Oh my god.
Please post Piper so I can download her.
And more than that... Please tell me she was in the family tree somewhere!
I do have her on the Exchange, and she'll be part of my next batch of Swap Shop uploads. I just need the time to do them.
She's already in the family tree in a way because her donor was related to one of Hephaestus' cousins, and Heph is in the family tree that way too because he's cousins with Franco and Carmen's children. Getting in the other way? We'll see...
So when I saw the adult Tegan in her new hairstyle, I said, "Wow, she's pretty," out loud. My brother wanted to know what I was talking about. Upon seeing Tegan, he made a 
face and said, "She looks like Fiona from Shrek."
She does! She actually does! It's the big lips and the eyes I think.
I take that as a compliment. I actually recreated Tegan in TS4 back when I got the CAS demo, and the resemblance between her and Fiona was uncanny.
If you want the author's opinion, I think she looks like a mixture of Princess Fiona and
actress Uzo Aduba.
So I was rereading and I found this.....
["Don't be Eileen" monologue snipped]
Uh oh.
Hard to believe that was almost 80 chapters ago!
Uh oh for what initially happened. Obviously, I like giving those two a life to live after the dynasty instead.
But the story behind that is saved for close to the end, and judging by my tendency to stretch things out, I'll probably be done with my undergrad before that's written.
Chapter 105: Icarus
I am Josephine Fairhaven Waverly, and I am the all-purpose henchwoman of Moira Annette Stoneham Waverly. I also am very bad at this job.
So, instead of filling all-purposes, I stand off to the back and make it look like our client has twice the feminine bodyguard power she would with just Moira. Funny enough, Donia Spinelli usually works against the McGrails, but in the bodyguard business, all clients are walking paychecks to Moira and she can shrug off the grudge easily when a paycheck can come from it.
Walter the unfortunate witness skirts around Donia’s questions while we stand around looking tough. “I didn’t see a bit!” turned into “Just saw a few minutes, that’s all, ma’am. I don’t even have much to say about those.”
“Nonsense,” she says. Moira cracks her knuckles. I look at the ground.
“So maybe I was a witness. I’ll shut up about it, Ms. Spinelli! No harm done,” Walter cries.
“I wish that was the case, but you told Officer Nest when he asked about it, didn’t you?”
“No way, ma’am.”
Donia is an old woman, but she gives Walt a kick with her shark heels. We try to step in, but she blocks us. “I’m not going to get help for this pathetic little witness.” So we hope for payment, or I am worrying about that, anyways. Moira says that we’ll probably get compensated. Because Walter turned out to be scared enough by Donia, we vanish from the scene for drinks. And by drinks, for the newly-sober Moira and me who doesn’t care what we’re getting, I mean that we are buying a pot of tea to share at the diner.
From what I hear, you can get juice here, but serving yourself and on a discrete basis. That’s too much work at this hour. A pot of hot tea comes out soon after we order it, and we wait a few minutes for the leaves to steep.
With hot beverages on the horizon, I need to talk to Moira. The situation set up itself this way. It’s simple; you joke over cold drinks and discuss over hot ones, though I think it’s that Moira has a limited knowledge of drinks beyond juice.
Eight Ways was an interesting book to write. Of course I knew the truth behind 95% of the events that happened. I bribed a few mortals that didn’t hate me with the promise of dinner so that I could fact-check with them. I referred to newspapers and journals, and all I had to fill in was some plausible dialogue and mystery surrounding what I didn’t know about. Annette gave me little, and yet, her naïve doppelganger sits across the table from me. I didn’t go to Roaring Heights expecting Moira. I’m wasting a resource if we just talk about beaches.
“…And that’s how Donia screwed up our shipping plans for two whole weeks. She has to be going senile if she’s hiring me now,” Moira said.
“That’s nice,” I muttered. “Did Eileen ever live in Moonlight Falls?”
“She hasn’t told you?” I shake my head. “Well, she lived there for eight years, on and off, anyways. Arthur had a lot of matters to care to at home, it’s not a bad place to study law, you get the gist. And boy, did she shake up that town.” Her mouth curls into a devious grin. I raise a brow in response.
“I can imagine. Criminal in their midst, a bit of an attitude, lots of money.”
“She had everything. Hell, she loves Moonlight Falls. I bet it broke her heart to move back here after law school. You know, she and Arthur are perfect for each other. He gets to gay it up ‘behind her back’ and, just between you and me, Eileen’s a tramp.”
I heard the stories of Eileen, who slept around in Moonlight Falls. Except it was Ciara. Or maybe Helen? Annette changed the name to that story as often as she had to change out her dull knives, but stuck with the plotline for centuries. It’s also a mean-spirited story to tell about your own twin, who died young beforehand. I’m not sure if calling her a tramp is worse or not.
“That’s rude,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah, I know it’s rude. But she’s not just a tramp, she’s a judgmental tramp! Hating her in-laws—my husband!—for being womanizing scum while she’s just…manizing. And a loose woman.”
Granted, I only knew of one other relationship like hers, which was mine, and my husband was a dense romantic who thought it was a real deal. So he didn’t have any side-conquests, but looking back on it, I wish he did just to get out of my hair. What makes Eileen so bad? Tank might be a jerk, but he’s a strong jerk and straight women are into that, I guess. No judgment.
“It sucks being married to a gay spouse. I don’t blame her,” I say, but Moira has left the table. She leans over the rail and looks at the ocean.
“Screw it, she’s my twin. I should be closer with her,” she says.
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” I respond.
“I wish we were kids again, boating with dad and grandma.” Her voice has drifted into an airy, daydreaming voice. Entranced by the ocean, she can give me at least get another untold Moira story while hypnotized by the waves.
“Boating sounds fun,” I say. “I never went boating as a kid.”
“Boy, you missed out. I mean, the two of us were in boarding school at the time, but we’d come home for the summers and dad got a boat one year! He’d call up his mum and the four of us would speed around the bay in the morning.” I count who was there. If she was boating with Eileen, it was the two of them, dad, grandma, but Moira was likely born from a womb. Disregarding that snideness, I know darn well that she had a mother who looked lovely in photos.
“Four?” I ask her. She even lists off the names, just four of them: herself, Eileen, daddy Joseph, and grandma Aziza.
“Thought you had a mum,” I say. She gives me a brief thousand-yard stare, and I feel silly for not considering that prospect. I try to apologize.
“Nah, it’s cool,” Moira says. “She died when I was five, but it’s way in the past. I don’t blame myself for it as much now, and my dad’s with her now…it’s fine.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I really am, because losing my mum at 20 ruined me. I couldn’t even empathize with my daughter losing her dad at eight. Moira beat us all in early orphaning that way. She and her liver must be wrecked from it.
“As I said, it’s fine. I had Ei, and dad, and grandma lived for a few more years too. She always played with us on the boardwalk and bought us ice cream after a long, hot day. Dad did the same even for a bunch of wily teenagers! We then got older and brought friends along. Dad and Arthur were good friends after a while.” She sighs. “I just wish I still had that. She barely feels like my twin. At least she’s not dead. I dunno what I’d do with myself then.”
I know that answer.
“You can always warn her about Tank. I…I saw him kissing Maeve, after my interview. You think she’d be concerned about that?”
“They’re gonna break up in a month anyways. As I said, tramp.” Saying it as if she forgot that she lamented not feeling sisterly anymore. It’s a truly Moira thing to do. “But he is? Never thought of him as a cougar-chaser, but auntie has her ways.”
“Yeah, maybe it was a fling.”
It is an awkward subject. We sit on the rail and joke around instead, which breaks a lot of awkward vibes. Moira tells stories of streakers and flashers on the beach and the worst spring break ever with Arthur and his unhinged first boyfriend. None of them have much substance to me, but screw it, I never felt this friendly around Annette.
She starts one anecdote at the wrong time. “Alright, alright,” Moira says, trying to stifle some laughter after a funny story about Jamie’s wrong fling after his divorce (waking up next to his old journalism rival made for an interesting morning). “So then there was the Tank and the honeypot. Guy can be a little pathetic on dates, come to think of it.” I doubt it, but it’s odd to think about him even buying roses for someone other than himself.
As I said, she did this at the wrong time. Tank needed a date with the self-serve bar instead of a honeypot. I heard that he had some negotiations to do for Maeve while she was busy with different negotiations, or physical therapy. I don’t blame him for being jaded enough for some juice under the counter. I go quiet upon noticing him.
“Oops,” Moira says. He’s already glaring at us, while digging around under the counter for an unlabeled bottle and a blender.
However, the promise of a drink puts a rare smile on his face. They’re all bad about this juice thing. He pours four glasses, which I thought was just enough to fuel that war machine, but apparently half of that was for him. He motioned to us for the other two.
“Nah,” Moira says.
“I didn’t poison them this time,” he replies. “Jo?”
“Well, if they’re not poisonous, whatever.” I walk over to the bar to grab myself a glass. I take a sniff and ask what’s in it, if not poison.
“We’re in public. It’s water,” he says. Winking is a little too unmanly for him.
It has a burn, but a non-descript one. Perhaps it would be better blended with that tea we forgot to drink, but I’ll drink them separately for now.
Something’s at the bottom of this cup, and it thankfully isn’t sludge from settling drink contents, but I don’t like slips of paper in my cup either. This one is laminated too. I drink the last of it and fish out the slip, expecting something bad and getting that.
I think you should leave now.I look up at Tank. He raises an eyebrow and points towards the exit of the boardwalk. Not a chance, dude. I flip him a rude gesture and pour myself a cup of tea.
“What was all that about?” Moira asks, once Tank goes inside to order himself breakfast.
“Guy has a grudge. Why? Beats me,” I say. “Can I complain about him?”
“I think Maeve’s at home today. Sure you can, but I don’t think you need to. He’s a tool, but he’s our tool.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I call Maeve from a payphone a little later that morning. She says that any time is good, and that she’ll be waiting in her garden. She has a garden? Apparently it’s in the back and looks out towards the bay.
Later, at about noon, I get a taxi over to the lonely beach where Maeve lives in a lonely way. Palm trees wave in the light ocean breeze, and the area smells like grass and low tide. Following two tall palms in the back of the mansion leads me to a gated off, green garden. The gate is unlocked, and I look for a bench because I wouldn’t want poor Maeve to keep herself hoisted up on a bad leg just to wait for me.
In one corner, I find my bench, and Maeve lying with her legs over one of the arms. Her cane’s on the ground. I know she’s pretty, but incest isn’t one of my turn-ons. She motions to me in an attempt to seem seductive.
“I thought I would treat you to something,” she says, waggling her finger. “It is a shame that work is not going so well.”
“No thanks, I’m fine,” I say, instead of a direct “I don’t bang relatives.”
“I thought you were into this,” she says, feigning defeat. Her exaggerated pout gives it away.
“You’re lovely, but you…remind me of my aunt.” I don’t even have an aunt; my mum was an only child, dad’s half-brother wouldn’t appreciate being called an auntie, and his step-siblings don’t quite count. “Yeah, it’s just not doing it for me, Ms. McGrail.”
“You are not doing it for me either. You look too much like us,” she says. “But, you had a complaint about work?” I take a seat to answer her, after helping her get up. Assuming that position knocked her bad knee to a worse place.
“It’s Tank. The guy keeps wanting me gone.” I scowl, and a little more when it looks like Maeve is checking her manicure instead. “And it’s like no one else cares. They just see him as this lovable bad boy, which maybe he is, but not to me. He’s not even hot.”
She bends that bad knee again as I try to sit in a neutral position. Her physical therapist must be ready to fire her, but she assures me that putting weight on it is the real bad part. Regardless of how she’s ruining herself, Maeve is ready to defend Tank, probably because he’s good in bed or whatever. “Maybe you should look at things from his side too. I think he is being heavy-handed, but there are some things about you that concern all of us, aside from those gullible young adults you hang around.”
“What do you know about me, Ms. McGrail?” I ask. “What isn’t a secret?”
“How old do you think I am?” she asks me. I say that she looks fantastic for 50 and disabled.
“That is nice. I think I look fantastic for being older than Annette. She aged so poorly,” Maeve says. My jaw would drop if I was inclined to follow that cliché. However, I give her a frightened stare. I even forget to blink. Her eyebrows lower into a devilish furrow.
“You know,” I say. “I should have guessed. What do you know about me?”
“You are an awful lover, attracted to every woman, but you make a line at close relatives. I just wanted to see what you knew about me. I am your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-aunt and you know that too, which is why you are not attracted to me.”
I’m close to tears right now. “When was I born?” I strain out.
“January 24th, 2321. Your father is that man you pass off as your brother, and your mother makes a fine living off her music. They divorced recently, on March 30th, 2062.” I didn’t even know that much. But, there have to be papers that say that, right? Surely our original records are kept somewhere, even if just for the memories. Some details are only on my papers, however.
“You know I write,” I say. “Where did I get my penname from?”
“D. Clay? That is who you are. That last name was taken from your great-great-grandfather, Harwood Clay, because he had the plainest surname you could find in your lineage. The first initial comes from your cousin, Diana Curious, who was also a lesbian and a source of inspiration and support for you when you were younger.” She’s right on all details. The woman’s a psychic or a sneaky, fast reader.
“So you know. And I know a lot about these people who work under you, if not all I want to know. And we’re leaving this at that.”
“Sure thing, Ms. Waverly. We can keep this between us, and Philip too.” She still looks devilish. “Please remember that the consequences are on you, however.”
“Okay,” I say, ready to bolt. I notice a cellar door leading into her foundation and, presumably, a cellar. I approach it, hoping that she’ll answer a silent question as to what it is.
“The door leads to my cellar, and hopefully you will never have to go in there,” Maeve says.
“Torture dungeons?” I ask, half-sarcastically.
“You know me better than I thought you did. What a liability you are.”
In spite of me being a liability, Moira demands that I run with her in order to get in better shape for the job. The weather will cool down in the afternoon, and she knows that I still love the scenery of the city after all these weeks.
“And as long as you’re not running in hot pants, I don’t think anyone cares,” she ends with. And I brought some long yoga pants and a shirt with sleeves, so yes, no one will need to care.
We run around sunset, basking in endorphins and the pink light of the city. Moira opts for something more modest than a camisole this time. We approach the warehouse—Maeve’s warehouse—which sits on the water. The workers there usually have the sense to stay indoors until it gets dark, but one figure stands by the barbed wire fence, waiting for us.
“Tank, you mean old scumbag!” Moira yell to him from a distance. He’s not even old, probably about 30 compared to 28.
“Why don’t you just come to me, you drunkard?” he asks. We come to him. Moira gives him a hug and he doesn’t give me a death glare.
“I need to talk with Jo, one on one,” he tells her. “Just a matter with work.”
“Just make sure she gets back on the trail in one piece after this. We’ve only covered five miles,” Moira says. And, against my wishes, I’m left alone at a seedy warehouse with Tank.
“Let’s not get off your exercise schedule too much, Jo. Let’s take a walk.”
We intend to do a lap around the warehouse, walking at a leisurely gait and maybe even cleaning up the bad blood at work. I tell him that I’m okay with listening to his side of the story for the sake of patching this up.
“My side is this. You’re a curious worker and that’s not good because we run a delicate operation here. I think you know too much about us,” he says.
“I don’t know much about you at all,” I say.
“But about one of us? You know things we don’t, and you just want to absorb this back story like a sponge, and I won’t stand for that. I want you to leave Roaring Heights.”
“I just paid for another month of rent, so I doubt it,” I say. “I want your business to thrive.”
We make it to the entrance of the building before he has a response. “I guess I’m not tough enough yet,” he mumbles.
“You don’t need to do this,” I say.
“Maybe I do. You’re too stubborn to listen and I need you to listen for once. Leave Roaring Heights and stay out of our lives. And that’s an order from the boss.” He rubs his finger in my face.
“You know what? No, I’m staying here, and I don’t even care what Maeve has to say about it,” I retort. I find myself plummeting to the ground with 200 or more pounds of musclebound Tank on top of me. His massive hands are around my neck.
“Leave. This. City,” he says, growling. “I don’t care about your story, but I care about my business, and you’re just itching to out us. Ruin my life. And you know what, you’ll ruin yours this way. You're Icarus, and I think you've flown too close to the sun to turn back now.” He gets up and lets go. I hyperventilate now that I can.
“And I won’t stop,” he says, trailing off as he enters the warehouse. I lay there exhausted from the attack and some running cramps.
I run away crying. I want this story more than I thought. And I can run and cry all I want, but I know that I won’t leave. I won’t leave on a cliffhanger, and I won’t leave only half-riling a criminal family. It’s get on all of their good graces, or say good-bye to this lovely immortal life.
Word Count for this chapter:
3,378Word Count so far:
216,142
