John Smithâs Halloween costume! Heâs a Plague Doctor and very pleased with the costume, despite the fact that it isnât really historically accurate.Â
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@allonsywho
John Smithâs Halloween costume! Heâs a Plague Doctor and very pleased with the costume, despite the fact that it isnât really historically accurate.Â

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oflilacsandgooseberriesâ:
psychologically speaking, vengeance rarely brings the catharsis we hope for. â
Yennefer had just had a man literally thrown out with the trash after he made a comment that she didnât like about one of her girls. No one knew what the man had said, but no one questioned her authority when it came to policing who was allowed in the lounge. She turned to the stranger giving out psychological advice with a roll of her eyes and gave him an obviously fake smile. âPlease, tell me again how to exercise proper catharsis.â
~*~
John didnât often come to this part of town. Everyone knew it was where you went if you were looking for trouble. He didnât mind trouble, of course, but there was something of a coward in him. He wasnât too proud to admit that. But tonight heâd wandered further than heâd intended, lost in thought until the sudden and violent motion of a man flying into refuse caught his attention. âWell,â he said, mouth opening and closing again. âThereâs... uh... running?â he tried. âAnd other -- non... violent approaches. That is to say that I, personally...â He stopped, ducking his head and shaking it before glancing back up at her. âI should probably stop talking now, yeah?âÂ
keviniansâ:
John Smith started talking, and, in a way, he sounded like the Prophet, when he told them stories about Marcus and the first women, or Charlieâs ways, or Chad the giant killer. Like someone who was used to telling stories, used to an audience. Minnow just blinked at him, until he turned and walked over to another shelf. She walked after him hurriedly. He sounded fond of Maria Ann Smith, as if he was talking about someone he knew. Again, she felt that rush of kindness and love from him, and it made no sense. He wasnât Charlie. He was just a Gentile, just a strange man. So, she simply said, âOh. I didnât know that.â
He turned to look at her, and now his gaze felt different. Curious, sharp, like a hawkâs eyes, like the Prophet when he knew she had transgressed. Like he knew heâd caught her out in her eye. But, instead of calling her out on it, he pulled one of the apples off the shelf, and held it. Minnow shrugged. âI havenât heard anyone say that,â she replied, bluntly. They had no need for doctors in the Community. Charlie healed them, or he didnât. Modern medicine was not of Him. He had healed the Prophetâs eyes, and his lungs, and Bertieâs feet, before sheâd died.
After a moment, she took several apples off the shelf, and dropped them into her metal shopping basket. Five â as many as she could pull off at once â and then five more, and then ten more, and finally two. That made one for everyone in the Community. When she had put all twenty-two apples into her basket, she realised that she could leave, but it felt wrong to just walk away. The Prophet would say she didnât have to thank a filthy Gentile. But John Smith had been kind. So, she looked up from her basket, and smiled a wan smile. âThank you, John.â It didnât feel unnatural, or wrong, to say it.
~*~
âReally?â he asked, smiling and tossing the apple in the air. He caught it deftly, and repeated the action. Toss and catch, toss and catch. For some reason the word satsuma popped into his head, dancing around for a moment among images of clouds and bathrobes and a city sprawled below... John was so caught up he missed the apple and it tumbled past his hands, bouncing off the shelf and onto the floor. âOops,â he said, grinning sheepishly. He waved to a clerk who was giving him quite the stare. âI think I better stick to buying fruit instead of juggling it, eh?â he said, turning back to the young girl.Â
âAnyway, itâs a common enough saying. Not sure where that one came from, but if I had to guess...â He stuck his tongue between his teeth, then snapped his fingers together. âYes, definitely early twentieth century. 1913 or so? Give or take a few months.â Her quiet thanks made him refocus, and he returned her small smile in kind. âMy pleasure,â he said, without a hint of sarcasm.Â
He took a moment now to really look her over, to study her. She was wearing a simple outfit, handstitched. âIt was Minnow, right? Minnow Bly.â He tilted his head. âYou mind if I ask you a question, Minnow Bly?â He paused but only for a half second before continuing on. âYouâre from the... community on the edge of town, yeah?â
badwolfrosesâ:
Rose often missed home on days like this. She never thought that she would admit to this but she actually really missed her mother too. She adored the woman but she was a lot to handle but right now; she would happily have Jackie sharing her space. She had finished work and grabbed some takeout⌠However rather than heading straight home she figured a little wander through the park would be very nice.Â
Her brows raised a little as she noticed the man sprawled out on the grass. Rose stopped suddenly. Why⌠Why did he look so familiar? Something about his face. Rose cleared her throat as she slowly approached him. âExcuse me? Are you alright? Why you grinning up at the sky like that?â She couldnât ask him why he looked so familiar. Why⌠He felt⌠Homely.Â
~*~
He stared up at the night sky and felt like he was dreaming. How else could he explain the thoughts and images floating through his mind? Fantasies of flying through the galaxies, running his fingers through stardust and tasting the air on another world. A new world, a different world. Oh Iâll never get used to this. A voice whispered in his mind. Her voice, the one that came to him in his very best dreams. Different ground beneath my feet, different sky --Â
Then, quite suddenly, it wasnât just in his head.Â
John sat up, propping himself up on his elbows. For a long moment, he just blinked at her, mouth falling open. She was beautiful, standing there lit by streetlamps and starlight. Blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, and her eyes. He swore there was something endless about them. If she thought he was grinning at the sky, well, he mustâve looked like a fool now. âSorry,â he said, shaking his head. âSorry, I -- I get caught up sometimes,â he said, like that explained anything. He scrambled up, brushing grass from his hands and clothes as he walked over to her. âIâm brilliant, by the way,â he added, grinning broadly. âJust... absolutely brilliant. Sorry, Iâm John Smith.â He held out his hand. âWhatâs your name?â
@saxonsâ cont from here
Harold looked up from patting his blazer pockets at the sound of the strangely recognisable voice. It was strange because heâd met this man only once before, but something about his voice â that concern â was so familiar, like theyâd had more than one oddly intimate conversation.
He frowned for a second. âWhat?â he said, before realising that he had been looking for something, but heâd been completely thrown by the question that heâd temporarily forgotten. âOh! No, donât worry.â And he lowered his hands, and waved one in a dismissive gesture, before immediately changing his mind. âItâs just⌠Well -â And, in an impulsive move, he reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out the silver watch that had bothered him immensely ever since heâd found it on his bedside table. âThis thing is broken. Canât get it to open for the life of me. You wouldnât happen to know where I could get it fixed, would you?â
~*~
He wasnât sure what had prompted him. It wasnât unusual for John to offer to help -- he was famous for it among the other teachers, the librarian called him a âdarlingâ for it. He enjoyed helping people, lending a hand wherever he could. But that usually extended to tutoring or grabbing a book off a very high shelf, and once oddly enough chasing down a very wily duck. Now here he was, offering his services to the mayor, and with an enthusiasm he couldnât explain. He felt a kinship to Harry, which after that night under the stars was hardly surprising. The fact that theyâd had that night was the real surprise. This connection, whatever it was, it had begun the instant the two men set eyes on each other.Â
So when Harry brushed him off, John couldnât help but feel a wave of disappointment wash over him. âRight, course,â he said quickly, grin faltering for just a second. He shoved his hands into his pockets, started to turn away, but then Harry spoke again. John turned on his heel, grin back in full force. âLetâs take a look shall --â He stopped short, head tilted. âHuh,â he whispered. âNow would you look at that.â He reached out for the watch, leaning forward to study it. It wasnât the exact same markings, but similar. Like different phrases written in the same alphabet. âAfraid I donât, mate,â he said, slipping a hand into his pocket. âOtherwise, Iâd know what to do about this.â He pulled out his own watch, and dangled it from the chain in between them.Â

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keviniansâ:
The stranger spoke, and Minnow felt a warmth rolling off him, heard an openness in his voice, saw impossible age behind his eyes. She stared at him. This was how sheâd always imagined it would feel when she met Charlie. Rightness, affection, kindness rolled off him in waves. For a moment, she thought he was Charlie, that sheâd finally found him, that heâd come for them just like the Prophet said he would. But then she realised, in a heartbeat, that he was too old â Charlie would have been her age â and his eyes were dark brown, like a foxâs, not bright green. Oh. She blinked, and looked back at the bagged apples, feeling stupid.
John Smith. Not Charlie. Not anyone. She addressed the apples as she spoke. âMinnow Bly,â she said, pulling the sleeves of her jumper down over her wrists. Her fingers felt strange, tingly, like she was on the edge of getting pins and needles. That happened sometimes. But she didnât let it distract her â she couldnât â not out here, surrounded by Gentiles, like wolves in sheepâs clothing. After a few seconds, she said, âGranny Smiths. I was looking at the Granny Smith apples.â It wasnât true â she wasnât sure which ones they were, but she hoped she could trick this man â John Smith â into pointing out which ones they were, so she could get them. The coins sheâd been given by the Prophet to pay for them weighed heavily in her skirt pocket.
~*~
âAhh, Granny Smiths. Named after an actual Granny, you know. Maria Ann Smith. Australian lady, famously cultivated these apples. Well, not these,â he said, straightening up. He craned his neck one way and then the other, face lighting up when he spotted them. âHere we go!â he said brightly, walking over. âThese apples. Maria cultivated these apples. Sweet woman, very kind, didnât get enough credit in her lifetime.â He felt a fondness for the woman, and it could be heard in his voice. He wasnât sure why, it wasnât like he knew her. He just knew of her. And yet. What a strange thought.Â
A stranger thought suddenly occurred to him. He tilted his head, and glanced at her. âYou must have really good eyesight, spotting them from all the way down there,â he said, arching a brow. He reached forward and plucked one off the shelf. âMaybe Iâll get one myself. They say it keeps the doctor away, eh?âÂ
keviniansâ:
Minnow hated going into the town. It felt too crowded, too unnatural, and she always kept her head down and her eyes on the ground when she walked into the stores to get what they needed. She only felt truly safe in Echo Springs when she had the Community with her, when they walked through the streets to get to the other side of the woods. This rarely happened, but sometimes they all walked together through the streets, and the Gentiles stopped to stare at them, and took photos. Minnow always held Constanceâs hand so tightly that her little sister complained she was hurting her.
But now, she was alone, standing in front of the fruit section of the grocery store. Most of it was packed into plastic containers. She always got the green apples, Granny Smiths, which were loose in one of the boxes, but today there were none. For the first time in all her years of getting groceries for the Community, there were no loose apples. So now, Minnow was staring at the plastic wrapped fruit, with letters printed on their labels. She couldnât make the letters into words. She could see the letter G on some of them, but she couldnât remember what a Y looked like. If she got the wrong ones, she would have to come back to return them, and she didnât want to come into the store again so soon.
Someone stood next to her, and she flinched away, and muttered, âSorry ââ She barely glanced at the Gentile. In her thirteen years of living in Echo Woods, she could count the number of times she had had spoken to the Gentiles who lived in town on one hand.
Grocery stores were a staple of modern life. And yet, John always felt... out of sorts in them. He was never quite sure what to do with his hands, or how fast to walk down the aisles. It was as if he hadnât had much practice with them, though of course that was ridiculous. He was just... out of sorts, he supposed.Â
It felt like heâd been out of sorts for as long as he could remember. But that was just another strange thought. He shoved his hands into his pockets and strode down the fruit aisle. There was only one other person there, a young girl in blue. She was staring very intently at the apples, and John felt his curiosity flare up with a tingle. He leaned forward to look too, but then she flinched away and he arched a brow at her.Â
âNo, no thatâs on me. Sorry!â he said quickly, speaking much louder than she had. âI was just wondering, what were you looking at?â His eyes slid back to the fruit. âThey look like perfectly normal apples to me. But then again, Iâm not exactly an expert on... fruit.â He frowned for a moment, before shaking his head and glancing back at her. âJohn Smith, by the way. Whatâs your name?âÂ
(insp)
saxonsâ:
Harold kept staring up at the sky, and didnât say anything as John Smith spoke. There was an easiness between them, a weird sort of peace that he couldnât remember feeling with anyone else, not even Lucy. She mostly irritated him, as a matter of fact. But lying here on the ground, with John, he felt at ease. Sure, there was the noise in his head, but that was always there. He felt like he could actually think, and, even though the other man spoke at ninety miles an hour, Harold could follow everything he was saying. He did that himself â he often noticed Lucy, or his colleagues at work, staring at him cluelessly, because heâs said too much too quickly for them to follow. Idiots.
And then there were the dreams. As he recalled that nightmare â the one with the emptiness, and the black sky, and the furnaces â he felt a chill. He always woke up, after those dreams, with a sense of despair. And here was this man, who said heâd dreamed of space too, of something similar. Weirdness aside, Harold wondered if, maybe, John would recount that same feeling of desolation, of hatred and anger at the pointlessness of it all, the horror of those screams. So, he lay there, staring at the stars, and waited.
But then John Smith started to talk, and there was a fondness in his tone when he spoke about life out there, about humans. Harold felt a surge of disgust and hatred so strong that he tensed, but John didnât seem to notice, because he kept talking, the words pouring out of his mouth, stuff that shouldnât have made sense â rhinos and Shakespeare, for crying out loud â but it did. Harold had had dreams, besides the one about darkness, that were just plain bonkers. So, he just listened, letting Johnâs words drown out the sound of drums. A beach. A girl? Okay. He finally tore his gaze away from the sky, and looked over at the other man, frowning a little. There was always someone at his side, heâd said. In the best dreams. And Harold realised that their dreams werenât the same at all. In all of his, in every single one, whether he was on a grey beach in Whitby, with his skin cracked and dry and burnt to a blackened shell, or standing in the middle of a burning city as robotic, high pitched, voices screamed Exterminate! he was alone. Always.
â⌠Yeah,â he said, quietly, after a second, his voice rougher than usual. âStrange.â It felt like a massive understatement. He moved onto his side, and propped himself up with his elbow, frowning at John in confusion. âYou said it felt like another life,â he said, slowly. âI get that. My wife â Lucy â she talks about how things are different, now weâre here. That Iâm different, since we got to Echo Springs.â He paused. âDo you remember arriving here? Because⌠I try, and itâsâŚâ He trailed off, and used his free hand to vaguely gesture to his head, to signify a lack, and continued. âSometimes, those dreams â whacky as they are â feel more real than my memories. You know what I mean?â It was a rhetorical question. He knew John would.
He paused, and swallowed thickly. âI think our dreams are very different,â he said. âYou said youâre always with someone, in yours. You have⌠companions?â The word came to him, and it was good as any to describe them. âI donât. And life, and hope?â He said the word with a sneer, and craned his neck to look up at the stars. âAll I see out there is destruction. And despair.â
~*~
John nodded slowly at his words. âBut not a complete one,â he admitted softly. âIt always feels like... like somethingâs missing. Like when you go to do an old jigsaw and you know right when you open the box that pieces are gone.â He furrowed his brow, concentrating for a moment. âI mean... I suppose I... Saw an ad for a teaching position. Online, mustâve been? And decided why not? It was years ago now,â he said, shaking his head, waving a hand in the air. âBit like remembering a dream, in the end. Never quite sure how they start, are you?â he mused quietly.Â
Another dream occurred to him now. One he didnât share with Harold. A terrible, awful dream. Always the same. He cradled a man in his arms, a dying man. Bleeding from a gunshot wound, and for some reason, John was responsible. He hadnât fired the shot, but heâd failed to prevent it, and now this man was dying in his arms, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He begged. He pleaded. He screamed, until tears pricked at his eyes and his voice cracked and his heart broke open. But the man always just smiled at him, gasping for his last breaths. And then he would whisper I won.Â
And the dream would end.Â
John never quite so alone as he did after waking from that dream. Like he was the last man standing, the sole survivor. Even as he sat in his own bed, he felt lost. A wanderer without a home.Â
âNot always,â he said softly. Companions felt so right though, he couldnât explain just how right it felt. But he knew it was right because the ache in his chest was suddenly sharp, pointed, poignant. âA lot of times, but... But not always.â He frowned at Haroldâs tone, glancing over at him with concern. âI think thatâs very sad,â he whispered. âBut theyâre just dreams. And in our real lives, weâre quite the opposite, arenât we? Youâve got a wife, and Iâm all on my own.â He nudged Haroldâs arm softly with his own. âIt does not do to dwell on dreams, eh?â he insisted. Even the dreams that, as Harold said, felt more real than life itself.
He didnât want to think about the dreams anymore tonight. Because the one heâd just remembered, with the man dying in his arms... Now that he thought about it, the man looked exactly like Harold. It was just a trick of the mind, he was certain, but... It sent his tingle down his spine all the same. An urge to run.Â
ll-lostlegacyâ:
Lena laughed, feeling more light-hearted than she had in ages, seeing someone else who was as big of a dog person as she was- and clearly not afraid to show it- was heart-warming after all
âWell Morgana certainly agrees with you,â she laughed as the dog snuggled up to the stranger, wagging her tail excitedly- she was a bit of an attention hound
âLena McKenna,â she replied, finding it easier and easier to revert back to her maiden name the more she said it
âOh I havenât checked to see if itâs locked yet,â she noted, handing the phone to John
âThatâs a good idea, but what if itâs locked?â
~*~
âFantastic name,â he said. âI always thought Morgana got a bad rap in certain adaptations of the legends. If you ask me, Merlin was a bit of a twat,â he said, still cooing at the dog in that voice one always ends up using with pets.Â
John glanced up at the owner. âAnd yours!â he said, grinning. âLena McKenna, now thatâs just fun to say.â He stood up, taking the phone. âLetâs not put the cart before the horse now, Lena McKenna,â he said, running his fingers over the device. It was indeed locked. âSee, now we ask what if. But if we just... Give me a moment.â
He patted his pockets until he found the glasses he kept there. Popping them on, he held the device up at an angle, tilting until he could make out the smudges on the screen. It wasnât owned by a teenager, judging from the lack of wear and tear and the impersonal case. That, combined with the very faint fingerprints left behind... He swiped his fingers across, hitting the numbers that had the most smudges, and the phone flashed open. John beamed. âThere we are. Someoneâs birthday if I had to guess,â he said, passing it back. âCare to do the honors of getting this back to its rightful owner?â

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inejofwraithsâ:
*
There was something about the town of Echo Springs that just didnât sit right with Inej. Then again, after everything that had happened to her, there wasnât a lot that sat right with her anymore. She rarely trusted anyoneâs intentions anymore. Long gone was the innocent tight rope walker who had big dreams. It wasnât only the people in the town that Inej didnât trust. It was the things that went on around them. The dreams that sheâd been having ever since arriving. The bodies that showed up in the woods without any sort of explanation.Â
Now - it was the silk that was burning in front of her. The silk that appeared with no recollection of how it got into her apartment. Silk that sheâd never worn before, but it was something that she recognized. Something from her dreams.Â
Inej was focused upon the flames in front of her. It was rare that anyone could sneak up upon her. She was usually the one who did the sneaking. She was the Wraith. However, this man seemed to appear out of nowhere. Or perhaps she was just that distracted.Â
Looking up from the flames, Inej quirked a brow. Did he experience something of a similar nature? âNo,â she murmured softly, âThey came out of thin air. I donât recognize themâŚbut I do at the same time. It doesnât make senseâŚâ She trailed off, her eyes flickering back to the silks. âIâm fine.âÂ
~*~
He approached slowly now, carefully, hands out at his sides. There was something about her that was a bit like a wounded animal, made him wary of coming at her too fast. Sheâd either run or... well, he didnât particularly want to find out either way. The fob watch in his hand seemed to pulse as he approached, the flames dancing across its surface, reflecting back in the metal.Â
âDoesnât seem like it,â he pressed gently. He held the fob watch up, letting it dangle from the chain. âThis did the same for me. Just showed up, out of the blue. One second thereâs nothing, and the next...â He clicked his tongue against his teeth. âBit odd. But weâre not the only ones. Iâve seen it all over town. People with lockets, mirrors, one girl had a tablet she couldnât explain.â
John stared down at the flames, feeling vaguely entranced by them. And a keen sense of sorrow. Like he was grieving without understanding what heâd lost. âIâm...âThat strange title was on his lips again, but he pushed it away. âJohn. John Smith. Can I ask your name?â
ofzeldasâ:
âReally?â She asked her eyes widening, things just appearing out of nowhere? It made no sense at all  âThatâs a very interesting watchâ She said staring at it, she had seen many fob watches before of course, but this one really looked special the engravings on it seemed to be meant to mean something, well maybe, but whatever it was she didnât know. âThat is a very peculiar thing isnât? people getting odd things all around and especially if they are justâŚshowing up, makes no sense right?â
âI guess I havenâtâ She said looking at her own object again âBut I feel like I have. Is going to sound so weird but it feels like itâs important and I should know why and what it is, like itâs on the top of my tongue but I really have no idea what it is, or what the symbols are, I have never seen them before and yet.â She said being honest about how she was feeling, the man in front of her just gave her a good feeling and like it was easy to talk about this things, he gave of an air of knowing things too but in a good way very diffrent to how, someone like the mayor sometimes felt to her. âDoctor John then?â She smiled a little and chuckled âI like them too I suppose, though I should focus on other things.â Â
~*~
âNo sense at all,â John said, face stoney and serious for a moment. âThese objects... couldâve come from anywhere. Could mean anything.â His eyes slid up to meet hers, and then he broke into a grin again. He ran his fingers over the fob watch while he studied the strange tablet, his eyes drinking in every detail. He glanced around the cafe, taking in the woman holding a locket, a man and his pipe, and a dozen more people who seemed to be confounded by the presence of a strange object in front of them.Â
He glanced back at the girl. âI know exactly what you mean,â he said. âKind of spooky if you think about it. But brilliant, absolutely brilliant!â he insisted. He shook his head. âAs a matter of fact, Iâm not. Iâm just a teacher at the school, but it... Itâs a bit like the watch. The name just popped into my head,â he murmured. He stroked his chin in thought. âOh, I donât know. Seems to me that strange mysteriously appearing tablets and fob watches take precedence over most everything,â he said, giving her a mischievous grin. âFancy a trip to the library with me?âÂ
jamiemoriartesâ:
Jamie was unused to people noticing her white lies, let alone commenting on them, so when John waved his hand and told her to inform him when he was being rude, she was mildly surprised. It showed on her face â she raised her eyebrows a little, and smiled, almost to herself. âOf course,â she said, softly. âI shall keep that in mind, Mr Smith.â She had the rather unfamiliar sensation of being watched very closely â since coming to this town, she had found a majority of its inhabitants very easy to lie to, but she could tell already that John Smith was rather unlike the other denizens of Echo Springs.
âIâm afraid I have to disagree with you,â she replied, as they shook hands. âSubtlety can tell one a lot about oneâs conversational partner. For instance, if they even notice itâs there to begin with.â She was teasing him ever so slightly, uncharacteristically. In fact, she had only employed this conversational tactic once, with Trish in the coffee house.
She had to admit to herself that she found John rather impressive. Given her own vast intellect, and sparse interests, Jamie was incredibly difficult to impress â she was able to acknowledge when others had certain skills, such as Kaz Brekkerâs surprising deductive reasoning, or her other learned colleagues at the museum, and their various areas of expertise. But it was rare that she met someone who caused such an impression on her as John was. He was obviously rather clever, and his gaze suggested a strange wisdom, which somehow made his eyes the oldest part of his face. He said that he was a physics teacher, but that seemed like such a small career for him, somehow, such a low bar of achievement.
He asked what she did, and Jamie fixed him with a knowing smile. âI would hardly call it guessing,â she replied. âIâm quite sure you will be able to work out what I do.â It was an incredibly rare compliment, but already, his expansive knowledge and impressive skills had suggested to her a very active and fascinating mind. If Kaz Brekker could deduce her line of work from a few paint smears and a scent, then she felt confident than John Smith would be able too as well. She met his gaze steadily. âSo, I suppose the answer is yes, Mr Smith. I am making you guess.â
~*~
He had a feeling that for her, keeping something in mind was an absurdly easy task. It wasnât often that he ran into someone who was as clever as he was â not the most humble of statement, he didnât need anyone to point that out, but it was a true. It was a fact he just always felt. He stepped into a room and glanced around, knowing that he was the smartest person there. A keen sense of loneliness accompanied it, but right now he felt... connection.Â
âItâs informative, sure, but soâs an encyclopedia. Doesnât mean they arenât boring,â John insisted, leaning forward again. He couldnât help himself, she was enticing like a rare work of art.Â
âBrilliant,â he declared, absolutely genuine. âI do love a good puzzle. Or a riddle, if you will. An... enigma,â he quipped, clicking his tongue against his teeth. He casually ran a hand through his hair, fluffing it up just a bit while he glanced her over. He hummed, murmuring to himself. âNo... Yes. Wait, no. No, no â yes, yes!â
He snapped his fingers together. âItâs not just subtlety youâre concerned with, itâs every little detail, isnât it? The small things. A fan of beauty, but not necessarily the stars. No, I think you prefer a very different medium, eh Miss Moriarty?â he said, beaming at her. âAnd precision. When you mentioned your birthmarks, you said they almost perfectly form the constellation. Almost. Most people wouldnât add in that little word, but you do because you have to be absolutely precise in your own work. All those beautiful little details. Your eyes are sharp, but your fingers are soft. No manual labor or musicianship.â It all snapped together so quickly, so perfectly. âYouâre an artist,â he declared. âA painter, probably spend a lot of time doing restorations. It pays the best, and you are dressed...â He trailed off, eyes dipping down for just a moment. âVery, very... Uh, well. Very well indeed.âÂ
kazofdirtyhandsâ:
Perhaps there was some other drug pumping through his system. Kaz had never dabbled in anything stronger than liquor, but it seemed more like something he might sell in a back alley. Who was that interested in stars to the point where they laid on the ground, able to be attacked at any moment? It was dangerous and stupid and showed just how much someone was used to safety.Â
Despite his annoyance, Kaz thought it might be beneficial to at least figure out why someone was so foolish. Perhaps he could trick him into something, or steal his wallet. People like this often werenât used to being desperate, and he would make an easy target. So, careful of his leg, Kaz sat down on the overcoat, shaking his head at the lunacy of it all. He glanced up at the sky and, for a moment, was dazzled.Â
It didnât happen often. There were only a few things that could really make Kaz feel awe or admiration - a job well done. Organized spreadsheets. Syrup on a tall stack of waffles accompanied by memories of laughter. Inejâs laughter. Sunny days in a rainy city. But looking up at the stars - for a scant moment, Kaz remembered the farm heâd grown up on.Â
âSee that one?â Jordie had asked, pointing up at the sky. Kaz had been wriggling in the straw, uncomfortable as it tickled his nose, but he looked up. The sky was bright and clear, and he was tucked under his older brotherâs arm. Theyâd snuck out because Kaz couldnât sleep. At six years old, he was too energetic for his birthday tomorrow. It was early in the year, and near-freezing, so his brother had bundled them up into winter coats and took him outside. âCapricorn. Like you, squirt.â
Kaz traced the shape with his fingertip. It looked like a⌠Bent triangle? But he knew that the reason Jordie said it was like him was that those stars showed up around his birthday. Kaz didnât know a lot of people, and at that point, he thought it was just for him - that he was the only Capricorn. Did people all get their own special stars for their birthday? That would be nice. âIs there a story?â He asked. Da told them stories about the stars once in a while - not that Kaz remembered them. But he liked Daâs voice.Â
âItâs the story of Sankt Milotus.â Jordie began, and Kaz half listened to the story of a shepherd who saved his town, only to be dumped into the river along with his goats. Heâd been saved by a magical fish and transformed into some kind of half goat, half fish, in order to survive. He was the patron saint of the drowning.Â
It was lying back on the grass now that had Kaz sneering in the memory, angered once again that so many memories of Jordie were tainted by his pain. By the waters that tried to pull him deeper. âI do not, in fact, know this one.â Kaz said with a roll of his eyes. What point did any of it serve? âIt looks like a cleaver, so Iâm going to guess itâs better known as a cleaver.â
~*~
There was irritation, arrogance, all too clear in the boyâs voice â but there was that bright shining spark of intelligence too. Maybe not education, despite the drawl of his voice and the haughtiness that came with it. But a raw brilliance. It felt familiar. Clever recognized clever though didnât it? A face flashed into his mind, a different boy, just as arrogant, just as brilliant. No oneâs told you no in a long time, have they? An old student, perhaps? John couldnât quite place his name... couldnât quite picture the classroom....
âThat is very clever,â John said, eager to push past his own half-forgotten (or half-remembered) memories. âBut no, Iâm afraid. Though youâve got a point, if a violent one. Ursa minor, aka âthe little or lesser bear.â The tail you see here is sometimes said to resemble a ladle, thus making it The Little Dipper. Like itâs partner, the Big Dipper, just there,â he said, tracing a line over.Â
He paused for a moment, just admiring the sky above, before his focus once more shifted to the boy beside him. âWhatâs your name?â he asked. âIâm called John. John Smith. Just Smith if you like.â He stopped, made a face. âActually, no. No, donât call me that. Sounds too... Smith-y.â He clasped his hands around his knees, a smile still playing on his face. âSorry, Iâm rubbish at introductions,â he chuckled. âAlways forget until Iâm knee-deep in the conversation. That ever happen to you?âÂ
saxonsâ:
.
There was something infectious about Johnâs smile. Harold couldnât help but smile back, and it wasnât the usual grin he gave to piss of his colleagues, or the cold expression he gave Lucy, where the smile didnât reach his eyes, which glittered like he was in on a joke she didnât get. It was a real, honest to God, smile. âBut I bet you dole it out all the time anyway, right?â he asked, conversationally. âKids can be right bloody terrors.â He had vague, buried, memories of his own childhood at boarding school â dark dormitories, whispering to each other across the room, skipping class to play knock down ginger at the teacherâs office doors. And that was a boarding school. He had a feeling these American public school kids would be far worse.
Something passed between them when they shook hands. Harold felt it, and he could see that John did too. They stared at each other for a moment, as they held hands, and it felt familiar, more familiar than when he took Lucyâs hand and pulled her into a spontaneous dance. He let go of Johnâs hand sharply, and thoughtlessly shoved his hand his blazer pocket, not caring how it looked. Something about the contact made him feel weird. Not⌠bad, exactly. Just⌠weird. He was grateful when the conversation moved on.
And move on it did â blimey. He didnât think heâd ever meet someone who could give him a run for his money in the verbosity department, but John Smith was a real motor mouth. Harold laughed when he did, and looked him up and down thoughtfully. âI dunno,â he said. âI reckon you could pull it off. Youâve got that⌠studious look about you. But I know what you mean.â He cut himself off, and thought. âPolitics is the same, really. You think itâs going to be all TV appearances and charity parties with the missus, but most of the time, youâre stuck in meetings with idiots, talking about policies and budgets.â He pulled a disgusted face. âTalk about stifling.â
Harold had no idea what made him say what he said next, about the stars. It just came out, and he saw Johnâs expression change, the frown crease his forehead. He looked, suddenly, serious, and Harold sat up too, when he did, and bent his leg so he could wrap his arm around it, resting his weight on it casually. But this wasnât casual anymore. Something had shifted. Heâd had those dreams too. Dreams of what? Stars? Space? The feeling of hurtling through the universe? John didnât expand. Harold stared at him, and he barely registered the use of his nickname.
âIâm⌠somewhere elseâŚâ He began, roughly, and he squinted up at the sky, because it was easier than looking at the other manâs piercing, hawkish, gaze. âAnother planet? I think. I know itâs so, so, far away. And thereâs one dreamâŚâ He trailed off, and even remembering it now, in the cool evening, made his skin crawl. âThereâs nothing. No stars. No moon. Nothing. Just⌠the dark.â He pronounced the final consonant sharply, letting the k click in his throat. a glottal stop. As he spoke, he could see it, in his mindâs eye â the blackness stretching on forever, no sounds except wailing. He exhaled, before continuing. âAnd the cold. And⌠there are things out there, John. Crouching beside furnaces, these⌠creatures. Tiny and weak, like⌠children.â He stared at the star Sirius and let his gaze shift out of focus, so he could almost think he was there, in the dream, surrounded by that endless night. He spoke softly now, murmuring. âScreaming at the dark.â
There was a long, drawn out silence, and Harold blinked, turned back to John, and sighed. âSpooky, huh?â he said, with a jovial smile. And he shook off the eeriness, the loneliness, the unexplained sadness that dream always brought him. âYou said youâve had those dreams too?â he asked, tilting his head to the side a little and frowning. âGo on. Iâve shown you mine, now you show me yours.â
~*~
âOh, theyâre not all bad,â John said, cajolingly. âTruth be told, the parents are much worse. You try telling them their little bundle of joy is failing because they havenât turned in homework in three works and they insist itâs your fault!â He shook his head, laughing under his breath. âAt least the students admit they deserve the zero at that point.âÂ
He glanced over at Harold, amusement brimming on his face. But as the conversation shifted towards the manâs career, a touch of something else crept in. âWell, I suppose thatâs a bit different,â he said, hand at the back of his neck. âPeople need policies, eh? Policies for people, people for policies... New slogan for you there,â he quipped. âItâs certainly not a job I could do,â he added, a softer smile on his face now. Surely someone who chose to become mayor wouldâve taken such things into consideration though? That thought niggled at him, John couldnât stop turning it over in his head.Â
Harold was a strange one. That much was certain. But it was a familiar kind of strange. Like two rare isotopes bonding together, thatâs how it felt. There was something tantalizing about it, this kind of oddity always drew him in. But at the same time, something held him back. A little voice in the back of his head, urging caution. John didnât often listen to that voice, but right now he paid it some heed at least.
But these dreams were too much to just ignore. John couldnât brush this away, or pretend it wasnât happening. Another little voice began piping up in his mind, that primal voice, the one saying go go go, jump jump jump. No, not jump. Fall. He had no idea what this meant, why two strangers would have such similar dreams, but he wanted to dive headfirst into it. Even as afraid as it made him.Â
âIâve seen the darkness too,â he admitted softly. âBut itâs not all bleak and cold. Thereâs life there, impossible life! And humans, smiling through the rough of it all, hope shining through. Packed into these little corridors, but telling stories. Stories like... The skies are made of diamonds,â he breathed. He was talking so fast, and so much of it was just images, just feelings in his head. âBut thereâs more than that too!â he added quickly. âThereâs... I have dreams about â well, it feels like another life. A life filled with danger and adventure. Shakespeare and witches, Dickens and ghosts! Rhinos on the moon! Strange creatures and machines...And thereâs always someone at my side in these dreams, well â during the best ones anyway.â The longing hit him now, sharp and sudden, an ache in the right side of his chest. It felt like he was missing a whole heart there. But that was impossible. Wasnât it?
His eyes fell to the grass. âI dream sometimes about this beach,â he whispered. âBut Iâm not really there, just... an image of myself. And sheâs there, sheâs... crying,â he admitted, swallowing hard. âCrying because of me. Because I canât tell her what she needs to hear, I can say so much but I canât sayââÂ
He stopped himself. Picked his head up and looked at Harry again. âItâs strange, very strange. I suppose theyâre just dreams in the end, but itâs... Itâs just so... Strange.â

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ll-lostlegacyâ:
âAhâŚ. thanks for your honesty atleast,â
Damn, now what was she going to do? It wasnât like there was a lost-and-found just sitting on the side of the streetâŚ.
Attention back on the stranger, Lena beamed and leaned down to scratch Morgana behind the ears, chuckling as the Greyhoundâs tail wagged and she took a step closer to the stranger
âMorgana, you can feel free to pet her if youâd like, Iâve honestly known rabbits more vicious than she is,â
In fact, Morgana was a bit of a wimp, if Lena was being honest, she had originally gotten her as a guard dog to intimidate people, knowing how big Greyhounds could get, but as it turned out, Morgana was a shy and quiet little girl who didnât like to make a peep and was scared of squirrels
Lena could hardly hold it against her though
âOh I understand that, I always wanted a dog too and yet only managed to get my darling Morgy until recently,â
That was a good question thoughâŚ.
âI was actually just wondering the same thing, any suggestions?â
~*~
John beamed at Morganna. âBeautiful. And brilliant!â he declared, kneeling right down to the dogâs eye level before scratching her behind her ears. âOh, whoâs a good girl, eh?â he crooned. He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering loud enough for both dog and owner to be heard. âIâve never been brave either. Much better to run, am I right?â
He realized that he might be coming off a bit strange. Especially considering they were, well, strangers. âJohn Smith, by the way,â he said, popping back up. He held his hands out for the phone. âIs it locked? We can take a quick peek through it, see if we can find a number to call perhaps?â
ofzeldasâ:
She looked up slightly surprised, not exactly about the exclamation but because the sound of the manâs voice seemed to take her out of some kind of very intense moment she didnât realise she was having until she was suddenly taken out of it, she felt almost out of place, like when youâre falling asleep and then something wakes you up suddenly, for a second she even felt she wasnât sure where she was but of course it passed just as quick as it came. She felt a little silly getting so lost in thought in the middle of a coffee shop. âOh? Well yes actually it⌠it just appeared in my purse.â it made no sense âDid you found something suddenly appearing?â
It made no sense to have a conversation about things showing up out of nowhere but, well it was it seemed have happened. âit is really amazing, it seems to be offâ She nodded and allowed the man to take the weird device.
~*~
âAs a matter of fact, I did. This just appeared on the counter,â John said, holding out the fob watch. His eyes slid slowly around the coffee shop. âAnd if I had to hazard a guess... Iâd say that weâre not the only ones getting mysterious gifts.â Was gift the right word? No... no, gifts were given from one person to another. This felt like a returning. Like someone had been borrowing these objects from them, and had finally gotten round to bringing them back.Â
John ran his fingers up and down the sides of the device. He had the strangest sensation of deja-vu. He didnât fight it, but he didnât chase it either. He let his hands move on instinct. âThereâs no obvious power source...â he murmured. âBut this design. Itâs obviously significant. Almost reminds me of the eye of Horus, but itâs not quite the same. Have you ever seen it before?â he asked, glancing up at the girl. âSorry, Iâm the Doctor,â he said, never taking his eyes off the device. He turned it over and over in his hands, then started suddenly. âNo, sorry. So sorry, Iâm John. John Smith.â The Doctor? What was that about? âWhat a strange day this is turning out to be...â His eyes flicked up to hers. And a grin broke out across his face. âI love strange days!â