#p: thread

in his current situation, one wrong move could have him spiraling into a pit of despair, whether it was the result of being locked behind bars or the few fateful seconds he had before his death sentence was carried out. either way, he had a lot to worry about already, and fretting over whether or not the mechanical beast growling before him was going to swallow him into it’s rumbling belly was not something he wanted to think about. it's imperative that he does anything he possibly can to get out of voluntarily stepping inside of the vehicle.

“scar, do we really have to get on this thing?” it’s one of the biggest machines crafted by humans he’s come in contact with, his large eyes scanning just how many people the monster could fit inside. he belatedly remembers she had referred to it as a bus upon arrival, but he labels it as a monster in his head. such a thing didn’t exist where he was from, the only type of mechanical beasts were those meant to serve the queen or help with the harvests. he hadn’t mentioned that to her and instead stands as still as a statue, his only movement being his fingers toying with the bottom of his sweater. 

winsthewar​

              ❛ except for me. i’d know. & i’d have to live with that,           i’d have to with my choices, i’d have to LIVE with                    having kissed stiles stilinski, the sheriff’s son !❜

                her tone is hushed, teasing. the stale smell that            one could only describe as boy is radiating                      from his shirt, pressed close, about three             or four inches from her face. you do what                            you gotta not to get CAUGHT & hiding                      in closets sure as hell ain’t below her.

❝ You’d have to live with that--- exactly, you’d have to live   with the fact that it might just be   --------------  the best kiss of your ENTIRE LIFE❞ 

                       Stiles’  tone equals Alaska’s---teasing & playful as he glanced                                around the crowded school hallways waiting for the first period                                            warning bell to ring.

       ❝ Coach’s office is empty this time---           he has econ right now. ❞ 

Things at the lake house were going about as well as someone could expect them to go, given the fact that Ariel's mom had stuck her in a house with someone she very desperately did not want to talk to. It had taken her all of like, ten minutes to realize that if she was going to survive the awkward tension between Val and Irene, she was going to need to have an excuse to be out of the house for a good chunk of time every week.

She'd picked the life guard job at the local pool because it was easy. She was co-captain of the swim team, after all, and in a place as small as this, it wasn't like there were going to be a ton of people drowning at the pool to begin with. All she had to do was put on her swim suit, look hot, and make sure random mouth breather kids didn't swallow too much water. Easy peasy lemon-squeezy, as Ariel's nine-year-old sister would say.

It was the last day of her first week at the pool, and she'd had her sights set on the tall, lanky male lifeguard all week. She'd only seen him in passing—his shifts always seemed to end right as hers were beginning—but that had just given her time to pump herself up about talking to him. Today, he clocked in at the same time that she did, which meant she had a full six hours of time to flirt.

By all accounts, he should have left hours ago. The late-night crowd at a carnival wasn't the same as the early evening. Gone was the laughter of children and the brightness of families spending a night out together. Now it was all the young people, grateful for a night out on the town that wasn't spent lingering in the shadows. 

Kip couldn't tell how many of them were drunk, the air still too clouded with smoke and caramel and hot dogs. Some were certainly enjoying themselves more than others, the gangster types with women on both arms and another at their heels. In a way, he envied them. That sort of social life was beyond him. The pain he wore on his face was beginning to rub off, and his act had been concluded for the night -- his helmet tucked under his arm and held to his hip as he wandered the fair. He got a few looks, here and there, and responded with a smile. Kip had no shame, no sense of worry. People could stare at him all they wanted, his step would not falter.

Everybody loved a circus. Kip just happened to love it more.

Whenever he saw the flyers and pamphlets attached to the cover of the Tribune, he made a special point of saving up his tip money to pay his way in, or, if all went according to plan, just for the kettle corn and the pulled taffy he intended to stock up on. 

He wasn't just the usual carnival-goer, Kip liked to make a show of it. He splurged at the costuming store, buying himself a tube of shining-silver face paint, adorned himself with a cap sprayed gold with affixed wings, and dressed himself the part of a costumed player. If security was lax, he could trespass in under the guise of an employee, just one of the freak show performers or the clowns that were utterly indistinct from one another, all of them grifters and con men in their own right. Kip Caraway was only performing a service. A gentle shake-down. These people were willing to pay good money to come and see the sights and ride the rides, why wouldn't he leverage some of that hard-earned green for himself? A man had to make a living. 

Getting past the gatekeeper wasn't difficult -- when most people saw painted faces, they assumed it was part of the show, no questions asked. He gathered the place to employ well over a hundred people, there was no way to know everybody. And if someone asked him directly, he could just pretend he spoke on Polish and had been picked up in town as a contract. His broken Polish was coming along nicely.

Kip set himself up not too far from the main attraction, the massive Ferris wheel that had been the central point of the advertisements. A small crowd had gathered not for him, but for the ride itself -- he only intended to attract those too impatient to wait placidly in line. His arsenal consisted of a deck of cards that was ragged and worn, several old coins and tattered bills, some of them real, others counterfeit, and an encyclopedic knowledge of legerdemain, misdirection, and palming. 

"Ssssstep right up!" he called out, taking on a voice not his own, a flair of french and portuguese and italian that he'd appropriated into his own cultural blend. "Witness a sawbuck turn into a fiver, watch your coin vanish right before your very eyes!"

Trees told no tall tales. They were the perfect secret-keepers, providing him shelter from the rest of the world. Even now, so late into the year, they afforded enough protection to not be seen from the trails dotting the park, unless a person was to look close enough at the foot prints dragging through what little remained from the year's first snowfall. Cracked leaves and broken grass, brown and orange and pales shades of green marked his way away from civilization, towards what had become his sanctuary for the past few summers. In all that time, he'd never seen another soul enter its clearing. It was a safe space. If the Grill was Kieran's getaway from home, then this was his hideout from his getaway.

Dropping his bag from over his shoulder, he leaned against the trunk of a massive oak tree. It was what drew him to this place -- the tree was visible from his bedroom window, towering over the others. He felt a connection to the tree, some visceral bonds tethering them together. Pressing two fingers against the bark, Kieran crouched down, finding a comfortable, dry spot to set, calves aching from a day of walking. Being home was difficult enough for the few hours he was there during the week, but weekends were another issue entirely. Nearly impossible. The thoughts of Erin, his parents, it all came to a head when the four of them were sharing a space. Instead of subjecting himself to the torment, he would wake up early, make himself some sandwiches and a bowl of cereal for breakfast, pack up his bag and take the day to himself, only coming home after dark, when he figured he could slink into the shadows and hide out in his room for the remainder of the evening. 

It was going on dusk, now, but he still couldn't bring himself to return home. There was a nagging in his head, a voice drawing him to his spot. It was that same voice, whose speaker he couldn't identify, offering him words of little comfort and solace, but promising him so much. Show your devotion, it asked of him. Show me your faith. 

He reached over to his backpack, pulling from it a small purple sack, tethered together by golden drawstrings. From it, he took a small athame, the blade no more than a few inches, the hilt almost non-existent, merely a shift from the silver of steel to the bronze with laurel emboss. He set it on his lap, using his right hand to draw a line in the ground before him, digging his nail into the soil, covering it with dirt. First, he drew a circle, then two intersecting lines spaced equally through it. With those, he created the shape of a four-pointed star, staring down at it long and hard before deeming it even. His finger blackened with earth, he drew a cross on the palm of his right hand, his lesser hand, and picked up the blade with his left. 

Eyes closed, he pressed the knife into the pad of his thumb to the point of drawing blood, hissing as tears filled his eyes. "He is cast into the mire, take his hand. The sin which I have sinned, turn to mercy. The iniquity which I have committed, let the wind carry away. My many transgressions tear off like a garment. My God, my sins are seven times seven. Forgive my sins."

Morning was Kip's favourite time of day -- throngs of people looking to go to work, or to find work, or coming home after losing work. Tired, all of them. World-weary, the lot. Not paying attention, even better. Even though it was difficult to tell what sort of payday today would bring, especially so early, Kip had developed something of a sixth sense for it. Today would be tight. And he certainly didn't enjoy being strapped for cash. 

"Morning edition," he called out, voice getting whipped and drowned out by the wind. "Two cents! Headline, twenty-eight per cent out of work! Get your copy of the Tribune!"

He found his mark the same way he did any other day -- he who was dressed nicest had money-lined pockets. Not the soundest of theories, but a man in suit and tie that could afford the luxuries of the day likely wouldn't miss a few dollars from their wallets. Small smile on his face, he turned his head away, setting down the stack of papers in his hand, leaving just the one fanned out for distribution. Kip moved deftly into the crowd, peripherals used to guide his way towards the unwitting mark. And then he tripped, turning around sharply, using the impact to shield his hand slipping into the man's pocket. 

"M'apologies, mac, really oughta watch where I'm goin'," he said, putting on a face. "Tell ya what -- take this mornin's issue, my courtesy."

His palm itched. The scar tissue didn't have enough time to fully scab over before Kieran woke to a pool of blood in his bed, the cut tearing open from too strenuous a move. He retreated to the bathroom in the middle of the night to wrap a roll of gauze around his hand, cinching it tight with a strip of masking tape he found in the medicine cabinet, figuring it better not to question its presence. Come morning, he searched high and low for a pair of gloves that fit snugly over the tourniquet. All he could find was a pair of leather gloves that he thought once belonged to his sister. Performing some makeshift surgery (cutting off the finger tips, bringing back a fashion trend that had long since died out), he slipped them on and went about his day as normal.

November meant long sleeves, sweaters, and jackets -- it meant not feeling so conscious about the scars on his arms. They were old, healed over, but some minor marks remained, a constant reminder of how bad things had been. Did he regret what he'd done the night before? The answer wasn't as simple as the question made it out to be. Kieran's belief system had changed so frequently over the past year that he couldn't always recall what he believed at any given time. That was his first Samhain -- or, at least, the first time he made conscious note of the holiday in his mind. This was All Saints' Day, tomorrow All Souls'. The three days conflicted in his mind, a hodgepodge of faith and cultures clashing. He considered himself a Pagan, a worshipper of multiple deities, but one of them happened to be God, the christian God.

They consistently fought over control of his mind. Both taught open acceptance and forgiveness, but neither seemed forgiving of what he was going through. The blood made him feel closer to his prayers, strengthening his will, while at the same time the idea that self mutilation was a sin pierced his mind. He found it difficult to hold himself together during school, a surge of paranoia overtaking him, leading him to feel as if everybody's eyes were on him. The day ended with him storming out of his anthropology class, retreating to his car and hiding out until the agony passed.

Deciding to spend the evening at the Grill wasn't an easy one. His better sense told him that it wasn't as big a deal as he made it out to be, but that was a small sliver of a larger puzzle, the bulk of his brain dedicated to pessimism and worst-case scenarios. He fully expected somebody to pour pig's blood on him, or make a scene, but the evening passed relatively normally. He drank milkshakes instead of pop, ordered more than just the grease-and-salt fries, read instead of finished homework. In a lot of ways, actually, it was a better evening than most turned out to be. The lurking suspicion of drawing attention to himself remained, nipping at his neck, but he managed to push it away long enough to have an evening without stress or thought. 

He kept an old, vellum-bound edition of Evolutionary Witchcraft close to the table, not wanting to reveal the title to be used as fire against himself. Every sound that approached him, even if it was the slightest creak in the floorboards, put him on edge. He would jolt, slip the book under the table, and reach for his drink -- anything to make it look like he was occupied with something else other than researching something most people treated as a joke. The hour grew later, the pinch in his palm returned, and he set the book face-down on the table to peel away the glove and massage the wound gently as he could, hoping something would scratch the itch. Closing his eyes, Kieran took three deep breaths, clearing his mind of excess thought, trying to focus his attention on a specific space before him in the abyss, using his cut hand to draw a familiar shape into his thigh, humming words in his head, going over what he'd just read.