knows he looks good, as the dance turns into an allegro, making use of the entire floor space of the theatre. His movements slow down, cheeks flushed, and he runs a hand over his thighs before arching himself into a starting position for a promenade and arabesque. He turns on the spot, single foot shifting him in increments as if the floor is turning him instead. In the eyes of the guests watching him, the lines of his body are perfect, a perfect ballet dancer in a music box.
Then, without warning, a sharp, burning warmth floods his nostrils. Blood wells and spills, vivid and raw, tracing a crimson path down his lip. His breath catches, heart hammering in sudden panic. In that fractured moment, his eyes snap upward, drawn like a magnet to the VIP box. There, his father sits, watching with a cold, unreadable gaze that freezes the blood running through Jiminâs veins. For a heartbeat, his fatherâs eyes narrow, just the faintest crease of disdain or was it disappointment? Then his lips press into a thin, pale line, the faintest curl of a smirk twisting at the corner, as if savoring some cruel secret.
Lips parting just enough to mouth the words,
what is, what could be, and what should never have been
Hey, Miss Moss,
i know it's been kind of hectic and i haven't seen a lot of you lately. i'm going through some stuff right now and i've honestly just been throwing myself into work to sort of distract myself from it. i was going to actually offer to do dinner or something with you but i didn't know if it'd be right or if you'd have had other plans so i guess, ultimately, i chickened out, but i really just wanted to sort of say thank you for everything again.
thanks for being there for me when I needed it, thanks for having my back when I really needed it. Thanks for letting me talk when I needed it, and not judging but also not being afraid to be honest.
i know i hurt you, even if I didn't -hurt you hurt you- i know that what happened that night at the arcade was hurtful, even if i would have never done it if i'd have had any say in it. i know we've hashed this out, but i just, again, wanted to say thank you for finding it in yourself to forgive me. that's something i'm not super good at. forgiving things, i mean. either myself or other people. i'm trying.
but yeah, i don't want this to get too long, but i just wanted to do -something- for mother's day and you're the closest thing i've got to that right now. i hope you enjoy the presents (i really hope you don't already have them)
anyways, i'm fine. i'm sorry i've been so quiet. i'm trying to not be as quiet or distant. i'll try to come see you soon, i just can't do the arcade right now, it's too close to the bookstore and things are just weird. i know this could have been a text or something, but you know me, i love my pencils and paper.
Happy Mother's Day
Autumn
A piece of nice paper sits folded up inside a Mother's Day card inside of a Hallmark envelope. It's written neatly but with little regard for punctuation. It's up against Morgan Moss' front door, alongside a gift-wrapped box, inside of which sits a set of cartoonish figures. It arrives early, because she has a long drive out to Owyhee Canyon to make, and she might as well get a head start.
âââ
Summer,
How do I say this? I know things might be a little weird now. I don't really know where they sit with us, but I want to come out there again, or have you come into town, whichever, and I want to talk with you more. About mom (am I even allowed to call her that?), about Aunt Therese, too.
This isn't going to be a super long letter or anything, because I feel like we still just barely know each other, but I don't want that to be the case. I want to get to know you, I want to learn about our mom. I know I'll never know her or miss her the way you must, but that doesn't change that there's something important there, even if its in the past. I wonder a lot these days what it would have been like to grow up out there, with you and your family. If it would have made things different. If I'd really want different. I don't know that I would but I don't not know either, you know?
Sorry - all that to say, I love you, I can't wait to see you again, or to visit again, if you'll have me. I just don't want to not be a part of your life, and I don't want you to not be a part of mine. I'll try to call more often. I probably should have called to say all this but, well, you'll get used to it. I have a thing for scribbling.
Your sister,
⼠Autumn
It might not arrive on Mother's Day, but that's fine really - it's not really meant for Laurel, just inspired by the thought of her. It's a nice letter on the same nice paper, and tucked inside it's three-way fold are pictures of Autumn, from her days a a tow-headed, chubby little blue-eyed baby, to big happy smiles at a petting zoo, to a morose and reluctantly smiling teen making a ridiculous face and devil horns at a camera. Little memories for Summer to do whatever she wants to do with.
âââ
amanda
you weren't ever really what i needed, but i guess, in your own way, i wouldn't be here without you. in that way, you shaped me, so in the sickest manner i guess i do owe you something. but as much as i might owe you, there's so much that i can't ever really forgive you for, too. i won't go into all of them, because let's be real, this letter's more for me than for you - even if you did show up i don't think i'd have it in me to say anything nice to you. i spent pretty much the entirety of my childhood hating almost everything about myself because of the way you spoke to me, about me, for me. i was never smart enough, i never dressed nice enough. everything i did that wasn't explicitly what you told me to do was idiotic or misinformed or selfish and yeah, maybe some of it was, or all of it was, it doesn't matter now. you're dead, and you're, god willing, not coming back. but i just never really got to say what i wanted to say, so i'm going to say it now. i'm not anything that you ever said i was. i'm not stupid, and i'm not lazy, and i'm not ugly, or fat, or any of it. i'm not any of that shit you used to drill into my head to keep me from feeling like i was enough, and i know that now because i have friends that show me i'm not any of that. i'm also not your daughter, and i'm sorry if my being brought into your life was so bad that it turned you into whatever you wound up being. i apologize for that. i don't apologize for any of the rest of it, though. i won't. so yeah, that's all. i'm going to run this out to where you are, and i don't know, burn it or something, pretend that means you'll find it in whatever lazy pit of the afterlife you've sunken into and read it and know that you tried to make me as miserable as you and if it takes the rest of my life i won't let you do it.
so goodbye. good riddance.
happy mother's day for the last time too i guess.
rough, hasty pencil scribbled onto a folded up set of notebook papers. They're curling up as flame eats away woodpulp and graphite. Someone watches nearby as the fire slowly eats away the words and thoughts, turning it all to smoke. A hiking boot, before too long, thuds down on the burning paper, grinding it into the patchy earth where new growth has largely obscured the scars of digging from months prior. A rush of water follows, just to prevent anything tragic from sparking off once she leaves the site of this little ritual of communion with the dead.
When the boots turn heel and return to the trail, it's all oddly quiet in the space, no bugs or birds - even the nearby stream seems quieter. And so shall it be - this chapter's well and truly closed.
âWhom the gods wish to destroy they first call promising.â
â Cyril Connolly, Enemies of Promise
It was quiet by the time Adam arrived, boots scuffing stone as he passed through the temple doors. Moonlight silvered the edges of the marble columns. He stepped past the grand statue of looming Zeus, polished white, chiseled, arms outstretched - worship expectant.
âIâm not here for you,â he muttered, voice low but full of teeth as he continued walking until he found the statue of the three-fold goddess. From what heâd gathered, everyone here prayed to their parents for something: for strength, for power, for clarity, for direction - they came here with their hands out, mouths open, and took whatever divine load got shot into the back of their throat. Adam didnât want anything from Zeus, he wasnât the type to pray, and he wouldnât lie and say he had any respect for the Gods.Â
However,
the triple goddess watched from the alcove at the end - Maiden with her veil, Mother with her open hand, and Crone with her knife. Heâd come for her⌠to pay some respects, offer some gratitude. Hades felt wrong somehow, Hecate was the crossroads between.Â
Adam approached the stone altar with a wrapped bundle under his arm: a small steel bowl, a cloth, a blade. Old-school. He unwrapped it with care and placed it on the altar before he pulled the blade free, and without hesitation, sliced his calloused palm open. The pain grounded him immediately - honest in its reminder that demigods could bleed. Blood followed, welling quickly and dripping into the bowl, dark and warm.Â
âMy offering,â he said. âbecause I donât know what to make of the Gods, who to trust or what to think. I canât do magic, I canât cast spells, and I have no business being here⌠But I love someone who does, your son.â More earnest than usual, more hopeful than the son of Zeus had any right to be, and more earnest in his hope that be it blood, bowl, or athame - the crossroads might offer some guidance to a warrior finding his path.
âI donât know how to fight whatâs coming,â he admitted, jaw clenched. âIâve always fought the man in front of me. Never the one waiting around the corner. Never time, or fate, or memory, or whatever other bullshit there is.â But heâd helped bring Patroclus back to Achilles, defied the Gods then had the nerve to stand before one without knowing what - if any - stake she had in this.Â
He knelt. Just enough to level with the altar, blood still trickling down his wrist. âBut I love your son, and Prospero too. And Iâd bleed every drop Iâve got if it means keeping them safe. I donât want to be just another dead man swinging, or the reason that shit comes crashing down on them.â Adam thought about the likelihood of success, of the false ego that allowed him to press forward: to aspire to dethrone the King of Kings himself, if only to watch the old God fall.Â
He looked to the Crone. The knife, and the knowing behind her eyes.
âIâm asking you,â he said, voice hoarse, âhelp me fight for them.â He thought about the rest of the camp, the family heâd made, and the connections theyâd forged along the way. âHelp me fight for all of them.â Adam let the blood pool beneath him, leaving it to spill, swearing a wordless oath - a vow he was not certain heâd survive.
Location: Bella's room, Valentin's South Withermore Estate
Time: A few weeks after becoming a vampire.
Soft silk rubbed between her calves as she drew her feet up beneath her in the large bed, the fabric tightening over her knees. The sound was ungodly loud as sheets grazed one another, vibrating in her ears. Such loudness made her consider asking to feed, her senses dulled when she fed, focused on the food. Bella had told him this. He had written something down. Still the dullness that came lasted only a few moments and he had insisted that her body would adjust to her new senses. He had still written something down. Maybe other newborns couldn't communicate how irritating all their senses were because they felt far more compelled to feed.
That was what he had tested on her afterall. A subdued hunger. She was glad it had worked, or worked to some degree. She didn't think she could handle becoming something feral and monstrous while grieving her wings as well.
Bella could still feel them in her mind, her muscles shifting as she willed limbs that were no longer present to caress her form as the sheets had for weeks. Even when she left the bed she had requested robes she bundled herself up in, removing the garment only when tests were needed. He could probably see the way her body adjusted when she removed it, like she were pulling her wings back as well, attempting to lift something unseen off the floor of the room he studied her in. It was not his lab, but some other space he used to test her. She hadn't seen his lab since her death.
She was glad he didn't seem to counter her that she was dead whenever she mentioned it. He noted it. He noted almost everything. How he noted it she wasn't sure. Perhaps he simply wrote 'delusional' down and continued asking questions. It didn't bother her. Whatever he was doing was the only thing it felt she had to exist for. The only thing that stopped the tears after the first day. She hadn't even fed by the time he had summoned for her, eyes weak and face wet. He asked if she was hungry and she had said 'no' and immediately asked on her wings. The alchemist never seemed to care the loss upset her, beyond trying to discern if her sorrow was a side affect, which was why she knew he hadn't turned her assuming she'd lose them, why she never became enraged.
With fingers curling around the sheets she heard a loud dragging sound and she tried to focus on what he had told her regarding the overwhelming nature of her senses. To control her own focus. So she attempted as much. Instead listening for the distant sounds of his turning pages, or scribbles with quill and ink. Distant sounds were quiet, and if she listened for them those that were closer would fade. It took a few moments for her to find the sound of him in the estate, but eventually she did, curiously calloused fingers turning parchment pages softened her mind, allowed her to relax within the sheets engulfing her.
"Forgive me my selfishness, Mother," she prayed as softly as the steps of mice in the kitchens. "I wished only to save what you had given me." Her slender pallid fingers grasping the sheet tightly in the darkness they kept her in. "Please give them back."
Her celestial mother did not respond as she once had.
All Bella could hear was her sire's quill against parchment, the sound of a swirled letter swinging across the sheet, a strict pull as something was crossed out, before a page was turned. Valentin did not breathe and hearing his lack of breath allowed for her own she habitually retained to stop as well.
âHey, itâs Delphi,â Cat drawled into the microphone, voice in half a slur.
She could feel every nerve ending in her body ache, mainly in her fingertips, some in her skull, head pounding with each beat from her heart. It echoed in her head, coiling into the beginnings of a headache. Why the fuck had she picked up these pills again when it felt like this on the comedown?
It had taken months, patient, patient months to repair the damage sheâd wrought against the radio. Cat wallowed in loss, curled it around herself like a blanket even though her life was built upon one thing â a determined escape from loneliness. Loneliness could be abated if she fixed it all. Maybe, it would be like Nano had never left, if she piece by piece took care of the damage of the mics, taped back together the drawings Enna had shown her of the graffiti sheâd wrought across the Capitol, pulled her copies of the zine out from the drawer sheâd shoved them inside and smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper. It was better, she supposed, to remember them as they were.
Wallowing in her regret, her fear of a change of her stasis made her explode, she knew that, hell sheâd cried clutching pieces of a shattered laptop in her lap for hours until Cress had scooped her up off the ground. Cat regretted erasing the last earnest memories she had of how good things had been when the team of freedom fighters â the rebels, the T0MMY team, had worked together to try to save Panem.
It was real fuckinâ stupid, she thought. Cat had thrown so much away for the sake of living in comfort under a regime she had tried to erase with a fucking alias and a line of code but it brought her back here, in the tower, the present, legs curled under her body, a new computer, nothing as nice as her old one had been â sheâd traded more than she shouldâve to get her hands on it â but it was a comfort, something familiar to hide behind.
âHello,â she repeated, testing it again, this time the mic pinged in the recording program, picking up sound.Â
It wasnât live. Cat doubted sheâd ever go live again, not when Vox Populi propaganda crammed the airwaves. Besides, that was one bit of tech she was certain sheâd never get her hands on again if she tried. Transponders were likely something more than she could rustle up enough to trade, not if she wanted to eat, not if she didnât want to trade herself for it.Â
Talking through radio was better than talking to Eugene though, who had been notably silent the moment a pill passed through her lips. She worried what other ghosts would try to flood her head if she didnât take anything. Eugene was dead. He wasnât supposed to respond, but he did more often than not. With the radio, talking to herself was appropriate, wasnât insane, she could talk and know that on the other end was silence.Â
âWe got ourselves into some shit, huh?â Cat gave the rhetorical. There was no audience, she doubted there ever would be again, not that she so desired a captive thing like that. Cat had spent so much time screaming and crying and pleading for someone to notice how she ached, but the more she did, the more she felt like she pushed everyone away in some form or another. She supposed the radio would do â or the fantasy of it â because she didnât want to ask for someone to help her. The one time the words of needing someone there had crossed her lips, she was told â reminded â of how easily strung along she was, how obsessive she was, how she was âDelicious to toy with. So insecure, so brokenâ.Â
Cat didnât like to ask anymore.Â
Even if Cress had apologized the damage took because, even if Cress had said all of that to shove her away, the words were still accurate, werenât they? They still had to come from a place of truth, right?Â
âMaybe I got you guys into some shit, I dunno,â Cat hissed, tucking herself smaller and smaller, because maybe she could just disappear that way. âIâm sorry,â she voiced quietly, as if the other side could offer her some absolution, âI know I said all this would be better without Snow and the Capitol, but now look, 'nother launch day, huh?âÂ
Catâs eyes watched the waveform rise as she spoke, die off into a straight line when she fell silent. She swallowed, this wasnât as good as asking for help. It wasnât working the way it was supposed to. Nothing was satisfying when her words werenât met with a reply â maybe in another world sheâd hear something snarky from Nano in her ear about how the Vox would shut them down if she kept her tongue that loose.Â
Her fingertips crammed down on the spacebar. It halted the line. Her cursor moved to hover over the recording button. End recording. Her fingertips found the keyboard â ctrl, a, backspace. The recording was deleted, she needed to try again. She clicked to record and the waveform began to move again.
"Goooooood evening, Bitties - itâs one of those nights where Iâm deeply contemplative on the nature of many things. Iâm sure we all get that way. When you sit alone and itâs raining, and something about the sound is so deeply nostalgic even though you hear it all the time. And then, you somehow get into existential questions about self, about love, about loss.Â
And itâll all stemmed from grabbing some ice for your glass of water or something, right? Because, well, your second cousin used to make jokes about how you only put 2 ice cubes in your drink. Like why only 2? Is that enough to get it cold? And youâd only see that second cousin every summer, because your families would go to that old lodge by the lake. Youâd swim all day and then dry out on the rocks, and youâd both go steal a few otter pops from the secret cooler your uncle kept in the garage."
... more of Aviel's podcast under the read more ....
"So you start thinking about that lodge, and your uncle. Passed from pancreatic cancer, years ago. You start wondering if your second cousinâs okay- havenât heard from her in a long time. She sold the lodge, though, after her father died. And last time you had a call with her, she was complaining about her son wanting an iPhone.
Rainâs still falling. You start thinking about invention. Utilitarian things like spoons and forks. iPhones.
Things that we donât need but we like. Beanbag chairs. Pringles.Â
What else is invention though? Through imagination, we can conduct so many ideas⌠inventions of the mind, whether they come to fruition or not."
"Is Bigfoot a real, hairy apeman? Or is he the invention of some creatives with too much time on their hands and a gorilla suit? Was Nessie a sea serpent, or dark metal pieces, some concoction to confuse humans for years, and elude them to this day?Â
This all stems from my feelings on a truly unique cryptid, and our subject today. The Fresno Nightcrawlers.
Any cryptid enthusiast knows them - the white, ghostly pants. Armless creatures with long legs, walking almost as if theyâre on strings. Marionettes to something celestial, perhaps.Â
Some say sightings are few⌠but with multiple angled video recordings to look at, itâs hard to deny thereâs something otherworldly at play. But does nostalgia color our views on this being? Let's start with the basics."
"A man named Jose was the first to see them in Fresno California - they were in his front yard, and even more peculiar was that he went to look only because his dog had started barking at something out in the night.
I donât know about you - but thereâs something far scarier about a creature that dogs donât like. Having a dog on edge? There mustâve been something, or someone, out front of this poor manâs yard. But he caught it on CCTV footage⌠his brother even reported finding tiny footprints out front. However, even more odd⌠that CCTV footage was mysteriously deleted. All that remains of the original recording is a video of the security monitor.
So we know they have tiny feet, long legs, no arms. We know that some force is at play to delete footage of them. So what are they? Where are they from, whatâs their plan?
Whatâs even more odd⌠they have been seen recently. The most recent documented sighting is in 2020."
"Theyâve been filmed at night in Yosemite- two of them, one large, one small. Walking, slow, across the screen. Now, I have to be honest - the footage of that specific instance? The juryâs still out for me. Dear Bitties, Iâm sure youâve seen it, but they almost look a bit too perfect. Too crisp, comparatively to the background. As if someone had laid it all out.Â
Iâve seen the Nightcrawlers likened to those little tissue ghosts people often make as children - something I can say I used to do with my son and daughter on many October evenings. And I canât help but agree, even to the point where some of the footage can appear slightly⌠tissue-esque.Â
However. Fear not, Bitties. Because In all the footage, they are so incredibly consistent that itâs hard to disagree that something unexplainable is there.Â
Many think these are aliens- and with hieroglyphics from Egypt sometimes showing humanoid figures with their arms completely at their sides, paler than the average being they would depict⌠well, you do the math.
Tell you what, letâs ruminate on it. Time to take a quick brain-break to hear some ads and then weâll be deep-diving into a nightcrawlerâs connection to aliens, ghosts⌠and maybe even deer? Hm. Makes you think. Now, a word from our sponsorsâŚ."
"Some people don't know what they have until it's gone."
"But what about the ones who do know? The ones who never took a damn thing for granted? Who tried their hardest to hold on, yet could only look on helplessly while they lost the thing they loved the most.
Isn't it so much worse for them?"
- Lang Leav
