Topher Lydon

This is the cold truth of their lie. They believe, in their moral superiority, that they are helping the sick. It is insidious, dismissing it as a pathology. Something that can be medicated away. The torture has evolved. I have read of the horrific experimentation going on in Asylums across the western world. As the war faded into memory and the needs of the war dwindled, the old prejudices slunk back in, sharper and cloaked in morality.

The Heat is a Lie There is truth in the Cold.

XLIX. The new regime didn't arrive with a shout or a blow. It arrived with a clipboard, a soft American accent, and a gaze that felt like being slowly dissected under a clinical light. Dr. Victor Cameron was thirty, wore rimless spectacles that made his pale eyes look like specimens preserved in glass, and moved with the silent, unnerving patience of a biologist studying an ant colony. He stood beside Vane on the parade ground beneath a sky the colour of tarnished pewter. Vane was a

Peter's priorities are intact, if you've ever had a Tim Hortons coffee, you'd get it.

The insurgents won't know what to do... The Twinkiest paratroopers in the world descending with bedazzled assault rifles. Peter has a fine disdain for beige.

Well they got there in the end. At least Will has some time to figure out baby logistics... and Peter has time to figure out how he's going to go all Zero Dark Thirty and extract his Wesley from Iraq... Tactical Flamingos!

The morning of Tuesday, November 29, 2005, broke over the city of Toronto with a brittle, unforgiving cold. Outside the frosted windows of the Church-Wellesley Village townhouse, the sky was a pale, bruised shade of indigo, the weak winter sun struggling to penetrate the thick canopy of grey clouds rolling off Lake Ontario. Inside the master bedroom, the atmosphere was entirely insulated from the freezing temperatures. It was warm, quiet, and profoundly, beautifully still. Andrew Carte

There's a little Goblin inside us all. This story was closely inspired by the 13th Warrior and Bone Tommahawk

Chapter Five: The Warm Thing Kamyk sat in the shadows, Shem's bar mace across his knees. The weight was wrong—too heavy, too big, made for a taller man's hands. The X-shaped head caught the firelight from the central pit, glinting green and red and gold. But it was Shemmy's. J’ck had given it to him. His clan had trusted him. The green handprints on his chest itched. They were dry now, flaking, but he could still feel J'ck's palm pressing down. Marking him. Claiming him. The

We all know he loves Will and Andrew, but come on, he looked awesome!

Falcon Banner GNN news anchor. I might have a problem of recycling names And you, sir, have the sharpest memory

Finch is not the fool Vane takes him for.

Vane is going to feel this.

XLII The phone box stood a quarter-mile from the village of Blackwater, a solitary red blister on the bleached coast road. To reach it, Carter had walked three miles in a cutting wind that spoke of nothing but the coming winter. His macintosh was no defence; the cold had already settled deep in his bones, a permanent tenant years before the first snows. Inside, the air was stale, smelling of damp wool and the ghosts of a thousand rushed, desperate conversations. Carter fumbled h