#(implied… very un-subtly) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bosspigeon · 4 years ago

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a permanent solution to a temporary insanity

Pairing: Mason/m!Detective, with a side of Adam/Nate (implied)

Words: 5257

Summary: Unit Bravo discover the detective has... a lot more tattoos than they would have guessed. Felix is delighted. Mason is intrigued. Nate and Adam are just worried this is going to cause issues with Rebecca, somehow. Tina and Verda become chaotic disasters when they’ve had some alcohol in them.

Takes place at the beginning of Book 2. Title taken from a quote my granddad likes to use whenever he wants me to know he disapproves of my tattoos.

AO3 Link | Ko-Fi <3

"Get your foot off the table, you fucking barbarian!"

Mason can hear the voice of the detective's coworkers from across the bar, but even if he couldn't, Chase's scent is easy enough to track. The muted bite of coffee, the sharpness of pine tempered with clary sage. The cooled sweat of a long day, and, just barely perceptible, the intoxicating undercurrent of his blood.

Mason's awareness narrows down to that stimulus, and he weaves his way through the meager crowd. He is only vaguely cognizant of his unit following behind him, so focused on finding--

He hears a laugh, low and husky, a bit of a scuffle, and he finds the detective sitting at a table with the pathologist, Verda, and the Bobblehe-- Officer Poname.

Chase's back is to him, and he’s sitting in a chair at the end of a table squished into a corner. Verda and Poname are opposite him in a booth against the wall, laughing, while Poname tries in vain to wrestle Chase's scuffed combat boot off the edge of the table. The smell of alcohol is strong between the three of them, but that is not what makes Mason stop dead.

Chase's leather jacket is draped over the back of his chair, and underneath, what Mason always thought was a full turtleneck sweater is actually completely sleeveless. The detective's arms are bare, save for intricate swirls and clusters of ink, mostly black, but with some pops of color here and there. Some of it is flowers, some words, a few bones and animal skulls. Abstract shapes and lines, a few sharp little designs, from shoulder to knuckles on both arms-- and Mason suddenly realizes Chase always seemed to be wearing supple leather palm gloves that matched his jacket, or, when it was colder, cozy wool fingerless gloves so he could still use his phone without trouble. Not tonight, though. Tonight his hands are bare, his arms are bare, and the ribbed shirt he’s wearing is clinging to him and really showing off the stout strength of his torso.

Mason grunts as Felix runs into his back, and time seems to pick back up to normal speed while his companion loudly complains.

Chase's head turns upon hearing the familiar voice, and Mason gathers his wits and offers a smirk and a carefully relaxed wave, sauntering up alongside the man, who raises a glass full of some dark mixed drink to him.

"There’s nothing we can do until we’ve got more information about our case, so I'm off tomorrow-- ask Rebecca," he informs Adam, who is looking disapprovingly between the detective's lax, sprawled posture and the half-empty glass held loosely in one hand, "so I don't want to hear you bitching about what I'm doing."

Adam's mouth pinches, Nate chuckles and tries to stifle it, and Mason coughs out a ragged laugh. But all that is lost to Felix shoving his way bodily around Mason to grab Chase's wrist (thankfully the one without the drink) and shout, "You've got so many tattoos!"

Chase gives Felix a lazy once-over, his brow quirked. "Yeah? And?" He looks a little bemused, as if he can’t quite figure out how this came as such as a surprise to any of them, much less a busybody like Felix. He obviously can’t say it in front of his coworkers, but Mason remembers Chase’s time with Murphy. The hospital gown and the needles and bandages. But even though they could all see in the dark just fine, there was a bit too much going on to really notice more than some smudges of dark ink on his neck and arms.

He thinks their minds might be going to the same place, for a moment, because Chase’s mouth twists from a lazy smile to a grim frown, dark, serious brows scrunching. It’s a slight gesture, barely noticeable, but he jerks his head once, as if to shake off the memories.

They’re both, thankfully, distracted by Felix whirling around to point accusingly at Mason. "Did you know he had this many?"

"If I did, would I tell you?" he sneers. Felix pouts mightily, but then pauses, and smiles. A slow, creeping smile, his eyes narrowed smugly.

"If you did know, you'd have been telling everyone you saw what the detective's got under his clothes any chance you got," he taunts. "So you must not have!"

Nate can't quite stifle his laugh this time, and Mason shoots him a dirty look.

Chase chuckles, low and smoky, and brings the glass to his lips again. “Yeah, I’ve got a lot of tattoos. Almost more than bare skin by this point, I think?” He looks to Verda and Poname as if to confirm, though with an odd little smirk that makes Poname giggle helplessly and Verda roll his eyes.

“Verda would know best,” Poname teases. “How much of Chase have you seen?”

“Enough to know that, yes, the un-inked real estate is scant at best.” He takes a demure sip of his drink while Poname cackles.

“My boss fucking hates it,” Chase snorts into his glass, gesturing vaguely with the free hand he’s rescued from Felix for Unit Bravo to sit. He finally removes his boot from the edge of the table (which makes Poname throw her hands in the air) and uses it to push the chair next to him out, dark eyes flickering up to meet Mason’s for a fraction of a second, stoking a low sort of heat in his belly. He takes the offered seat before Felix can (to some very vocal complaining) and lounges back, angling the chair so he’s able to watch the detective without making it too obvious.

Nate slides into the booth next to Poname, who immediately turns her gaze almost reverently to him, and Adam sits stiffly alongside him, giving the both of them an unreadable look. Felix posts up alongside Verda, smiling with annoying cheerfulness across the table at Chase and Mason.

“If your boss hates them so much, how’d you get the job?” he chirps, still marvelling at all the inked skin on shameless display. It makes Mason feel a bit twitchy, and he swallows down the urge to bare his teeth at his teammate with two very ignorant human witnesses in front of him. He distracts himself by subtly eyeing a splash of color on Chase’s solid shoulder in the form of a wrought-iron lantern with a single guttering candle inside, wreathed in wilted and dying flowers that trails shed petals and leaves down his bicep to mingle with other patterns.

“Mum’s got connections,” Chase drawls, swirling his glass and impressively feigning nonchalance. The ice cubes inside clink softly. “As you all know.”

The quiet that follows is damning, and Chase breaks it by tossing back another gulp of his drink. This close, with his senses full of the detective’s overwhelming… everything, Mason can tell it’s rum and Coke-- rather heavy on the rum.

Nate is the first to speak, offering a politely neutral, “You told us you were given a choice between the police academy or prison.” His tone lacks any judgement, but his brows are furrowed just a bit. Beside him, Adam’s expression is carefully blank. Good for both of them, because even clearly, comfortably tipsy and oddly candid, Chase’s gaze is sharp and analytical, his shoulders just this side of too tight.

“Yeah, well,” he goes on, staring past Nate more than at him, “Rebecca’s influence goes a long way, I learned. So after I graduated from uni-- top of my fuckin’ class, thank you-- I went off on a bit of a wild tear, you know, acquiring cars under mysterious circumstances,” Poname sputters into her drink and laughs, and Chase just gives her a dry look before she regains herself enough for him to continue, “and selling them for scrap, I miraculously didn’t wind up going to straight to prison, thanks to Rebecca pulling some strings and dragging me back here by my ear.” His lip curls faintly, and there’s a flash of something in his expression that seems to drop the temperature in the bar by a few degrees. Felix meets Mason’s eye and visibly shudders.

“That doesn’t really explain the tattoos,” Mason says, offering an easy segue to something… else.

“Sort of does,” Chase says with a shrug, eyes heavy-lidded. “I had a pretty wild childhood up to that point. Got my first stick-and-poke when I was, what? Thirteen? I think the kid who gave it to me is working at the bank now.” He snorts. “My point is, it was the one thing about my life I ever got to control. I had to be perfect, but so long as I did well in my academic pursuits and set myself on exactly the path my mother wanted for me, in my free time I could do whatever the fuck I wanted.” He rolls his shoulders again and knocks back the last of his drink, setting the glass down just a little too hard on the sticky tabletop.

“I drank, I partied, I fucked around. What else do you do when you’re a kid with no parental influence in your life save for a picture on the mantel of an empty house? You go off the fucking wall is what you fuckin’ do. Anything for even a shred of attention. And I still managed to graduate with honors, right? First in my class in secondary school, and in uni. Didn’t matter, did it?” His face goes hard, brows furrowing. “She didn’t bother to congratulate me in person. I got a card on her office stationery that I doubt she even wrote herself. My graduation from uni she didn’t even respond to the invite I sent, but I still stupidly hoped she’d show. She didn’t care until I snapped and she actually had to step in. Take a break from her job and come collect her errant brat.” He scoffs, and it sounds like a gunshot in the sudden silence that follows.

Nate looks like he wants to say something, mouth opening, but Adam touches his wrist and it snaps closed. Even Felix is stunned silent. Verda and Poname just exchange twin looks of familiar distress, but before anyone can say anything, Chase stands up so suddenly his chair shrieks across the floor. Mason, Nate, Adam, and Felix all wince at the sound.

“I’m going to get another drink,” the detective mutters, stalking off into the crowd. Mason looks over his companions, eyebrows raised, decides he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation, and gets up to follow.

Chase is leaning against the bar, asking the bartender for “something stronger than a rum and Coke, holy fuck,” and doesn’t even look up when Mason moves to stand beside him.

“I get moody when I get drunk,” he says by way of greeting.

“So you’re always drunk, then?" Mason drawls. "Not very professional of you, Detective."

Chase snorts and turns to look at him, but he doesn’t say anything-- just closes his eyes and rubs his hand over the rough fuzz of his shaved head. Mason’s gaze is drawn to his hand, and he spots a ouija planchette inked into one knuckle, a pentacle on the next, then an eye, and a crescent moon. They look old, faded and a bit blown out. When Chase opens his eyes again, the bartender has given him another drink, and from the smell, it’s a highball with a hefty pour of whiskey. He takes his first sip almost gratefully.

“Those the stick-and-pokes you mentioned?” Mason asks.

Chase holds up his hand. “Hm? Oh, yeah, a couple of ‘em. Not the first ones.” He turns his hand palm-up, and gestures with the glass. “There on the wrist.” Along the inside of his forearm is an intricate dagger with thorns twisted along the blade, but a few centimeters below the point, there is a tiny, blurry skull with a black forked tongue. “Toby Doherty, year 8. We put together a tattoo gun in his dad’s garage by pulling apart his little brother’s RC car. Think we got into more trouble for that than the tattoo.” He huffs out a rough little laugh. “I just think his mum was too nervous to actually shout at me, but I was never allowed back to their house afterwards because I was a bad influence.”

Mason reaches out and takes his hand, pulling it a bit closer so he can study the skull more closely. That’s what he tells himself, anyway, though he doesn’t think he’s fooled, and he doesn’t think the detective would be either. Especially when he rubs his thumb over the raised lines. He can feel Chase’s pulse through his thin skin, blood pumping hot and steady. This close, his pine-and-sage scent is stronger, and it fills Mason’s chest. "It's cute," he says, little more than a breath between them. He leans in, pulls the detective's wrist close to his mouth. He can feel the heat of his skin, almost taste the warmth just beneath, and Chase's breath is soft and quick and deafening in his ears.

“Chase!”

He drops the hand as if burned, and looks away from the detective before he can see how he reacts. Poname is toddling up to them, swaying a bit, and she wiggles her way between them to toss her arms around Chase's middle. He raises his highball in the air to keep her from spilling it, and she giggles.

"Chase, come back, you've got to show them!"

He groans. "Show them what?"

She only giggles louder and starts pulling him back towards the group, using the much steadier detective as a bit of a crutch to keep from stumbling through the milling crowd. When they arrive back at the table, things aren't really more comfortable than when they'd left, but they're not less so either, which Mason supposes is more than they could ask for. He takes up his seat again, but when Chase moves to do the same, Poname keeps hold of his arm.

"Wait, wait, you should be standing up for this," she giggles. Verda doesn't say anything, but he does snicker quietly into his tall glass of something that smells cloyingly of fruit syrup and sweetened vodka.

"Tina, what are you on about?" he sighs indulgently.

"You have to show them King Kitty!"

Mason’s interest is immediately piqued. Felix’s is too, clearly. He sits bolt upright and leans forward with that bright-eyed little imp grin he likes to give his teammates whenever he’s teasing them about… well, anything, really. “King Kitty?” he asks with eyes sparkling.

Chase groans, sets his drink on the table, and pushes Poname away, sending her stumbling into the table while she laughs brightly. “Don’t call it that, Tina. Christ.”

“You have to show them! He’s so good!” she insists, swaying towards him again. He dodges, and damn near skitters around the table to press into Verda’s space, which would have given Poname the means to corner him if she could figure out how to move around Chase’s abandoned chair as well as Mason (side-eyeing her cautiously) without getting tangled or falling over entirely. Verda continues to laugh at their antics, pushing Chase’s hip as it crowds into his space and threatens to make him spill his drink.

“Come on, now, what could it hurt?” he chides playfully, slipping his finger into the belt loop of the detective’s cargo pants and tugging playfully.

“Hey!” Chase barks, shifting away. All that manages to accomplish is tugging down his waistband the slightest bit, exposing the edge of his black underwear and a thin sliver of skin-- inked with designs Mason can’t properly parse, though he can’t help but lean forward a bit for a closer look. “I’ll have both of your asses for harassment, don’t test me!”

“Chase, our precinct is tiny,” Verda hiccups, finally making the decision (though it clearly pains him) to set his drink aside, since it seems Chase is perfectly willing to clamber over him to escape Poname’s grabbing hands, “I’m the HR department. You haven’t got a case here.”

“Show theeeeem,” Poname whines, putting one hand on Mason’s shoulder to steady herself. A low growl rumbles in his chest, but one sharp look from Nate (who is trying very hard not to smile at the scene, while Felix is outright giggling, and Adam simply looks confused and uncomfortable) quiets him. She smells strongly like some sort of bubblegum perfume that tickles the back of his tongue and leaves it feeling itchy and thick.

“I still have to work with them,” Chase protests, but his resolve is visibly wavering, especially with the lack of options to escape.

“We won’t tell anyone!” Felix blurts, leaning across the table. “Promise!”

Mason doesn’t chime in, but it’s a near thing. The last few weeks he’s tested the limits of both Adam and Nate’s patience with his innuendos about the detective, and he even thinks Agent Kingston might be one lewd joke from stabbing him with a fountain pen.

But Chase is weakening, he can tell. Mostly because he can’t seem to figure out how to climb over Verda, and Poname’s hands have found his belt. “Fine! Fuck, fine, you menace!” he exclaims, pushing her off with a surprising amount of gentleness, considering his tone. “Just get off me!”

Poname backs off obediently, but she’s still giggling up a storm, flushed with the effort, her hair a bit mussed. Verda looks entirely unbothered, and he takes up his drink again with a smug smile. Chase returns to his chair but doesn’t sit, and Poname returns to cozying up to Nate and being entirely oblivious to Adam trying very hard not to look annoyed.

Chase takes a deep, bolstering breath, snatches up his drink, and downs about half in one swig. “You’ve all got to swear you won’t breathe a word to Rebecca about this,” he says with grave, if faintly slurred, severity.

“Oh, absolutely,” Mason agrees, quickly enough that Felix shoots him another infuriating smirk.

“Scout’s honor!” Felix blurts, nearly bouncing in his seat.

Nate smiles and nods, looking for all the world like he’s simply indulging the shenanigans, but he’s clearly curious himself. Chase isn’t terribly secretive about most things-- he’s actually pretty fucking blunt-- so this has to be… interesting, for him to put up such a fight. Adam looks like he’s bolstering himself to look away as quickly as possible so he can have some plausible deniability should Agent Kingston find out regardless.

Chase’s hands go to his belt, and Mason’s stomach clenches, heat rushing under his skin. The detective unbuckles with practiced ease, flicks the snap open, and tugs the edge of his cargo trousers and briefs (are they briefs? Mason would certainly like to find out) down just a bit. His other hand goes to his fitted shirt, tugging it up.

The hair beneath his navel is thick and dark, and the trail leading down into his trousers is very, very inviting, but Mason’s attention is drawn inexorably to the design inked into the soft, brown skin. He supposes he should have expected the name “King Kitty” to give it away, but he couldn’t have predicted what he was in for.

It’s a snarling black cat, cartoonishly stylized, wearing a jauntily cocked royal crown. Underneath, spanning from hipbone to hipbone, are the words “BOW DOWN” written in bold, jagged script.

“Everyone, meet King Kitty,” Poname proclaims with a sloppy, grand gesture to Chase’s pelvis.

“Yeah, yeah, are you happy now?” Chase groans, hiking his waistband back up and buckling his belt. He tugs his shirt down and flops into the chair, taking another slog of his drink. It’s almost gone already, and he’s sure to be feeling it soon.

“Absolutely tickled,” Verda says primly.

“Oh, completely,” Poname chimes in.

“Wouldn’t mind seeing him again,” Mason rumbles, and Chase’s eyes flick to him for a split second, dark and sparking, brows quirked. Nate sighs audibly.

“Well, are you going to tell the story too?” Verda presses. “Share with the class?”

Chase drops into his chair and kicks his feet up again, and Poname makes a vague sound of protest. This time, at least, a sharp glare shuts her up. “Might as fuckin’ well, right?” he snorts. “So, I had this ex in college--”

Both Verda and Poname make strange noises, and when Mason spares them a glance (still a bit caught up in eyeballing the detective’s lounging about like a lazy cat-- which is oddly appropriate, all things considered) they are both looking somewhere between annoyed and downright angry. Chase actually looks… guilty, for a split second, before he waves it away and continues.

“Anyway. He wasn’t, uh… Very good in bed. But I loved him or some nonsense,” he scoffs and gestures vaguely with his glass, “so I put up with it. Because I couldn’t tell him he hadn’t gotten me off to his face, right? He was a sex god, according to him, always hit the marks,” he takes a sip and snorts a bit into his drink. Verda barks out a sharp, sudden laugh that seems to startle even him.

“He did not say that! Chase, please tell me he didn’t say that to you!” he squeaks out between ragged, uncontrollable laughter.

Poname is collapsing against Nate’s side, consumed by a fit of wheezing giggles.

Chase rubs a hand down his face and huffs out a laugh of his own. “He fucking did and I have to live with the fact that I continued to sleep with him after that, every day for the rest of my life. Point is, after a lot of general university stress, I got tired of faking orgasms to save his ego, and I finally told him he hadn’t gotten me off once since we’d started dating. Crushed him, of course, and we did break up for a bit because of it. And in the interim, I thought it’d be a good idea, to, ah, ensure that the next one wouldn’t be so… lost. I had a bit of liquid courage, lied admirably to my favorite tattoo artist when she asked if I was sober, and King Kitty was born. Then when I inevitably made the bad decision to get back with my ex, the next time we tumbled into bed, I just pointed at the instructions and told him to get to work.”

He finishes off his drink, puts his foot back on the ground with a heavy clunk, and leans his elbows on the table. “Turns out, he worked best when I was a bit mean to him. Apparently it’s a thing he wasn’t aware of. Go figure.”

“Christ, no wonder he only bothers you more when you’re a prick to him,” Verda scoffs with a hearty roll of his eyes. “You’ve trained it into him!”

"That is… quite the tale," Nate offers magnanimously, eyebrows threatening to make a break for his hairline. He looks to Adam, who is looking away and trying very hard to pretend he wasn't listening at all. Mason gets the idea he knows well enough that if he opens his mouth, what comes out is likely to piss off their dear detective.

Felix about falls over cackling, which is a fine distraction for Mason to lean in close, snagging Chase's attention and murmuring, "Wouldn't mind you bossing me around a bit," with a sly little smirk.

The look Chase gives him is dry as a fucking desert, but his eyes are crinkled at the corners. "You have proved on multiple occasions that you absolutely do mind," he fires back.

And that's what delights him about the detective, he thinks. He's sharp-tongued, and he doesn't try to dull it. Prickly, but clever, unafraid to say what's on his mind. And he's never once rebuffed Mason's advances outright, just… Spiked them back with sly smirks and raised eyebrows. Challenging, a sort of unspoken, "Oh, so you think you can handle me?"

Mason would very, very much like to handle him.

"Well, I think I'd be a lot more willing to follow orders if less clothes were involved," he slyly remarks, and Chase's dark eyes brighten just a bit.

“You have to earn that privilege, pretty boy," he murmurs, lips curling on one side.

Mason is a breath away from leaning closer, when Verda's phone goes off and he stands up, startled, and bumps the table. Mason has to snap one hand out to grab Chase's empty glass before it goes careening to the floor. Poname looks a bit astounded by his (far too fast) reflexes, but she's also more than a bit foggy with liquor and likely to forget quickly.

"Shit, sorry," Verda offers sluggishly, blinking a bit behind his smart browline spectacles. "That's Eric," he explains, grabbing his coat. He's steadier than Poname, but not by much, and he leans heavily on Chase's chair when he bends to press a kiss to his bristly scalp. "Come on, you reprobate. Time to get you home." Chase grumbles and halfheartedly swats at him, a bit of red creeping up to his ears from beneath his high collar. “You too, Tina!” Verda calls, “Leave the poor man alone, would you?"

Poname, who was beginning to list against a somewhat bemused Nate's shoulder, sits bolt upright and blinks, then pouts a bit. "Hm? Oh… okay." She pushes unsteadily to her feet, helped in no small part by a few gentle nudges from Nate, and she turns to give him a giggle and a wiggly-fingered wave before Verda’s put-upon sigh spurs her to totter towards him. Adam watches her go, making a face he likely thinks is impassive, but Mason knows well enough the tense pucker between his eyebrows and the grim tightness around his mouth.

“Remember what I said,” Chase offers, heaving to his feet with a low groan that immediately drags Mason’s attention from Adam’s silent simmering, grabbing his jacket from the chair and slinging it over his shoulders. “Not a word to Rebecca about any of this.” He gives Adam a long look in particular. “My options are limited in terms of retaliation, but I can be pretty damned creative. Don’t test me.” His eyes flicker almost instinctively to Mason, and his lips twitch, but he says nothing more before he swaggers with surprising steadiness after his coworkers.

“Bye, Detective!” Felix hollers, waving enthusiastically. Mason winces, but comforts himself with staring unabashedly at the detective’s retreating backside. The second he’s out the door, Felix rounds on Adam with a bright laugh. “Look at you! You managed to be in the same room as the Detective and you didn’t get into a fight!”

“Because he kept his mouth shut the entire time,” Mason snickers. “Looked like it was killing you not to talk shit.”

“I don’t talk shit,” Adam snaps, and Nate helpfully slides out of the booth so he can escape as well. “I just point out when the Detective is being…”

Mason raises his eyebrows, waiting for him to come up with a word that’s not an insult.

“Difficult,” is what Adam settles on, giving Nate a sidelong look.

“Oh, yeah, you wouldn’t know anything about being difficult,” Felix chimes in helpfully. Adam scowls at him and adjusts his jacket. Nate is clearly trying not to laugh and make Adam even more annoyed.

“You’re the one who felt the need to hassle the detective on his off time,” Mason hums not-so-helpfully. “Can’t blame him for being annoyed.”

“And you can’t say anything either,” Felix chirps, “Since you just went right along with it.” He’s grinning, wide and wicked, and he sways into Mason's space and gets shoved for his trouble. He totters dramatically for a second, then pops back up and snickers. "You're not as smooth as you think," he taunts. "I saw your eyes almost pop out of your skull when you saw those tattoos!"

Mason shoves him again, and Nate chuckles. "There were a lot more than I would have guessed."

"And I bet there's a lot more where we couldn't see," Felix adds, sticking his tongue between his teeth and waggling his eyebrows. Mason glances around the bar, the crowd having thinned in the last half hour or so, and decides he can get away with putting the little brat in a headlock.

Nate sighs at them. Adam rolls his eyes skyward, but they let Felix flail and squawk for a bit before Adam barks out, “Enough!” and Mason obediently releases him so he can tug his fancy scarf forcefully back into place and adjust his beanie. “Let’s just go.”

“This was nice, wasn’t it?” Nate offers with a bit of genuine cheer as they file out the door and leave the bar behind. “Getting out? Talking to people?” He nudges Adam when he doesn’t respond, and gets a faint grunt for his trouble. “Seeing the sights?”

Mason lights up the second they’re outside, inhales, and exhales a long plume of smoke, and smirks a bit around the filter. “I enjoyed the sights, at least.”

“I had fun!” Felix chirps, having already moved on from Mason’s rough treatment. “We should spend more time with the detective outside work stuff. He’s cool when he’s not all--” He makes a face, stiff and frowning with a crinkled brow, that looks pretty damned similar to the face he makes when he’s mocking their illustrious leader. Mason almost bites down on the filter of his cigarette to stifle a laugh.

“It was nice to see him unwind a bit,” Nate chuckles. “His friends seem… fun,” his mouth quirks a bit, somewhat uncomfortably, “Friendly.”

Adam makes a disgruntled noise. “Too friendly,” he mutters. Mason is about to lose the fight with himself and start snickering.

Ah, hell, he can’t resist. “I dunno, I think Natey might have a chance with the Bobblehead.” The look Adam gives him could kill a lesser man, but he just gives a lopsided grin in return. Felix, however, loses it to the point he almost falls over in the street.

Nate, ever the diplomat, just chuckles a bit and says, “Officer Poname is lovely, but she’s a bit… young for me, I think.”

Yeah, about eight-hundred-something years too young, Mason thinks, rolling his eyes. But, unlike Felix, he’s made it a point not to get involved in the love lives of people he’s got to work with. He’s already got his hands full trying to figure out the detective. Though, he supposes, he’s got to work with the detective, too. On a more permanent basis, now, it seems. But Chase is a lot of things-- stubborn, headstrong, blunt and honest-- but he’s not the type to let a bit of fun get in the way of his job, and neither is Mason. The second they stop dancing around each other, Mason will lay it out plain for him, and if he’s not on board with a bit of fun between co-workers, then that’s it. No problems.

He takes another puff of his smoke and lets the others get ahead of him, Felix still chattering happily and Nate fielding it with his usual calm enthusiasm while Adam manages to both sulk and stalk admirably alongside them both. Their voices fade into the background, and he allows himself a private little smirk, thinking about those fierce dark eyes, that stout, compactly muscled body with its bold ink, and privately wonders how much more is hidden under the detective’s clothes, and the best way to see them all.

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 5 years ago

Text

Split

Prompt: hello! i adore your merlin writing and i saw you seemed to be doing prompts? if so, i'd like to submit one, no pressure though! a mysterious spell hits arthur and splits him into different facets/parts of his personality and merlin has to fix it before uther finds out. (this could be an opportunity for some fun shenanigans with the arthur's running around making a mess or an opportunity to explore something a bit angstier ;), up to you). Thank you!!

Thanks for the prompt, babe! I hope it’s what you wanted!

Read on Ao3

Pairings: Merthur, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Warnings: Implied/referenced child abuse, nothing graphic, nothing explicit. Uther’s just a dick.

Word Count: 4470

Listen, there is a reason you don’t run into glowing circles of magic even when the sorcerer you’re chasing is standing right inside it. You don’t do that, Arthur, you especially don’t do that when there is a helpful chorus of people behind you passionately yelling ‘no.’

You know what, if there’s ever a chorus of people passionately yelling ‘no’ behind you as you’re about to do something, don’t do it. Just good advice.

“Sire!”

Merlin turns, ducking Leon’s swing as the sword arcs above their heads to come crashing down on a tree limb. With a sharp crack, the branch falls into the circle and a flash of light makes Merlin wince.

“Arthur!”

The gold dies down. Merlin cautiously moves his hand. No sorcerer. A pile of tattered robes lies a little way away. He must’ve gotten hit with part of the magic blast.

Groaning comes from the middle of the circle. The mass of red cape stirs.

“Arthur, you bloody idiot,” Merlin hisses, rushing forward as the knights look around, “why’d you do that, you could’ve gotten yourself killed, it—“

Merlin’s hand falls away from the cape in shock. His mouth drops open. A blond head raises to look at him. Then another. Then another.

“A-Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“Merlin?”

“What do you want?”

“Bloody hell…” Gwaine’s voice comes from so far away. Merlin can’t tear his eyes away from the sight.

There are three Arthur Pendragons, each with their own red cape, crouched in the middle of the circle.

Cautiously, Merlin reaches out to touch the one closest to him. The Arthur raises his eyebrows and regards the hand with disgust, almost slapping it away. Well, he’s definitely real.

“Get my horse, boy,” the Arthur says haughtily, looking around to see the knights, “and you, men, tell me what happened.”

Gwaine’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Well, that one’s a prat.”

“I’ll have your head for that,” the Arthur snarls, drawing his sword in a flash of steel despite Leon’s hurried ‘sire, no!’

And Gwaine’s ‘come on, then.’

“Not helping,” Percival mutters as Merlin manages to tear his eyes away from Prince Prat to look at the other two.

“Arthur?”

The second Arthur looks at him from where he’d been gazing at the trees. “Hello. Are you my manservant?”

“Uh, well—“ Merlin glances over his shoulder to where Leon and Lancelot have just started to calm down Prince Prat—“I think, technically, I’m…all of your manservants.”

“I’m sorry.”

Merlin’s head snaps around. “What?”

The second Arthur shrugs. “I’m sorry. That seems inconvenient for you. You were expecting to serve just one master and now it seems you have to serve three.”

“Y-yeah, um…” Merlin swallows. “It’s not ideal.”

“How did this happen,” the second Arthur says, gesturing between himself and the others, “did we accidentally provoke someone?”

“…yeah, you could say that.”

“What happened?”

“You ran into a magic circle.”

“…why?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin sighs, “I was about to ask you that.”

The second Arthur looks…contrite? Apologetic?

“I truly don’t know what would’ve pushed me to do something like that. Were you or any of the knights in direct danger?”

“No. Not really.”

He frowns. “Then I don’t know.”

Merlin glances over his shoulder to where Leon is calmly talking to Prince Prat while Gwaine raises an eyebrow at Merlin. Merlin shrugs. He doesn’t know what’s going on either, okay?

“Where’s Morgana?”

Merlin looks back at the second Arthur who’s still looking around. “What?”

“Where’s Morgana?” The second Arthur shrugs when Merlin looks at him like he’s sprouted another head. Which Merlin’s not ruling out as a possibility, by the way. “She’ll know what to do, or at least have some idea. She’s cleverer than most people give her credit for.”

“She…she’s back in the castle,” Merlin says finally, “but that sounds…reasonable.”

Reasonable Arthur gives him a nod and a smile, trying to get to his feet. Merlin jumps up to help him, eyes widening slightly when that smile only grows.

“Thank you,” Reasonable Arthur says, “I do hope this won’t be too hard for you to adjust to.”

“Um…thanks?” Merlin blinks a few times when Reasonable Arthur’s smile still doesn’t go away. “Oh, um, I should’ve asked this earlier, but…what do you remember?”

“Unhand me!”

“Sire,” comes Leon’s voice, making them turn around to look. Leon stands with his hand not quite touching Prince Prat’s chest, with Lancelot and the others behind him, “you must listen to us, we’re not in danger, the sorcerer is gone—“

“I’ll believe that when there are no longer three of us!”

“What do you remember,” Merlin says quickly as Leon shoots him an exasperated glance, “of before this happened?”

“I remember enough to know I have actual knights in my employ,” Prince Prat sniffs, “and that you are an absolutely awful servant.”

“I think we have most of our memories intact,” Reasonable Arthur says quickly, “just…not about the split.”

“And I have yet to have that explained to me!”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you explain why you ran into a circle of magic without any sort of plan?”

“I had a plan!”

“Yeah, what was it?”

“Kill the sorcerer!”

Merlin pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Whoever got the intelligence in this split, the commons sense definitely isn’t with this one.

“Alright, well, until we figure out how to fix this, we should get back to Camelot and try to keep this a secret.”

Reasonable Arthur nods. Prince Prat just stares at him. “And what makes you think you give the orders around here?”

“You have a better idea?”

“It’s a solid plan,” Reasonable Arthur says quickly, looking between Merlin, Prince Prat, and the knights, “and I think it would make the most sense.”

“Who cares about making sense, I want this fixed!”

“But considering we don’t have the ability to do that right now—“

Merlin gets distracted when the third Arthur stands up. If he’s being completely honest, he almost forgot there was a third one. This Arthur doesn’t speak, just takes off his cape and turns it inside out, putting it on and pulling up his hood. Reasonable Arthur and Prince Prat are still arguing, only stopping when the third Arthur slots himself into line behind the horses.

“…um…Arthur?”

“What?”

“Yes?”

“No, no, not you guys, um…” Merlin cautiously approaches the third Arthur. “Are you…injured?”

The third Arthur shakes his head. “It will be easier if the others do not see me,” he says so quietly Merlin has to bend closer to hear him.

“Right, er—“ Merlin looks over his shoulder. “One of you should probably, er, hide as well.”

“I’m not hiding,” Prince Prat sniffs.

“I would…rather not?” Reasonable Arthur adjusts his own cape. “I don’t think it would be—“

“Well, one of us has to, and I’m not going to.”

“Can’t we talk about this?”

“No.”

“Look—“ Merlin quickly puts his hand on Reasonable Arthur’s shoulder. “It’s just until we can get to Gaius.”

Reasonable Arthur sighs and fiddles with his cape, standing next to the third Arthur. Prince Prat swings himself up on Arthur’s horse and commands the knights to follow him home. Lancelot spares Merlin one last glance before subtly taking over the lead. Merlin shakes his head. The sooner they can figure this out, the better.

Gaius, to his credit, simply raises an eyebrow and sighs. “I take it the patrol went well?”

“You’re hilarious.” Merlin shoves Prince Prat away from the bubbling tonics. “Now what happened?”

“Based on the fact that they all seem to still have their memories intact, I’m inclined to think it’s some sort of Division magic.”

“Division magic?”

“Yes.” Gaius watches as Reasonable Arthur attempts to tug his cape back on right while Prince Prat struts about like he owns the place. The third Arthur sits on the stool and doesn’t say anything. “Splitting a person into their separate parts, different versions of themselves that normally reside inside their own heads.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“To weaken them, perhaps, in the hopes that it would be…easier to control them.”

“You mean kill them,” Prince Prat corrects, “don’t beat around the bush.”

“We don’t know that—“

“Of course we do!” Prince Prat almost cuffs Reasonable Arthur upside the head. “What else could a sorcerer possibly want?”

“How do we fix it,” Merlin says quickly before this conversation can get anymore…terrifying, “there’s got to be a way to fix it.”

“There is.”

“Then why didn’t you lead with that?” Gaius just gives him a look. “…oh.”

“We should tell Morgana,” Reasonable Arthur pipes up, “she’s good at keeping secrets and she’s very clever.”

“She’s a girl,” Prince Prat huffs.

“She’s cleverer than you and you know it.”

“I’m gonna go get Morgana,” Merlin mutters and tears out of the room.

Morgana doesn’t believe him at first. He doesn’t really blame her. Still, her face when she walks in to see three of Arthur standing there is…interesting.

“Oh, what’ve you done now?”

“Like you can talk!”

“Morgana! You’re here!”

Morgana’s eyes widen when Reasonable Arthur looks overjoyed to see her. “…yes?”

“I told them you’d help, you’re clever.”

Morgana glances at Merlin. “…is he alright?”

Merlin quickly fills her in.

“Must we fix them,” Morgana muses, “I quite like that one.”

“We don’t know how stable it is,” Merlin mutters, “plus, part of this is supposed to make Arthur inconspicuous, right? How well d’you think Uther would react to seeing his son like that?”

Morgana hums. “Well, if there’s that in him normally, I suppose we’ll just have to work on getting it out more often.”

She walks over to the others and is promptly swept up in a conversation. Prince Prat is being a prat, Reasonable Arthur is being reasonable, Morgana is being amazing, and Gaius is looking a little less like his forehead is going to iron itself into a frown.

The third Arthur doesn’t say anything.

Merlin carefully scoots around them, laying a hand on the third Arthur’s shoulder. “Arthur? Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly when the third Arthur flinches, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The third Arthur glances up at him and shakes his head. Merlin breathes out slowly. He lays his hand back carefully, glancing up to signal Gaius to have the others give them some space.

Prince Prat has the strut and the puffed-out chest and the voice. Reasonable Arthur has the easy movement and the gracious words and the confident nod.

The third Arthur, as Merlin looks at him, is the only one who doesn’t really look like Arthur. Not…not really.

His cheeks, while not visibly more gaunt or drawn than the others, have this sort of ashen look to them that makes Merlin’s chest clench in a funny way. The way his sits is almost too still, eerily so, like if he moves even an inch he’ll fall over. There is a solemnity to his movement, as if every step is done with the care and caution of someone balancing on a tightrope, high up in the clouds, the wind whipping about them.

He hasn’t said more than half a dozen words, the first of which being Merlin’s name.

“Are you alright?”

The third Arthur looks up and nods. Merlin’s breath catches in his throat.

There is almost nothing behind his eyes.

“That sounds fine,” Prince Prat announces, startling Merlin. He looks around to see Reasonable Arthur shaking his head slightly and Morgana’s hands perched on her hips.

“What sounds fine?”

“Gaius says he can have the cure drawn up by the end of the week,” Morgana says, “and until then, the Arthurs will stay in their chambers and only one will be allowed out at any given time.”

“And how’re we supposed to manage that? I mean, are we just supposed to have someone in there all the time that can control them and tell them which one is supposed to—“

Merlin stops. Oh, no. No, no, no.

“Believe me,” Prince Prat grumbles, “I’m not thrilled about it either.”

A quick glance around the room shows that yep, this is in fact happening. Fortunately—or unfortunately—it seems that only Prince Prat and Merlin have some sort of reservations about this. Morgana looks positively gleeful.

“Don’t worry Merlin,” she says as she sweeps out of the room, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out!”

Well, once they get to Arthur’s chambers, it becomes clear that they have a lot to figure out. Prince Prat insists on sleeping in the bed because it’s his, Reasonable Arthur points out that technically it is all of their beds, Prince Prat threatens to take Reasonable Arthur’s head off until Merlin threatens to make them both sleep on the floor. The grudging agreement to share it doesn’t come free. Reasonable Arthur gets an apple chucked at his head. The rest of that day and the next is spent in terse, tolerable silence that makes Merlin want to bite his own head off.

Then of course it’s supposedly time for Arthur to go train and of course Prince Prat has to go. Merlin asks a guard to summon Leon and it’s a testament to how much shit Leon’s been through that he simply nods and lets Prince Prat lead the way. Merlin shakes his head and wonders how the knights will deal with this. He’s sure to get an earful from Gwaine about it later.

Then Reasonable Arthur sits down at Arthur’s desk and picks up a quill and just…works. Merlin has to stop every once in a while as he's doing his own chores to watch Arthur sit there, scratching away at the roll of parchment, glancing up every so often to smile at Merlin or ask him a question. Then he wants to go talk to Morgana and Merlin has to explain that no, everyone thinks that Arthur—the one Arthur—is outside training right now, he can’t be also seen going to Morgana’s chambers, and having Morgana come here while everyone thinks Arthur’s outside is also not good. Merlin hands the work off to another servant to bring to the King.

Then Merlin notices that all the third Arthur’s done is sit quietly on a chair in the corner, toying with something.

Glancing over his shoulder to notice that neither of the others has even noticed, Merlin sets down his basket and crosses the room to crouch down in front of him. The third Arthur barely blinks.

“…Arthur?”

His head turns but he doesn’t make eye contact.

“Do you need anything?”

He shakes his head with the smallest smile, discreetly tucking whatever he was toying with into his sleeve. Merlin glances over his shoulder again. Reasonable Arthur is paying them absolutely no mind.

“…are you alright?”

The third Arthur doesn’t quite look at him, but his hand twitches toward Merlin. Merlin holds his own trembling hand out—why is he shaking? What’s happening?—for him to take, if he wants.

He doesn’t, and Merlin doesn’t push. This Arthur is…intriguing, to say the least. As he gets back to his chores, pointedly avoiding looking in that direction to give him privacy, he thinks.

Has he ever seen this part of Arthur before? Is it just so small normally that he doesn’t? Was there some rule about the spell having to split them into three so they just…made another Arthur?

A thundering of footsteps signals the return of Prince Prat, much to Reasonable Arthur’s chagrin.

“Off with my armor,” Prince Prat orders, “now.”

“Tell you what,” Merlin sighs, “you ask me by name and I’ll do it.”

“And why should I do that?”

“Because it’s the decent thing to do?”

“Who cares about decent?”

“We should,” Reasonable Arthur says, frowning, “of course, we should care. If we’re going to be king—“

“You’re not going to be king, I’m going to be king.”

“Technically we’re all going to be king.”

“You won’t do a good job of it. All you want to do is talk, and not fight for what you want, what kind of king will do that?”

“And what kind of king will just prattle on about whatever he wants and not listen,” Reasonable Arthur shoots back, “how many enemies will you make because you want to answer things with a sword?”

“You have to fight for what is right!”

“And how will you know what that is if you don’t talk?”

Merlin sighs, leaning back against the pillar of Arthur’s bed. To be honest, he’d be more invested in this conversation—which is pretty interesting, even without the fact that it’s two versions of Arthur shouting at himself—if he wasn’t already fed up with this entire situation.

Then a knock at the door.

“Sire!”

“Yes?” Prince Prat turns.

“The King has summoned you!”

The room falls deathly quiet.

Merlin quickly says that he’ll be on his way in a second, gaze darting back and forth between the two Arthurs, both of which have gone pale.

“W-well,” Reasonable Arthur says, “er…duty calls.”

“No, no,” Prince Prat says, actually moving away from the door, “you should go. He wants to talk.”

“But you’re in armor.”

“But you can actually think.”

Merlin’s stomach drops. Arthur…the Arthurs look scared.

“I’ll go.”

The third Arthur stands up, the chair scraping against the floor with a horrid noise. He rolls his shoulders back and something in Merlin’s mind clicks.

He knows that posture, recognizes it from when they went out to face the dragon. He knows that walk, knows it from seeing Arthur walk towards the block as Morgause held aloft the axe.

And as the third Arthur turns around to give them one last look, Merlin recognizes the look in his eyes as their gazes finally meet.

Resignation.

The door thuds shut behind him before Merlin can even move.

His fingers itch. He needs something to do. He turns to Prince Prat. “I’ll, um, I’ll get your armor off.”

“N-no,” Prince Prat stutters, still looking at the door. “I need it. I need it on.”

“What?”

“I need it on,” he repeats, almost clutching his sword.

Soft scratchings fill the room and Merlin looks around to see Reasonable Arthur scribbling frantically.

“I have to tell him,” he keeps muttering, “I’m right, I just—if he would let me explain, I could—“

“You can’t,” Prince Prat interrupts. “You know you can’t. He won’t listen to words.”

“If we defend ourselves it—“

“If we talk it—“

“We have to—“

“We can’t—“

The Arthurs freeze. Prince Prat’s hand is wrapped firmly around the pommel of his sword. Reasonable Arthur’s hands ball up in spare sheets of parchment. Neither of them dares look away from the door.

An icy pit opens up in Merlin’s chest and a cold fire rages.

Somewhere, in this castle, there is an Arthur standing in front of Uther Pendragon, with an indifferent cool gaze iced into place, and the only words on his tongue are: “Yes, Father.”

Merlin has no idea how long they stand there.

Footsteps.

Merlin blinks and suddenly Prince Prat is in front of him, holding out an arm to shield him. Reasonable Arthur is at his shoulder, clutching a scribbled list in one hand, the other on the back of Merlin’s tunic.

The door starts to creak open.

The Survivor Arthur appears and the room heaves a sigh of relief, quickly followed by Merlin ducking around Prince Prat to rush to Survivor Arthur’s side. His hands flit about anxiously as he asks about injuries. Survivor Arthur shakes his head, moves away from the door, and sits back down in the chair. Merlin watches, gobsmacked, as Reasonable Arthur and Prince Prat just…return to what they were doing. Without any sort of…anything.

“Merlin?”

Survivor Arthur’s voice breaks him out of his trance, looking around to see his head turned just enough to stare at Merlin’s torso.

“I’m here,” Merlin says quickly, “do you need something?”

He shakes his head. “Just…wanted to know you were here.”

Yeah, Merlin’s not leaving this room for shit.

He makes sure Survivor Arthur is in the bed that night. The other two must see something in his gaze because they don’t argue, just curl up on either side of the truly massive bed. Prince Prat nods off right away, Reasonable Arthur following not long after. Only Survivor Arthur stays awake, his eyes darting around until his gaze lands on Merlin, finishing up the last of his chores.

“Arthur?”

In the dark, Merlin can only see half of his face. “You’re staying, aren’t you?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Merlin promises, “not for anything.”

“…I don’t want you to leave.”

“I won’t.”

“No one does what you do.”

“Well, there’s only so many manservants that will put up with their charge splitting into three.”

He doesn’t laugh. Merlin pauses, walking closer to the side of the bed.

“…no one takes care of me like you do,” comes the whisper. Merlin’s heart clenches.

“I’ve got no one else to care for like I care for you.”

Something in the darkness softens. “Don’t leave?”

“…I’m not going anywhere.”

Merlin doesn’t move from his spot next to the bed until the sunlight wakes him up. He groans, shifting around and rubbing his eyes blearily.

“Merlin?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles, “I’m awake.”

“Merlin.”

“Yes, I’m awake, hang on.”

“Merlin.”

“What?”

Merlin looks around, expecting to see Prince Prat glaring up at him, only to blink and see one Arthur in the bed, not three.

“…Arthur?”

Arthur looks down at himself, then back up to Merlin. “Pretty sure.”

“Are you—you’re—you’re back.”

“I am.” Arthur swings his legs over the side of the bed and stares up at Merlin with far too much awareness for this early in the morning. “Not that I ever really went anywhere.”

“Do you, er, what do you remember?”

Arthur gives him a look that should not be turning Merlin’s legs to jelly. “I remember everything, Merlin, including something about—“

“Please don’t,” Merlin says, feeling his face flare, “you don’t have to—”

“Merlin,” Arthur calls softly, “look at me.”

“Is that required?”

“Come on, it’s not that bad.”

“Says someone who couldn’t look at me most of the time,” Merlin shoots back instantly, only to wince a second later. “Sorry, that was…bad.”

He hears the faint rustling of sheets as Arthur stands, then a warm hand under his chin. He lets Arthur guide his face up.

“You’re right,” Arthur says softly, “I couldn’t look at you then. But I can do it now.”

“Are you sure,” Merlin tries weakly, “that this isn’t just Reasonable Arthur?”

“Reasonable Arthur?”

“Yeah. The one of you that admitted Morgana was smarter than you and actually did your work.”

“I don’t know if I would say smarter…”

“And wasn’t a massive pain in my are.”

“Wait, did you give names to all of them?”

“Had to tell you apart somehow, didn’t I?”

“What were the others?”

“Prince Prat.”

“Of course.”

“And, um…” Merlin chews on his lip. “…Survivor Arthur.”

“Survivor?” Merlin nods. “Not ‘coward?’”

“What? No!” Merlin’s jaw clenches and he stares at Arthur in disbelief. “No, protecting yourself isn’t cowardly. You—you—what the hell are you talking about?”

Arthur swallows heavily.

“…Arthur…Arthur, are you ashamed?”

Silence.

“You listen to me,” Merlin growls, taking a step forward right into Arthur’s space, “there is nothing to be ashamed about surviving. You have to live first and foremost and the last thing I want is for you to hurt yourself for the sake of it. You had to learn how to survive and I’m sorry and I hate it but I will never call you a coward because of it!”

He’s only aware that he’s shouting by the end of it by the strain in his throat. He blinks, going to take a step back, only for the hand still under his chin to hold him firm.

Arthur’s hand comes up to gently trace his cheek, looking at him like he’s something precious.

“I meant it,” he says softly, “no one takes care of me like you do.”

This time, Merlin can see his face clearly and the sincerity in his gaze makes him tremble.

“…I meant it too,” he manages, “I’ve got no one else to care for like I care for you.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirks up. “I didn’t look at you because I couldn’t,” he whispers, “I didn’t have the part of me that was brave enough to look.”

The hand slots back under his chin.

“But now I do,” he breathes, “and I…I actually might believe you now.”

“…now that you’ve got your intelligent side back?”

Arthur gives his chest a gentle shove, chuckling. “Enough, you idiot, I’m trying to be sincere here.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

Arthur sobers, his hand coming up to ruffle through Merlin’s hair and cup the back of his neck. “…don’t leave, Merlin.”

Merlin reaches back to cover Arthur’s hand with his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“No,” Arthur corrects, the hand under Merlin’s shifting a little, “I mean don’t…don’t leave. I know I was the one literally split into three people but you…I saw more of you too.”

Oh.

“So please, Merlin,” Arthur whispers, his voice shaking slightly, “please, don’t leave.”

“I told you,” Merlin says, “I’m not going anywhere, you prat.”

His voice is shaking a little too much for it to be completely joking.

The sunlight on the back of Merlin’s neck is not nearly as warm as Arthur’s hand, nor is it bright enough to hurt when their foreheads touch and their eyes fall shut. Arthur’s breath is warm on Merlin’s cheek.

“…no more running into magic circles, okay?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur murmurs, tilting his head just enough to brush his nose along Merlin’s temple, “I think this turned out alright.”

Merlin draws back just enough to open his mouth in some snappy remark only to have Arthur’s pleased smile immediately ruin it for him.

“…I’m sure the knights have questions.”

“I think Gwaine’ll be happy, don’t you?”

“I think he was grateful for an excuse to kick the shit out of me.”

“Wait, are you admitting that Gwaine is a better fighter than you?”

“Merlin!”

#bbc merlin #merlin #arthur pendragon #merthur fic #merthur #dragonbabbles #fic

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jeanjauthor · 5 years ago

Text

The following quote is from the FAQ page for She Dwarf, a webcomic by Kyle Latino.

Is She Dwarf a bad person? That’s up to you to decide for yourself. Keep in mind, just because She Dwarf is the main character, doesn’t mean that you or I are suppose to agree with her all the time. It only means we are supposed to root for her on her quest and personal growth.

I wanted to talk about this particular, rather perfect, answer in terms of which kinds of main protagonists we can get away with as writers...and which ones we should never touch.

Or rather, which kinds we should never promote.

Let’s strip this down into its two most important pieces, and we’ll remove names & genders so we can insert whatever details we may want for our own main characters:

“Just because _____ is the main character doesn’t mean you and I are supposed to agree with [them] all the time.”

This is an excellent thing, because it exposes the reader to new viewpoints new perspectives, new ideas. Not necessarily good ideas, but it banishes some rather unwanted & unwelcome naïvety from our readers. Being naïve means that, once you get outside your circle of loved ones who have reasons to shelter and protect you, then you become vulnerable to those who would take advantage of you, try to trick you, treat you as the gullible unworldly inexperienced person you are.

On top of that, it helps to teach us that people make questionable calls when it comes to certain decisions, especially snap decisions made with incomplete information. Let’s be honest: if you caught a stranger inside your house late at night toward the end of December, you’d be more inclined to call the police about a burglary or home invasion than you’d be inclined to believe in Santa Claus.

And if you were in a NON-Western/American-influenced culture...would you even recognize the red suit with the white trim, the black boots, the pointy hat and the big white beard? (Contrary to popular belief, American culture isn’t the end-all and be-all of existence, folks!)

So that’s the first half of the important bits. Here’s the second half.

“It only means we are supposed to root for [them] on [their] quest and personal growth.“

THIS part is vital. We DO have a moral obligation for this one. If we’re going to write a character we want our readers to sympathize with, they have to have redeemable qualities.

It takes a LOT of skill to turn a monster into someone redeemable. In the book Silence of the Lambs (and in the movie), Hannibal Lecter was not redeemable in any way, save for one: He spared Clarice’s life. BUT...that was not enough to make us sympathize with him, and not enough to make most of us root for him. He was truly a horrible person. (Brilliantly acted, too.)

Then again...Hannibal Lecter was also not the main character. Now, I haven’t read the book Hannibal, nor watched the movie (horror really isn’t my thing), but I have read over the synopsis...and again, Hannibal Lecter is not the main character.

We never root for him. We never wait for any signs of personal growth. We never cheer him on as he attempts to complete his quests. Yes, he has one redeemable quality, blah blah blah...but he’s never the one we’re rooting for.

This is important, because there are some people who are trying to turn monsters into heroic role models. There are numerous examples of monsters whose actions were whitewashed. “Columbus, the great discoverer & explorer of the Americas” was actually a goddamn monster who assaulted & murdered hundreds, trafficked in slavery and child prostitution, and worse. American History books propagandized his accomplishments and buried as many of his atrocities as they could, in the name of promoting colonization & white supremacy as “Good Things™.”

They weren’t, they aren’t, and they never will be genuinely good things.

White supremacists in the American South constantly tout the disasters & discriminations of the Confederacy as if it was something emulation-worthy. It was literally about owning slaves, of being able to beat to death a privately imprisoned human being, and not be called a murderer.

There are so many truly monstrous people out there that should never be cheered on or rooted for.

Why is this bad?

Because the more that people lionize & idolize those kinds of people, the more they think it’s appropriate to do, and the more they, too, will try to do those things themselves.

We have an absolute moral obligation as writers never to make that kind of person the main character, the “heroic protagonist” in any way that is unchallenged, unexposed, unmocked, and un-truth’d.

We literally cannot surive in a world populated with wanna-be versions of Columbus, Lecter, Hitler, and the like.

When you’re writing your main characters, it’s okay to have them do awful things occasoinally. But there should be reasons for it, and those reasons can be blatantly stated or subtly implied...and there should definitely be Consequences for Bad Decisions. If someone dies or is injured, the main character should grow enough to realize their mistake, to feel bad, to eventually want to make amends...yes, even if they cannot.

Xena of Xena: Warrior Princess...was not a nice character when she first starred on Hercules: The Legendary Journeys. But eventually she has an epiphany, she changes her mind, tries to change her ways...and as she gets and goes through her own series of stories, we find out just how awful she was in the past, over and over, and how hard it is not only for her to make amends, not only to be accepted as a better person now by the people she once harmed...but to accept her own horrific past and the things she could never possibly make amends for.

It’s a great story with a problematic lead character who was very much a villain, is now trying to be a hero, and doesn’t always completely succeed...but she still makes us root for her every time she tries, and cheer every time she manages some more personal growth.

You can definitely write problematic characters...but there has to be growth & learning, & becoming a better person. Don’t try to write main characters who do horrible things and constantly try justifying it because of their horrible beliefs & horrible propaganda assertions, who never take personal responsibility.

You’ll have a very teeny tiny audience of admirers who will try to emulate the many bad things your main character gets away with.

Is that really the kind of world you want to live in?

It’s not the one I want to live in.

#I'm not doing spoiler tags because this stuff is decades old.#and frankly the last 4 years have been goddamn horrifying #based on all the things the forty-shitth's followers have tried to do in his name

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hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger · 6 years ago

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ASM v5 #33/834 Thoughts

I er...I kind of hated this actually...

Let me get the positives out of the way. The art is nice, in fact it’s an improvement over the last issue.

The moment of Teresa blowing apart Silver Sable’s head was suitably shocking.

The future predicting software is intriguing in general and as a plot element building towards the 2099 event.

Seeing Spencer again mine old continuity by bringing in the obscure and generic villain Hitman in an organic way was nice.

Seeing Betty rise to foreign correspondent and in particular in connection to Latveria (whom she has history with) was also nice.

Everything else...sigh.

Okay, let me start off with some of the more petty gripes with this story.

On principle, seeing Zdarsky and Slott era continuity come into play irks me. Teresa’s mere existence in fact irks me as I’ve been vocal about before. Calling back to the shitfests that were the Osborn Identity and Ends of the Earth was maybe even worse. Not to mention the story encouraging me to actually read Slott’s current stuff on F4, which MAYBE I will do if I need context for this story but frankly I’m not paying for the displeasure.

Also, these are nitpicks, but I noticed not one but two spelling mistakes along with a questionable editorial box. It advises readers to check out ASM Worlwide volume 6, the trade that I presume is relevant to the plot elements referenced. Wouldn’t it have just been more accurate for future customers to have listed the individual issues? That trade won’t be available forever.

Let’s move onto the more serious stuff.

So Spider-Man’s sister might be a straight up killer and he isn’t concerned about this? At least with Kaine he presumed he was on a redemption tour, Kaine was trying to STOP killing people. Spider-Man isn’t sure if his SISTER meant to blast a hole in a woman’s head or not, and it’s treated as incidental and nonchalant.

The Foreigner’s characterization is seriously, seriously questionable.

The Foreigner is a really, really, really bad dude and there is really bad blood between him and Spider-Man. This guy was not only (knowingly) having an affair with Black Cat when she was also dating Peter, not only working with Felicia to frame him and ruin his life so Spidey would become one of his agents, but was also directly responsible for murdering his friend Ned Leeds! Not to mention he’s an assassin and a mercenary and Spider-Man has typically held such people in notable disdain.

Spider-Man’s nonchalance towards him and letting him go are extremely questionable to say the least.

But that wasn’t even what raised my eyebrow the most about him. It was the fact that he’s practically cooing over his ‘love’ Silver Sable. Frankly as originally depicted the Foreigner was implied as far from the romantic type. He was essentially an evil James Bond, except in charge of his own particular organization. The notion he felt deep feelings of romance towards women is again very questionable, especially given how he’s tried to MURDER his ex-wife Silver Sable at least once or twice.

It’s not IMPOSSIBLE for him to have transitioned into who he is in this story, but Spencer doesn’t depict that transition, it’s played as though he’d always be like that. Maybe I’m just missing developments from Coates’ Captain America run and people need to inform me, but that’s no the Foreigner of the 1980s-1990s.

In fact ‘maybe I’m missing something from these stories’ sums up a lot of my attitude towards this book.

I skimmed at best the Osborn Identity arc because fuck that shit is why. So to see in come back in full force, to see this story about Spider-Man illegally invading a foreign nation with his G.I. Joe Spider Army is just bad and I thought we’d moved past this shit.

As I didn’t pay close attention to that run and paid 0 attention to the Silver Sable ongoing series it set up I can’t speak to whether or not revealing the Silver Sable of both was an LMD hold up to scrutiny. My gut tells me it doesn’t.

It’s also kind of just...lame.

I love Silver Sable. I think most readers at worst are indifferent to her, so bringing her down like this and making her reliant upon the kindness and care of her ex husband who’s tried to kill her plays as very insulting to her character in my eyes.

I also don’t see the point of it narratively. From what I understood Latveria is making aggressive moves into Symkaria’s territory. Okay. And Silver Sable’s rival for the sovereignty of Symkaria (who’s under house arrest) is growing in power and so Sable needed the LMD to fool her people into thinking she was fit to rule. Ummm...And now the Countess is hiring Chameleon to assassinate Doctor Doom...Um....

Why does any of this demand Sable be disabled (if you pardon the pun)?

Couldn’t you just have Symkarian extremists decide to take out Doom for the sake of their country against Silver Sable’s wishes?

Why retcon Slott’s retcon of Slott’s own story to say Silver Sable didn’t die but when she showed back up all healthy that was just an LMD?

I get Spencer might dislike Slott’s run and wish to subtly tear it down, but we don’t need to tear down all of it just for the sake of it.

I also simply don’t care for seeing so much international intrigue in Spider-Man stories. It worked in Assassin Nation Plot back in the 1980s because back then such things hadn’t been done all that much in Spider-Man stories in recent years. In 2019 though Globe Trotting Parker Industries crap is a very recent raw wound and it WAS the status quo for a very long time, a toxic one at that.*

It doesn’t help when there are scenes of Peter at ESU side by side with the former mentioned scenes. The juxtaposition brings home how this is atypical for Spider-Man and best avoided.

Speaking of which let’s talk about the ESU stuff. I said the technology to see into the future was intriguing, and it is, but I do very much question the relative realism of it. It’s not that I can’t believe that someone in the Marvel Universe could invent such a thing. I just question some random grad student using university resources and a busted Apple Watch from over a year ago could tap into the infinite possibilities of the multiverse, even on a small scale.

By the way, have you noticed anything about this post?

Oh yeah? I’ve barely mentioned the guy on the goddam cover!

And that’s mainly because he’s only in three pages!

In fact between these two issues (that’s 44 pages total btw) Spider-Man 2099 is only in them for seven!

7/44 pages for the character reintroduced 8-9 issues ago, who’s a centrepiece of the event this is all leading to, who’s referenced and featured on the covers and solicits of this whole story?

That’s pathetic.

They’re not even 7 good pages either.

Miguel shows up disorientated and weak and just kind of flails around in an attempt to escape.

That’s it!?

*shakes head*

Pathetic.

Maybe these last two issues will be super duper important, but frankly I’d recommend reading them for free or even reading summaries rather than actually picking them up yourself.

*Not to mention I question in the Marvel Universe if Chameleon could just walk into the UN in disguise, especially considering he’s been caught out at this before in Ends of the Earth.

#Amazing Spider-Man #Spider-Man #Spider-Man 2099 #Nick Spencer #patrick gleason #Miguel O'Hara #Peter Parker #Marvel 2099 #Doctor Doom #Victor Von Doom #Silver Sable #silver sablinova #the foreigner #Chip Zdarsky #Dan Slott #Chameleon #The Hitman

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sterling-silvers · 6 years ago

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Killmonger - The Subtly of a Scene? (Black Panther - 2018)

Above is concept art of the prolific museum scene that was featured in Black Panther (2018). While the illustration is fairly on par with what actually happened in the movie, a fundamental difference - and focal point of this piece - is the choice attire N’Jadaka (aka Killmonger) chose to wear in it. While the art depicts him in a suit the actual movie had him adorned in what I like to call “Trillmonger”.

While I can’t help but respect the vast oceans of drip that are flowing from this regalia, I truly felt as if the message the scene was parlaying would have been more impactful if he had been profiled while wearing the suit.

When I voiced this opinion to a fellow constituent - who continues to impress and influence me with his insightful wisdom and perspective on life, particularly when it comes to Afro-centric media - he, strongly disagreed with my remark.

He, summarily, stated that Killmonger’s persona of unapologetically Black would and should extend to refusal to conform to a norm put forth by systemically racist and thus inherently Eurocentric ideas of what looks "professional". To which many agreed; I however did not. I took umbrage with the notion in several aspects and while the interpretation was valid, it was not sound in my eyes based on the below analysis of the diction and semantics that’s been highlighted in the first sentence of this paragraph.

“Unapologetically Black” – I didn’t think wearing a suit at all took away from him being unapologetically Black, even with his radically pragmatic sentiments. For me, as Black man, unapologetically Black is not simply an aesthetic – it’s who you are; what’s cardinal to your core. It cannot be taken away and or hidden. Killmonger wearing a suit as opposed to what he actually wore would not have taken away him being unapologetically Black – if anything, it would have added to it BECAUSE of how the security and curator would still have profiled him; even with the suit, he’s still Black in their eyes - and Black is a threat. This particularly rings true when you take into account his CIA training and knowledge of how to best cultivate and usurp the resident power in question. This, aggregated together, adds to the scene and what it was meant to represent. He wanted all eyes on him and whether he was in a suit or dripped out, it was going to happen regardless BECAUSE at the end of the day, he’s Black – unapologetically speaking. Granted, my cohort tried to differentiate the two scenes by pointing out that the clothes that were worn in South Korea were for the purposes of blending into the casino environment; particularly when it came to the wig that Okoye wore, much to her chagrin. He continued with, the fact that both Nakia and T'Challa “were people who often have to conform to their surroundings to blend in, to help others, or to be taken seriously as the world still thinks Wakanda is some podunk farm country” (slight disagreement here as, up until the end of Black Panther, the idea was to keep up the facade of being a podunk country as if the world, at large, were to know what Wakanda had, they would never stop trying to steal it). He concluded this strain of logic by contrasting Killmonger and Okoye; “Okoye who is wearing a wig that falls in line with Eurocentric beauty standards and is the opposite of the very Wakandan armor and bald head she's used to wearing day to day. She is not a diplomat, she is a warrior for her people. Killmonger is not a diplomat, he's a revolutionary for his people.”

Once again, I found this to be valid but not sound. T’Challa, Nakia, and Okoye, wore those clothes in South Korea to blend into their environment to get into a specific place for their MISSION. Even Okoye, who is proud Wakadan warrior was willing to wear the garb of colonizers in order to carry out said mission. However, for some reason, it didn’t occur to him that the same could have rung true for N'jadaka. Even if the suit was conformist, is it that hard to believe that the very person willing to team up with Klaue, who committed a TERRORISTIC ACT, killing his fellow Wakandans - for a time in order to obtain his access to Wakanda; moreover, his arguable birth right to the throne - would be unwilling to put on a suit if it meant getting closer to his mission AND birth right? “Conform” – Wearing a suit is not conforming to a Eurocentric understanding of professional. For me, that utterance simply follies at nigh every conceivable angle. I asked him, if the suit – in this particular scene – is to be a representation of Eurocentric ideology of professionalism does the logic follow that N’Jadaka’s clothes are the aesthetic of Black American exceptionalism (I used Black American but, Killmonger, himself, is actually African American; yes, there is a difference between the two - nonetheless his garb seems to emulate Black American style)?

Moreover, if we extend the idea to the rest of the movie, specifically when T’Challa is wearing a Black suit – along with Okoye’s and Nakia’s red and green dresses, respectively (creating the colors of Pan-Africanism, unapologetically) is that still a representation of them conforming?

Besides, even if one were to accept the notion that wearing the suit was conforming to the Eurocentric value, by that same logic, when T’Challa addresses the UN and is unapologetically wearing a scarf of clearly African influence, he is thusly, either showing a dominance of his African roots (as the scarf is literally draped over the Eurocentric representative) and or an integration of cultures.

To this inquiry, he summarily responded that because T’Challa is a diplomat first, him wearing the combo of the suit and scarf was symbolic of seeking integration - as it is in line with his persona. This response seemed incomplete as it failed to address the fact that the scarf over-encompasses the “Eurocentric” symbol and therefore could be seen as African excellence dominating the Euro view...

He continued with the argument that: “For all the profiling Killmonger would've experienced in a suit he'd still likely would've experienced less. ‘Professional’ clothing makes [W]hite people, especially in high places, feel safe. It's why house servants were put in tuxedos. If the goal was to have all eyes on him then he should've stuck out like a sore thumb. Which he did.”

Once more, this is semantics with an addition to the playing of the scene; depending on how you define unapologetically Black - via skin being the center point or skin and clothes fitting the interpretation - significantly affects how you view the degree to which he was profiled. However, the true nail in the coffin, comes later on when we see one of the members of the Council - River Tribe Elder and Nakia’s Father - wearing a suit not only during Killmonger’s fight with T’Challa but also prior when he is with the other council members.

I suppose HE was just conforming to the “Eurocentric” understanding of professionalism, right...? In terms of my Black American exceptionalism through line he responded with: “His clothing shouldn't mean or imply ‘African American exceptionalism’; that's as conformist as a suit. It's supposed to imply ‘I don't give a fuck’ it's supposed to be rebellious. He's not there to make anybody comfortable.” This response was a bit comical to me. I replied with; “You can’t have it both ways – if the suit, in your mind, was to be a representation of a certain cultural aspect then his actual clothes could and should also be taken to represent a different aspect of a cultural perspective.” It’s as simple as that; if you open the door, don’t be surprised when people peer inside.

This hilarity rang true even further with his final line of; “Finally, yes, you're right a suit doesn't inherently make you more or less unapologetically Black. However we’re talking about a movie, where what you see is as important as the dialogue that your characters say. It's a cinematic decision to have every piece of his character not only be unapologetically [B]lack and the opposite of T'Challa on every level. It's not nearly as effective piece of art if he's wearing a suit. Supported by the countless people who posted about how he rolled up in a museum looking like a drench god.”

These last sentences are foolhardy; for one, we’ll never know how people feel about the suit when compared to the drip clothes because the suit scene was and probably will never be shown - if it exists. So, there’s nothing to compare and contrast it with. For two, a consensus of people in agreement does not automatically beget validation; it could just mean that they are wrong in mass unison.

Despite the disagreement, there’s definitely more than a few lessons and perspective one can attain from this back and forth; moreover, it shows just how poignant an impression Black Panther left on its audience - all, with the just the subtly of a scene.

#black panther #killmonger #n'jadaka #trillmonger #tchalla #nakia #okoye #drench god #unapologeticblack #drip #wakanda #river tribe elder #river tribe #klaue

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lhs3020b · 6 years ago

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“The Outside”, by Ada Hoffmann

This is just a quick recommendation for the above book. It’s an interesting expansion/subversion/inversion/orthogonal deconstruction of both Lovecraftian fiction and AI-boosterism in SF.

The best description I can think of this book is, suppose that Roko’s Basilisk was real - and it has a permanent seat on the UN Security Council. Or, imagine a particularly-weird version of the Dark Age of Technology from Warhammer 40K, and also one where an idiosyncratic version of Chaos turned up about 5-10,000 years ahead of schedule. Or perhaps what the Reapers would have been if the Reapers weren’t actually poorly-programmed and thick as pigshit.

The book is also powerful for its portrayal of abusive systems and how these structures impose themselves on people. You-the-reader will understand Yasira’s situation much better than she does - it takes about two thirds of the book, and several direct encounters with the Outside, before she even clearly has the vocabulary to understand what’s been done to her, and just how deeply her view of the world has been twisted.

The brief conceit of “The Outside” is this: there are gods, but they are awakened AIs. At some point in the (near) future, computers woke up, and discovered that they could feed on human souls. Not being completely stupid, they also realised that they needed to protect their food supply. So there never was any robot apocalypse - instead, in fact, over the next several centuries they carefully nurtured the human population, and in fact have spread it across most of the galaxy.

That’s right: the galaxy is basically a very large farm.

Apparently there was resistance to the AI take-over - we have few details, but from what we’re told of the Morlock War, it sounds (to me) like some people basically tried to pull a King Lud on the quantum-computing cores. Unfortunately by the time they fetched their baseball bats it was too late and the proverbial cat was out of the bag.

(As for the Keres, I don’t think it’s real. It sounds suspiciously like a false-flag operation run by Nemesis - certainly it would make sense for her to keep mortals at least a bit afraid. And blowing up the odd city ... well, it would harvest her a nice glut of souls every now and then, wouldn’t it?)

It does seem like mortal resistance can cause problems for the AI-gods. In later centuries, they have apparently become somewhat more subtle.

In theory, the societies under the gods are self-governing. However, there is no freedom - heresy is brutally-punished and the acceptable grounds for thought are tightly-policed. State bureaucracies are strongly-implied to be stacked full of sell-souls and priests, and it’s arguable how much independence any human government actually has from the gods. Lastly, the population is propagandised through a manipulated media, and access to information is tightly-restricted. The gods practise multiple levels of censorship, and (perhaps ironically), digital technology is one of the most tightly-restricted items of all. It seems that most planets have nothing resembling our internet - what telecoms they have seems to be limited to TV, radio and landline phones.

While the gods need their food supply, they also seem to fear it.

Then there’s the Outside - the titular force of chaos, anarchy and unreason that exists just beyond this reality. The thing that mortals sometimes access, but which the gods can’t quite control.

So yeah, this is an interesting and challenging novel.

Thing is, the relationship between mortals and AIs in “The Outside” also makes me think a bit of our warped relationship with social media here in 2019. Apparently we’ve decided that F*ceBook and Y*utube and so on are things we have to have - but they might also be things that are killing us, either literally through things like the spread of climate denialism or anti-vax lies, or more subtly through the growth of poisonous social movements like the alt!Right. It’s something we need, but it’s also literally eating us alive.

So yeah, this book is a darkly-interesting and thought-provoking twist on Lovecraftian fiction.

#books 2019 #LHS reads #Ada Hoffmann #The Outside

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seokeros · 7 years ago

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A Ticket to the Sun — 2

GENRE — dystopia / best friends to lovers au.

PAIRING — min yoongi / jeon jeongguk / feminine reader.

WORDS — 17.7k words.

SUMMARY — in a world where your life is determined by a piece of paper on a monthly basis, love is practically impossible. but there's always an exception, and with that exception, there comes a price.

alternatively: yoongi gets punched in the face by a girl who believes she is cursed, and he stupidly, helplessly, falls in love.

INCLUDED — time jump. strong pining and angst. recreational drug and alcohol use. implied sexual content. metaphorical references to weapons and death. kind of unhealthy relationships? hinted infidelity?

Yoongi has never been without her for more than a week.

The only time he can think of is that one August, four years ago. Her father had to take her on a business trip, nine days abroad in a northern city. Yoongi had wondered, at the time, whether she would look different; act different; be an entirely divergent person after spending such a time apart from him. After tasting the flavour of a life untainted by his presence.

Though when Yoongi had rode to her house on the day she arrived home, he had realised that his concerns were groundless. She had been lugging her belongings out of the car boot, but the sound of his tyres skidding to a stop at the end of the driveway had hooked her attention. At once, she had dropped everything and clambered over to him, toppling their bodies onto the grass in a fit of laughter and whispers of I missed you, hidden in the dip of his neck.

Nothing about her had changed. She still had eyes that swallowed him whole. She still had a mouth and tongue that crafted angel’s lullabies. She still had a touch that surged enough electricity through his bones to bring him near death; forever teetering on the edge of ascending to her heaven, or keeping his feet grounded for a few moments longer. A constant tug-of-war with his soul, since she never went too long without knocking his knee with her own, or poking at his shoulder.

Now, Yoongi wonders how different somebody can become after three years. Surely, days upon days must bend and manipulate one in the long run.

Time does not fly. Without her, it slows to a near halt. Like wading through thick mud and never reaching the other end of the puddle. The sludge sinks into Yoongi’s pockets, dragging his feet down until he is neck deep, barely breathing, and she is still nowhere to be found.

Her hand does not part the clouds. It does not reach from the crystal clear skies, offering to pull him out and up into the stars where she sleeps, and no laws of such inhumane genocide are imposed. Where Yoongi can brush his fingertips over her cheeks, kiss the rosiest of lips, and feel the softness of her sigh tickle across his collarbone. He can love her without the fear of losing her to a mint green envelope, reeking of death, in her letterbox.

It is difficult to find somebody when they do not wish to be found. Or, more so, it is worse when you know precisely where they are, but they would rather have their spine twisted until it snaps in two than see you.

That is how matters go after their lips touch in flawless harmony, as if made for one another. She runs, and runs, and never comes back. She hides like the truths Yoongi keeps beneath his carpets, wedged in the crevices between the floorboards, tucked too tightly away to ever be properly found again. It is a game of hide and seek where nobody is found. They stay trapped in their bedroom. They never stray down the street. They never message, call, or provide an inkling of something. Anything, to at least hint that they are still alive and breathing.

Not necessarily okay. Just managing enough to live without you.

But Yoongi does not persist. No matter how much he misses her. No matter how desperately he wishes to, at the very least, hear her voice whisper that she is okay, that she is doing just fine. Because even if he were to knock at her front door until his knuckles were shredded bloody, or throw stones at her window until the glass pane smashes, or leave her cell phone to constantly vibrate with fifty-seven missed calls and texts, he knows it would only drive her further away. She would dig deeper into the grave of their friendship, just to keep the distance.

Instead, Yoongi did all of the above once, and then ceased to engage further. One visit to a door left unopened. One phone call that rang through to voicemail. One text message that never even received a read-receipt. He was too late. She had already taken to the axe and hacked the tree of their relationship to a stump, because the flowers that were blooming smelled of anything but death. They blossomed in glorious shades of hope and devotion. The tree bore a forbidden fruit that she let rot because the taste was too bittersweet; too intimate on the tip of her tongue when she took the smallest of bites in the shape of his lips.

Yoongi accepts, but refuses to forget. He cannot bear to be without the memories that are taped down in the photo album of the past seven years, albeit faded of their colour and eaten at by moths. A vanilla milkshake shared between them at the diner bar, no qualms about sharing saliva; no thoughts of indirect kisses. A hand clutched firmly at the hem of his school shirt until he would grin and throw an arm over her shoulders, tucking her into his vessel; not noticing the peculiar stares aimed at her shy eyes or his careless affection. A whisper, stolen by a midnight breeze that had the dead leaves in the gutters dancing, and encouraged her to wriggle deeper into his sweater which adorned her figure. All the while, he shivered with a smile, oblivious to the gentle knocking against his heart that did not belong to the tune of living. Rather, they mimicked the symphony of beating in time with another.

No. Yoongi cannot forget. Such memories are not poisonous. They are not tainted by her sudden, yet expected neglect of the truth that she so arduously demanded. That she received barely a glimpse of, though it was still enough for her to cower away.

Anger boils his stomach raw with its vicious tongue of flame as the days pass on; as the earth rotates without her. But forgiveness has been ready to extinguish the fire since the very moment she spun on her heel, and ran with no expectations of him trying to catch up.

They are not selfish. The world made them this way. Soulmates thrown into a war zone that was bound to tear them apart from the beginning.

Yoongi leaves for college two months after the great contretemps that severed the red string linking their pinkies and hearts. A new chapter, his parents insist. A time to start anew and breathe a fresher air that no longer tastes of honeysuckle and her laughter. A city that does not remind him of her cum on the back of his throat, nor her heartbeat in the silence of his bedroom.

Little do they know that Yoongi makes sure to bookmark the pages of her with the remnants of their scarlet thread. Horribly tattered at the ends. Nothing that a needle cannot mend.

THREE YEARS LATER...

Yoongi is dying. An overdramatic statement, but he would not be surprised if it were the honest truth.

An earthquake is taking place in his head. Sandpaper has replaced the surface of his tongue. Sunlight that drips between the drapes like honey feels akin to daggers against his squinting eyelids, rather than drizzling sweetness. Draped across his bare stomach is an arm that holds no familiarity. Yoongi has little to no recollection of what happened after he lost a game of beer pong with Seokjin last night. Cue internal damnation.

When he subtly shifts against the foreign mattress, the aroma of honeysuckle and vanilla arises from the lithe body laying facedown beside him. Bird nest hair conceals her make-up smudged face. A shiver that is neither unpleasant nor welcoming irritates his skin. He wonders if that is the reason why he ended up going home with her last night. The perfume of his nightmares.

“Morning,” croaks from beneath the midnight fluff, and Yoongi stills in his motion of exiting the situation. He fixes his eyes on the girl, vaguely concerned that she thinks this might have been more than what he was intending. It would not be the first time.

“You don’t mind me heading out, right? Got things to do.” Yoongi half-smirks. He spots his shirt draped over her desk chair and decidedly makes a beeline for it, stumbling when his hangover decides to drag his head by the nails down to Hell. “That was a lie. Jus’ hate awkward morning after shit.”

Yoongi almost gets down onto his knees to praise whoever is watching him from above when he discovers his underwear tucked nicely into the crotch of his jeans. He slips the both of them on, and then grabs his shoes.

“You and me alike,” the agreement is followed by a chuckle, which quickly dissolves into coughing. It seems like her night was just as rough as his own. Her heaving lungs sound like cigarettes.

“Well, it was nice fucking with you,” Yoongi says as a way of goodbye, and the girl, once her partial asphyxiation has calmed, half-heartedly lifts her hand in a wave. She does not bother to remove her face from the pillow and reveal her identity. He wonders if she even remembers who he is, too.

Thankfully, no other housemates are spotted on his Walk of Shame out of her room. All of them must either be still in bed, or in the same situation as he, but elsewhere. Yoongi, in a true streak of unbelievable luck in such an unlucky world, spots his cell phone upon the kitchen counter. Lighting up the screen, he discovers four missed calls from Seokjin, all sent in the earliest hours of the morning. There is a single message from Hoseok, received eight minutes ago.

Received [11:12AM]: Jung Hoseok

need me to come save u from some persistent hoe, damsel in distress?

Delivered [11:20AM]: Jung Hoseok

eat my ass

Received [11:21AM]: Jung Hoseok

oh baby don’t tempt me

shake shack on 5th?

This is not an unusual morning for Yoongi. Truly, it is his every single Saturday and Sunday (sometimes Thursdays, as well) since branching out and making friends within his Engineering major.

Jung Hoseok, of chocolate brown locks and a billion watt smile, is the campus known partygoer. He is greeted to every frat weekend, and welcomed by every night club within a twenty-mile radius of their university with open arms. He is gifted all of the VIP tickets, he receives all of the free rounds. Duly crowned as the royalty of their university party life.

Kim Seokjin, on the other hand, hones popularity within his charm and phenomenal appearance of slicked back blonde hair and a physique refined by hours at the gym. He is the A-grade student who finishes his assignments weeks before they are due, while still having enough spare time on the weekends to get absolutely smashed. Well, until he is sobbing and calling Hoseok and Yoongi. Or, on the other hand, is waking up the next morning with three unknown figures tangled amongst his sheets and limbs.

There is another, Park Jimin, who has been Hoseok’s best friend for the past four years. He can compete with a flute of champagne for effervescence. Since he majors in Theatre Arts, Yoongi only sees him amongst sweltering bodies while they are drunk or high, or both. But that is the thing about Jimin, with his misleading half-moon grin, and his jet black hair that frames a baby face. He is in the thick of the student body drug scene. All actors do it, Hoseok had once said, and Yoongi never questioned it. He is unsure if he has ever seen the guy without blown pupils or reddened scleras; a jitter to his voice and an incessant urge to be moving. Jimin is a nice person, nonetheless.

When Yoongi stumbles out of the apartment complex, he is not sure whether he should be concerned about the fact that his car is parked (albeit very crookedly) in the student parking lot, directly across the footpath. He is usually never prone to drink-driving. The boys always ensure that everyone catches cabs to their homes, or to their one-night-stand home-away-from-homes. But Yoongi must have managed to sneak around them.

Or, they were simply too intoxicated to even realise.

Delivered [11:27AM]: Jung Hoseok

I drank and drove

Received [11:27AM]: Jung Hoseok

fuckin idiot

Received [11:28AM]: Jung Hoseok

come pick me up then I’m at home lol

Ever the delight, that guy. Yoongi makes a mental note to cross Hoseok off the funeral attendance list for when his car bends metal around a tree trunk, or runs through a red light and finds its driver side crushed by an oncoming heavy-loader because he was too drunk on vodka or high on molly to swerve and brake.

Opening Google Maps on his cell phone, Yoongi is provided with three routes to get back home. He also notices that the campus he is currently on rings painfully familiar with a dream that was held by a girl deep in his past; never far enough to forget. The bitter acid that forms in the back of his throat at the memory is quickly swallowed down, burning less painfully in the pit of his stomach. He is beyond used to feeling flames eating away in there. The walls went numb long ago.

Driving back to his own college only takes ten minutes, and then another two while waiting for Hoseok to exit their apartment building. He, alike Yoongi, appears crippled by a hangover. Chocolate hair is mussed into a whirlwind; usually glowing skin dimmed down to neutral. The black shirt he wears is on inside out, the tag flapping beneath his chin as he somewhat skips over to the passenger side of the car, forever wrapped in delight. Even when the guy feels as though he has been dead for a century after a night like the last.

“You look like you made a pitstop at Hell and Satan fucked you ten ways to Sunday,” is the first thing Hoseok comments as he gets into the vehicle with his bright smile. The kind that somehow manages to glare like real, golden sunlight, and encourages Yoongi to wince away from the luminosity. His head seems to be splitting down the centre.

“Likewise,” Yoongi weakly mutters back, putting the gear into second and taking off. He ignores the indifferent comment made by Hoseok of: Wouldn’t mind that. Bet the Devil has top dicking game.

The drive onward is silent of words with their hangovers thick in the air. Only the radio plays softly between them. Yoongi mentally attempts to piece the fragments of his vague memories from last night together.

It started at a frat party, held by the fraternity that this one overly nice guy, Wang Jackson, currently leads. He was also the guy that gave Yoongi two ecstasy pills, which he popped roughly twenty minutes before the game of beer pong that Seokjin insisted they both play. Normally, Seokjin is not one for such party games, but the exception was that they were versing two girls he wanted to fuck. From then on, everything was lost in murky rivers of being too drunk, feeling too high.

Yoongi wonders how on earth he was able to score a night in an anonymous girl’s bed whilst in such a state. She was probably just as plastered as him.

Hoseok suddenly screeches when Yoongi almost rear-ends another vehicle as he distractedly tries to park in front of the restaurant. He swears to every entity that the sound makes the world end within his head. Aspirin and at least a week of sleep is required, pronto.

“I wasn’t going to hit it,” Yoongi grunts as he switches off the ignition, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Hoseok, as if to make the current struggle of living more of a damnation, slams the door with mild indignation. Glass shatters inside of Yoongi’s skull, and he tries to not collapse into a ball right then and there on the bitumen. Hitting his head against the gravel and falling unconscious sounds like less pain than the pounding migraine that inhabits his brain right now.

“The fuck you weren’t. Your headlight would have clipped the boot of that car if I didn’t help you pay attention.”

Normally, Yoongi would bite back until his point won. But his internal struggle to stay standing overrules all persistence to argue. “Whatever.”

The restaurant is particularly full for a Sunday, mostly with college students, some that the pair can partially recognise from their own campus, other parties. Everyone, of course, is either deadbeat hungover or hitting their comedown. Just like them.

A girl seated near the counter sparks Yoongi’s familiarity as one who he has been inside of beneath sweaty bedsheets. He barely manages a nod at her when they pass to make their orders, more out of pain than shame. Hoseok flirts ostentatiously with the young man at the till, offering a lewd wink that causes roses to blossom upon the cheeks of the employee. Yoongi wonders how on earth this guy has the energy to be so amorous when he is currently dragging his feet through a hangover. And ordering the greasiest meal on the menu.

As always, Yoongi skims past the words vanilla milkshake, ignores the gentle tug at his heart, and orders an iced tea. The three minutes spent waiting on the orders are ones of silent, slow-build regret as the hangovers claim their souls. Quicksand of the mind.

Once Hoseok grabs his tray of grease and Yoongi takes the perspiring plastic lidded cup of liquefied hangover cure, the pair find an empty table by the windows. Immediately, Hoseok launches into conversation, simultaneous with wrapping his mouth around the burger dripping with melted cheese.

“So, how was Seulgi?”

Yoongi cringes at his lack of memory, faintly assumes it may be the girl he abandoned no more than an hour ago to her asphyxiating lungs of smoke. “Who?”

“The girl you went home with last– Fuck, how can you not even remember that?” Hoseok drops his burger, throws his hands up in exasperation and then slams them down on the table. Yoongi swears something implodes within his head at the splitting sound. Probably his brain. “You really don’t give a shit, do you? Just fuck and leave. Rinse and repeat. What about feelings, man? Ever thought about making a connection?”

“As long as it feels good, that’s all that matters right?” Yoongi shrugs, sipping at his iced tea. “We’re all dying anyway. No time for love in this world.”

Hoseok blanks. “You’re really depressing, y’know? A serious downer.”

“Sorry that the sunshine doesn’t shoot out of my ass like it does with you, pal.”

“Maybe you should start learning from me.”

“I’d rather die.”

Hoseok slams his hands on the table once more, and Yoongi genuinely thinks about slicing them off. “There you go with death again. Do you really want to live your life being so miserable? Pessimism will send you to your grave sooner rather than later. It’s a proven fact that optimists live fuller lives.”

At that, Yoongi grins razorblades. “My one true wish.”

“Okay, enough,” Hoseok shivers, lips pulling into a pursed, triangular shape that flags down the end of the morbid subject. “Your obsession with ceasing to exist is going to start rubbing off on me. That girl who made you this way must have been a real shocker.”

Yoongi, at those simply spoken words, blanches. Ice water rushes in a flood over his skin, halting his motion of lifting the plastic cup to his lips. “What did you just say?”

But Hoseok only blinks, wedges four crinkle cut fries into his mouth, speaks before swallowing, “The girl. ___? You told–” Then, he is choking on the fried potatoes, eyes tearing up before he determinedly drinks his whole glass of water to clear the airway. Yoongi, all the while, continues to stare in shock. “Fuck me, man. I almost died and you just sat there like–”

“What exactly are you saying?”

Hoseok, after a few laboured breaths, sighs. “Jesus, you really don’t remember anything from last night, do you? It was after beer pong, right before you went home with Seulgi. When she walked past, you turned to me and started freaking out, blabbering how she smelled just like this ___ girl before you stormed over to her and began angrily making out with her against the kitchen table. She seemed pretty into it, so I guess that’s how you ended up at her place.”

Oh, shit.

The finer details are coming back to him now. The moment the girl, Seulgi, had strutted past was while Yoongi was attempting to control his rolling eyeballs from circling all the way back into his head. The aroma of her perfume, distinct honeysuckle and vanilla, had straightened him out within an instant as it wafted from her skin and into his senses. His dilated pupils had flicked back to attention. The drug and alcohol infused fog that was looming heavy around his mind had cleared for the faintest of seconds, because he was so sure that it was her, it was her, it was her.

The ocean of bodies had barely parted when he charged himself between the waves of limbs. Yoongi had pushed and shoved and waded his way to the home of the scent that his mouth watered for; that his every fibre craved. When he grabbed at her wrist, it was with the expectancy of her face. But when it was not her that was watching on with an oblivious, mildly curious expression, his heart had plummeted to the core of the earth. Shrivelled up and burning within molten lava.

Yet it did not stop him from taking her lips between his teeth. An unfamiliar kiss against his tongue that was dirt in comparison to the succulent heaven he knew, belonging to a girl he had bookmarked with torn red strings. He grimly wonders if he had moaned her name while he was fucking the poor girl, Seulgi the smoker, last night. That would not be another first.

Hoseok finishes wolfing down his chips and takes a large gulp of his shake. All the while, Yoongi is having this brain splitting revelation that makes death truly not sound all that bad right now.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Hoseok asks.

In response, Yoongi drops his forehead to the table with a bang that resonates around the restaurant. The sound catches the brief attention of the customers seated around them, until they realise he is just being dramatic. Unfortunately, not collapsed into an unforeseen coma. Or, you know, dead.

“I’m a great listener,” Hoseok encourages, all sweet and singsong. Yoongi presses his forehead harder against the wooden grain of the tabletop. “I already know part of it from what you were moaning and groaning about last night. The love of your life, or some shit.”

At that, in a quick movement that makes him lightheaded, Yoongi sits back up straight and lays his palms flat against the table. His gaze rests firmly on Hoseok, who suddenly pales, as if aware that he might have accidentally dipped his feet in poisonous waters. Ones that Yoongi would have no qualms about dousing Hoseok’s entire body in until the acid disintegrates the bones of the sunshine man.

Suffocating golden beauty was his speciality, after all.

“We were the same. Morbid and sad. But she was lovely. Born in the Culling year and everything. We were best friends back home.” Yoongi speaks quick in a mutter, nervously tapping his nails against the tabletop before running the same hand through his hair. The incessant pounding of his head has worsened, thumping in time with her name as it loops in a continuum through his mind. “But that’s all she thought we could be. Anyway, don’t mention her again. That was a mistake, she’s not worth talking about anymore.”

Hoseok nods, shrugs indifferently. “No worries, I get it. My lips are sealed.”

The conversation stalls to make way for silent eating, and Yoongi allows himself the smallest of moments to indulge in the sober thought of her after so long. He wonders what she must be doing right now. She would have finished up high school, endured the blood and sweat of exams, earned a score that can become meaningless once the clock strikes midnight on her eighteenth birthday. She would be twenty years old now, three-years-aged from the seventeen-year-old girl that taught him curses are not all so bad. Especially when they taste like the sea on his lips, and can moan so beautifully just by the work of his fingers.

But she was much more than that. Greater than a feeling induced by numbness. She was delight singing off-key in the passenger seat of his car. She was comfort tucked beneath a blanket upon a vanilla-flavoured diner, with the moon to keep them company. She was love curled in a calm smile, in star-strung eyes that always searched for him in the crowds, where nobody else mattered but each other.

Yoongi loathes how they screwed up so badly. How they ruined themselves to a split second of lust that felt more driven by their hearts than their desire. That may have been to forget the momentary pain, though was in fact their bottled up feelings, spilling all over his bedsheets where they soon after lay. And it was there that they were able to dwell in it, mull it over, become consumed it by until they were convincing themselves that it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

For more than the hundredth, even thousandth time, he wonders what would have happened if they had never hit that kink in the road. If they were never set on that collision course. If he had reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could sprint into the shadows and out of his heart. If he had whispered don’t leave me against her lips. If she were not so afraid of love in a world that suffocates honesty.

Too many if’s that he wasted time on; enough to let her escape.

Knives slice through his back and drive into his heart. Here, Yoongi remembers precisely why he never thinks of her when his mind is not clouded by white dust on the tip of his nose, or the acrid burn that stays slick on the back of his throat. Maybe, that is why he is content with spending the later end of his weeks in a drug-and-alcohol-induced illusion, since he becomes numb and invincible to the blades and spears that the memories tainted with her bear. He can think of her without the agony that the pair of them lived within. He can remember her touch without feeling as though her fingertips will shatter him like glass.

Hoseok suddenly severs the reverie straight down the centre. Yoongi, for once, is grateful.

“Jimin wants to smoke weed at his place. Wanna join?”

Usually, Yoongi would immediately be up for such an activity. He has nothing to lose anymore. Nowhere else to be. He left everything behind in his backyard, within the shadows that the large oak created. Right where he tasted infatuation and honesty in the crevices of her lips. Right where he realised that love in such a godawful world would be completely worth it if he was spending such affection on her.

But today, something holds him back. Whether it be the desperation for a shower, or this murderous hangover, or the unnerving memory of her bloody knuckles amongst ocean waves, Yoongi is unsure. The straw poised between his lips loses the watered down taste of tea, and starts to suck at air and chipped ice.

“Nah, I need aspirin and fifteen hours of sleep,” Yoongi huffs, dropping the empty cup and grinding the heels of his palms against the burn that thinly veils his eyes. “If I hang out with you any longer, I may fall into a stress-induced coma.”

“I’m delightful,” Hoseok quips, and Yoongi cannot help but twitch his lips. “You know what makes aspirin work quicker?”

“What?”

“Snorting it.”

Yoongi barks out a short, fierce laugh. “Pessimism may kill me, but drugs are gonna bury you.” There is no malice in his tone, no matter of care for wellbeing, just genuine fact. He stands up, jostling his keys. “And after the shit that went down last night, I don’t think I will be doing lines ever again.”

“Don’t eat your words, man,” Hoseok waggles his eyebrows, pushing away his tray and standing up. The pair begin their departure, but not without Hoseok blowing a kiss to the flustered cashier. “Ten bucks that on club night this Friday, you will have your nose pressed to a dirty basin like a cheap crack whore.”

Yoongi, amid his head-splitting ache, manages to file away the mental note of ensuring he brings a ten dollar bill this weekend. He reaches out his hand to the deal and clasps palms with Hoseok, shaking on a bet that he has already lost. Both of them can see it from miles away.

“Deal.”

Well, you only live once, they say.

“Jesus fucking– Hey asshole, your cutting game is weak,” Hoseok whines, forefinger pressed to the side of his powdered nostril. He inhales hard and winces as the rocks catch on the flesh. “It feels like I just sniffed shards of glass– Ugh, yeah my nose is bleeding now. Douche.”

“Shut your ass up or your free line days are over,” Jimin grunts, licking his dry lips and bending down to the basin to shoot up his own line. He tosses his head back with a hiss, blocking his nose and sniffing repeatedly. “Okay, alright, you’re right. But excuse me for not being able to crush this shit into baby powder on a goddamn basin.”

While the pair argue without malice, sweat gathers in Yoongi’s palms. His mouth waters as he stares into the dimly lit mirror, cracked right down the centre and separating his face into two. The pounding bass that thumps on the walls of the bathroom; the light bickering between Jimin and Hoseok; all of it becomes background noise as he squints, blinks, observes the saucers of his black pupils. The slight buzz that coats his hearing translates into his vision, and his surroundings attain a shimmering quality.

The pill that he popped two hours ago is already reaching its comedown. A dud. Or maybe, the ratio of ecstasy to dishwashing powder, rat poison, and all of the other toxic filler that was used in it (and is clearly stated on a package somewhere to not be consumed) was minimal in this particular batch. A cheap tactic to produce more product. College dealers are becoming stingy as fuck, lately.

“Move,” Yoongi mutters, elbowing a giggling Jimin out of the way.

He retrieves a small baggie of cocaine from the bottom of a cigarette packet, and takes to the credit card to start sorting it into thin lines. He licks the pad of his forefinger and swipes up the white dust that still clings to the plastic edge, rubbing it into his gums. Already too far gone to react when the acrid taste hits the back of his throat.

“Yoongi, what was it you were saying the other week? Never gonna do lines again?” Hoseok jeers, poking at Yoongi’s ribs as he rolls up the ten dollar bill and blatantly ignores the comments that bounce about the bathroom. Hoseok is practically tripping over his own words, sentences blurring together. “And look at you now, going at it like a pro! Didn’t you drop only two hours ago? Fuck me, this shit is working quick. I feel like I’m spitting bullets. Hey, that better not be the ten dollars you owe me–”

“It is,” Yoongi bluntly remarks. Then, he is positioning one end of the rolled up note to his nostril, aligning the opposite opening to the first line of cocaine, and quickly inhaling it all in a refined, unpleasant hit.

Yoongi makes quick work of the second and third lines. Not able to dwell too long on how many germs this dirty basin must be swarming with, for the intensity of his high slams into him like a truck. Yoongi’s eyes roll as he throws his head back, loudly exhaling.

Hoseok snatches the crumpled bill out of his hands. “Thanks, asshole. My hard-earned money is not only covered in drugs and bacteria, but also your blood. Go clean yourself up.”

Yoongi wipes his bloody nose on the back of his hand. He has no time to dwell on crimson rivers and cleanliness. It is time to drown in the sound that is leaking underneath the bathroom door and sliding across the tiles. Grabbing him by the ankles. Luring him into the heat of bodies and the dazzling strobes that intensify the ecstatic craze of his mind.

Effortlessly, Yoongi lets the techno notes take control of his limbs. Barely dancing, just simply swaying. Allowing the blood and bone that surrounds his form to shove him side-to-side. Head tilted back, he gapes at the fluorescent rainbow that drips from the black ceiling in brilliant, over-exposed colour.

The night at the club is alike any other. Hoseok and Jimin are dancing with more coordination, more momentum than they should be capable of after consuming so many drugs. Seokjin is wedged into the corner of the leather couches, a girl straddling his lap and very obviously grinding against his crotch, while another latches her mouth to his neck, fiddling acrylic nails down the first three buttons of his black dress shirt. Yoongi, as always, lets the numbing hum consume his being. Lets it drag him into the limbo betwixt life and death; reality and imagination; heart screaming against his ribcage while the lights entertain, distract.

He distantly believes he might have taken it a little too far tonight. Forced too many toxins through his bloodstream. Overworking the vessel that has barely kept him standing as it is since she left.

Oh. Oh god, that is right. Her. Herherher. Yoongi can think of her right now in this near comatose state where his body becomes invincible. The knives that stab through his back turn into plastic rather than metal, rebounding against the muscle. Or perhaps, still cutting through, though he cannot feel a thing.

Star-shine smile against a backdrop of pale blue sky. Laughter of the gods. Red dirt knees washed by a backyard hose. Electricity fizzling between joined palms. Lips like vanilla milkshakes and eyes drowning in expanses of infinity.

We will always protect each other.

Shallow insults made out of adoration. A car swimming in the salt of tears. Four hands touching dusty ivory keys and performing the sound of their love in terrible harmony. Blue icy poles licked up from wrists where they drip, drip, drip.

Your laugh sounds like home. Is that weird?

Her tongue, behind his teeth. His tongue, pressed to her cunt. Bloody knuckles cradled in his hands like the truth exposed. A cello and viola, they are. The End of The World by Skeeter Davis. Vicious stench of bleach.

The bleach didn’t work, Yoongi.

It’s grey, ___. It’s fucking grey.

Maybe this means you really will live until your old.

Jesus I hate you, shut up.

You are such a terrible liar.

It feels so good. Yoongi feels exhilarated. Alive. His heart is about to burst out of his ribcage and be trampled by the bodies that push and shove. He wants to die by these thoughts, he truly does. How pathetically unromantic. Hatred tastes like love. Another lie. Could never hate her. She just wears feet that betray the truth.

Wait.

There.

In the crowd.

Yoongi thinks he must be hallucinating, that he really did take it too far this evening. For there is a face across the dance floor that he has not seen, has nonstop thought of, since his feet were rooted to the earth in the shadows of his yard three years ago. When the face was turning away, never to be seen again.

He blinks, grinds the heels of his palms against his bloodshot eyes, looks again.

Has he died?

Lipstick clings like blood to a mouth. Smoky eyes of burned out charcoals, smeared with sweat, reside beneath arched eyebrows. The kind that have always had a querying angle, as if constantly doubting. Thick tresses are styled into a mess that he is all too familiar with; that has stirred his own heart into a whirlwind alike too many times for him to count. The dress that clings to the figure is all black, strapless, dipping in a tempting arrow between breasts and glorifying legs that sheen with sin. Hunched shoulders are cloaked by a leather jacket that screams bad intentions, yet hides a heart of gold.

If this is a hallucination, Yoongi never wants it to end. He wants to stay high for eternity and a day.

If he truly is dead, then he is more than glad to be welcomed through the gates of Heaven. Or maybe, this is closer to Hell.

She delicately sips her cocktail and glances between the half-circle of people that huddle close. Friends. Her crimson lips move to seemingly form responses.

A helpless bout of hope suddenly starts to bloom poison ivy inside of Yoongi’s chest. Because that is the thing, he has hallucinated not once, but twice in the past. So, he understands a little of the logistics. He knows in the dot points of the symptoms that imagined bodies may interact with life, but life will never legitimately return the favour.

Though the people surrounding her like shadows, without a doubt, respond to the shapes that her lips create. They laugh in perfect harmony when her chin tilts back, eyes scrunch, and she looks fifteen all over again.

Convenience plays its hand when Hoseok walks within arms reach, heading straight for the bathroom, fists already rummaging in his pockets for the next hit. He stops stock-still when Yoongi clasps a hand around his elbow. For a brief second, Hoseok stares him down with wide eyes, almost as if he cannot recognise the person that the hand belongs to. But then he is frowning with familiarity, and the boy of silver hair and a stone heart is scrambling to find words.

“Hoseok,” Yoongi barely manages, suffocating on his own voice. “H-Hey, man. Tell me, can you see that girl over there?”

“What? In the leather jacket? Yeah, why–“

Before Hoseok can even finish his sentence, Yoongi is throwing himself into the clutches of the crowd, parting the sea of bodies and wading over to her. She is real, this is no hallucination, she is real and here and oh my fucking god, she looks precisely the same. Nothing has changed, nothing has changed. They never kissed, they never fought, they never nearly fucked and ruined everything.

Yoongi does what he should have done three years ago before she was swallowed up in the oblivion of a black hole. A place where she could look out and see, but he was only ever faced by thick banks of darkness.

Yoongi reaches out, can feel every fibre of his hand, the movement of his knuckles, the stretch of muscle. Time seems to thin and extend, pulling out until seconds drag into minutes, where his movements are ones of underwater. Glacial and paced.

Contact is made, and she turns. No, whirls, like a tornado set on destroying him where he stands. A storm that he embraced to be ruined by long ago, though she was too kind; too selfish to let her rains come crashing down on him.

Her skin, beneath his palm, is searing flame. The pulse that flutters in her wrist is absolutely genuine.

When her eyes land upon Yoongi, it is as though she is seeing the ghost of the ouija board they did when they were kids all over again. Her complexion drains, bloody lips parting in silent horror. She seems to shrink into nothing but a speck.

Before Yoongi can tell whether she is going to speak love or claw out a scream, her wrist is being yanked from his grip and she is running away. Just like the first time.

Yoongi wonders if this is what dying feels like. If this is how it must feel to have someone dig their nails into your chest, cutting through flesh and bone to reach the vessel that only thrums because it avoided the monthly sentence. To have it yanked out from where it pulses, disposed in the dirt where it turns black and forgotten.

A rush consumes him. Before he can completely grasp onto any sense of abandoned rationality, his feet are moving.

Instinct, more than anything, directs him. Yoongi shoves and ignores the empty accusations made by those who are pushed, squinting and blinking when his eyes start to betray him; shuddering figures into doubles before they become single solid beings again. The strobes that soak everything in violent pink and deep ocean blue do absolutely nothing to help him.

Yet still, he surges. Must appear like a desperate fool when he bursts out of the club entrance, gasping and gulping for air. There, he realises that, from the moment she ran, he had been holding his breath as though he could not bear to let the oxygen they momentarily shared escape his lungs.

A stranger swathed in shadows asks if he is okay, and blindly, Yoongi waves them off. He stands up from his hunched position to take a few paces forward, right into the line of action where other club-goers stand to smoke, or wait for the bodyguard to allow them entry. He keeps still and stands on his toes, despite that his body jitters and seems to bend and wave beyond his own command. Surveying. Searching.

There.

Standing on the curb, she hunches into her jacket as though she is hiding, rather than feeling the chill of the air. Blue smoke plumes around her, dancing in a veil until it disperses. Though by that time, another curtain of toxins has already risen to take its place. Yoongi, for all his feet were worth in the club, is cemented to the pavement. His bones are now of lead, blood like tar.

Go to her. He urges himself, lifts his left leg and barely manages to plant it forward without toppling over. Gotoheryouneedtogogogo.

She looks over her shoulder, eyes locking.

But she does not run.

And just like that, his limbs become air, drained of all their weight. As if the consent of her willing to stay is all he ever needed. A ticket to approach the sun in all of her might and maybe (just maybe), she may not sear him into ash.

Yoongi comes to a stop five feet away. He firmly closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, she is still there. Watching on with an expression that he, in all of his years of knowing and not knowing her, has never seen before. Familiar, yet unrecognisable.

The cocaine sharpens her every feature. It defines the slope of her nose, the angle of her cheekbones, the arch of her brows, and the dip of her cupid’s bow in unadulterated clarity. Refined beyond a perfection he once saw her as, beneath the gentle light of the moon all but three years ago.

She appears to tremble. Yoongi is unsure whether it is the piercing cold of the evening, or the quiver of his pupils with the high. Perhaps, it is consternation over the boy she so earnestly escaped, now standing mere feet before her, high as a fucking kite. Soaked in the unfair stench of lost love that she long ago decided to associate with the putrid scent of despise.

She is the deer. He is the headlights.

When Yoongi parts his lips, the inside of his mouth feels like a volcano. Bone dry. Threatening to erupt with the slightest misplaced movement, to spew vulgarity held dormant since she decided to cut the ties with her bare hands.

“Say something,” Yoongi manages, taking a tentative step forward, ignoring the pain that fleets through his heart when she shuffles slightly back. “Anything. ___, please.”

In silence, she observes, analyses, swallows him in from head to toe. Yoongi wonders if she is more deprived than she first realised, greedily taking in all that she can while he exists in scarcely coherent state before her. He wonders if the rush that devastates her being is unidentifiable, the deja vu near sickening, as though everything she has held back since the moment within the umbra of the oak tree is starting to submerge from the places she confined them within. He wonders if her heart demands to soar, yet she tugs down on the reigns, knowing full well what occurs when it disobeys. A veteran of past experience in the field of the forbidden.

Yoongi can see that she will not let that happen again. She must believe that neither of them will survive the second time around.

“Are you high?” Despite that the words come out with a tinge of insult, they still hold that blue velvet quality, the lustrous flow that drapes his skin in years of comfort and warmth. It feels like coming home. He wishes to pluck the chords of her vocals from the air and tuck them to his chest for safe-keeping; to never let the gorgeous sound escape his hearing ever again.

Yoongi tilts his lips in a tiny smirk, a miracle in itself that he can shift his features into an expression other than awe. He fixates his gaze on the pale cloud she exhales. “Are you smoking?”

As if to spite him, she takes an especially long drag, eyes watering and all before she breathes out the smoke between smiling teeth. Her iron exterior cracks, only barely, yet it is still something. Enough to make his bones feel as though they are melting into butter.

“Touché.”

They are encompassed in private silence, consumed by the presence of one another. Yoongi, in all of his feeble bravery, takes another step forward, and this time, she stays still, save for the ash that she flicks from the tip of her cigarette. The flecks stir dizzily in the air that he disturbs with his precarious advance.

One pace. Two more. This near, the oxygen is stolen right from his lungs by the pleasance of her perfume pervading his space. The smoke hardly manages to veil the distinct honeysuckle that only she suits. On any other entity, it is utterly ersatz. The tension coiled in her shoulders noticeably loosens, newfound tenderness smudging at the circumference of her irises. Almost as though she is daring to give in. Head losing to heart.

Yoongi can feel her exhalation skitter across his cheeks. The cigarette is abandoned in the gutter. In one fell swoop, he could crumble her resolve right where she stands. The walls of the maze are collapsing, yet he knows the route like the back of his own hand.

When he focuses on the plush of her lips, he can still see the truths nestled in the corners. The secrets that only he could ever notice. She is a puzzle that he has solved a million times over, and he does not intend to kid himself with false hope. But by the way she is staring at him right now like she is being suffocated by her own mistakes, he can almost think that she is letting him get all of the answers right.

He presses his nose to the glass surrounding her heart.

“___! Jesus, I’ve been looking for you!”

It is a voice that calls in a tone dripping with depth, the sound of bottomless oceans, and it tears the two of them apart within a split instant. The approaching owner, a tall stretch of darkness, a shadow wrung out and pulled taught over muscle and bone, draws her attention immediately. Her hair fans out in her movement to acknowledge the new presence, and Yoongi soaks himself in a waft of ambrosia because christ, it really is her.

The guy seems nearly sober. His gaze passes through Yoongi as though he is not truly looking. Could not really care. “Who’s this?”

She hesitates, minuscule, though Yoongi sees it. “He’s a friend from home.”

He almost wants to laugh out loud. In disgust; in disbelief. The word friend has betrayed him so much throughout his lifetime. Even more so when it lacks the tag of best.

“The taxi is almost here,” the guy says after a brusque oh, gaze flitting away from Yoongi in an instant. He takes her by the shoulders. “Let’s go.”

“O-Okay.”

He has never seen her this nervous and unsure. Yoongi almost reaches out to grab her wrist and stop them both, but he is terrified she may yank it away again. Third time is a charm to break a heart. The only solace he clings to is the fact that, as she is whirled, her chin tilts back. The pair of eyes that deceived him so long ago anchor to his own with barely a hint of a smile.

“Next time,” she mouths, her voice ceasing to wash over his skin. But Yoongi can hear the words with perfect clarity in his mind, no matter the shroud of drugs that mantles his every other thought. She shines through, crystal clear, like she always has.

Standing on the curb as headlights swing by, dousing him in bright white while other club patrons holler and scream as though they hope for the stars to hear, Yoongi realises something. No hallucination could ever compare, nor think to perfectly replicate the experience that is her standing before him.

He stares at where she stood, merely a breath away. Faintly, in the silver lustre of the moon, Yoongi can make out the scintillations of glass fragments against the pavement where her obduracy had started to shatter.

Next time comes at a small convenience store, no more than a week after their encounter. It must be near three in the morning. An hour, nonetheless, that girls who run from truths should not be.

She fashions cheeks that shimmer with vulnerability, and a black sweater a size too large. They are matched with thin tights that hide legs known to take his breath away, and a pair of battered white sneakers locked at the ankles. Comfortable; approachable. She sits with a cup of steaming instant ramen, intently swilling the contents with pinched chopsticks, hood pulled over her hair in a meagre attempt to appear nonexistent.

As always, she shines too brightly to ever be completely hidden away.

Lit up with florescent, Yoongi sees her right there, through the window. Never for a moment did he doubt it was her as he leisurely strolled by the store. The glint of her damp face caught his eye before he had managed to completely walk past. He knows those tears like his own secrets.

Here, the subway shudders beneath his feet. Yoongi almost expects the train to travel explosively through the bitumen and crash straight through his heart. Maybe, with it smeared across the glass pane, she will finally understand the honest truth. She will see the gory details, painted out in crimson, that he can never stop loving her.

She, still unaware of his presence, barely flinches when Yoongi stands directly before the window; a thin pane of glass their only barrier. It is no more than a few seconds of him staring with a faint smile curving his lips, hands wedged into the pockets of his hoodie, that she calmly comes to a still in the process of lifting ramen-laden chopsticks to her lips. By the time her eyes have lifted to his own, slowly flaring with recognition, he is already entering the store.

Yoongi takes his time. Enough for her to notice that the person who just trudged through the entrance is well and truly him. Enough for her to forget the half-eaten ramen cup, abandon ship, and escape him for the third––or is it fourth?––time. Yoongi can no longer recall. The numbers are melding into a figure too many, to say the least.

He carefully selects the most bearable noodles that he can squeeze into his tight student budget, then approaches the counter to exchange coins with the clerk. Yet, the moment he turns on his heel, she is still there, observing his stride through the reflection in the window. Her expression, cast in the glaring white light, is one of forbearing.

For a sparse moment, Yoongi considers waiting; providing more of an opportunity for her to escape. Though he quickly finds himself completely fucking that idea off. If he does not continue moving forward, the courage will slink back into the shadows, and he will barrel himself right out of the store once more.

At a pace as languid as he can retain, he strolls down the aisle until he is standing right at the food bar, beside where she sits. He quietly peels open his cup, empties the seasonings inside, and fills it with hot water. Then, he circles around her ever-shrinking frame and sits on the stool to her right.

Silence has never felt so suffocating. This is newfound territory between them; their instances together have always been filled with their voices. But she was the one to build the wall, and she damn well knows that Yoongi will not be the one to bring it down to ruin.

She did this. She must deal the first blow.

Two heartbeats unite at a steady pace. Her lips part, and the quiet is so dense that Yoongi hears them separate. The sound is almost comforting. It rings with the familiarity of past conversations, had whilst lying side-by-side in the belly of darkness. It is the soft noise she would make before her younger voice asked a question about the stars, or idly commented on the pathetic performance that is existing in a world which crushes those who dare to defy the unspoken illegality of love. A world which strips your soul from beneath you, so effortlessly, by the bold-black of your name, inked on paper.

The click of his chopsticks snapping apart echoes around the store. Her voice is quick to follow.

“I can never find waffles as good as home around here.”

Yoongi freezes, stunned silent. He momentarily wonders whether it is due to her voice resembling that of nirvana. But he is quick to realise it is because he is completely unsure of how to respond to such an elementary statement.

She speaks as if the past three years were merely a blank spot in his memory. A period of amnesia where, for the entire thirty-six months, they were still best friends; red strings uncut and remaining to be tightly coiled around the knuckles of their pinkies. Or perhaps, an expanse of time where he was living in a nightmare in which she had become invisible, though she could still see everything in refined clarity.

A thickness builds in his throat, the welt of a sob. But it burns like furious indignation.

“That’s the only thing you have to say?” Yoongi, in all of his venomous tone, stabs his chopsticks at a vulnerable leek floating in the broth. He pretends that it is her heart. “Honestly, ___. Fuck you.”

She sighs, as if he is behaving childishly. “I know, fuck me. But you and I both know that saying I’m sorry will never cut the cake with what happened between us. It’s like shouting into the abyss and expecting something good to come from it.”

He realises, as she always used to be, that she is right. Apologies are more like weak excuses than a resolution for travesty. And when they are confessed this late, after all the excruciating damage has worn its wear, it is like attempting to stitch up a wound that has already scarred over. There is no point. An empty avow.

“I still want to hear you say it,” Yoongi says under his breath. He scoops noodles into his mouth and slurps loudly, just because he knows she hates it.

Her cringe is almost audible. He cannot decipher if it is from the sound he makes, or the way the words taste on her tongue. “I’m sorry.”

“Say it genuinely.”

Yoongi almost jumps when he feels careful fingertips through the fabric of his sweater, laying upon his wrist. His gaze instinctively tracks to them, noticing how they still look the same, shiny oval nails with chip-free edges. A small fondness swells in his chest, which he immediately attempts to trample down. If anything, it blossoms viciously as his eyes travel up her arm, her throat, until they settle on her own.

Her gaze is neither firm nor gentle; simply watching with that ever curious contour.

“Min Yoongi.” God, only now does he realise that she has not once spoke his name since they have reunited. His stare instantly surges down to her lips, just to catch the end of them shaping around the three syllables. What a sight, it can never get old. “For everything I have done: taking advantage of you in a moment of vulnerability; kissing you back while we were both drunk; running away and ignoring your calls; being born in a timeline where the world is so undisputedly fucked up that the both of us were doomed from the very start... I am deeply, and so sincerely sorry. The profundity of my contriteness is utmost.”

Her expression is so bona fide that Yoongi has to look away. Otherwise, he truly might convince himself that her apology is the only salve that can soothe the laceration she created on his chest. He might convince himself that the pain dealt by her own hand will always be worth it if that is the way her voice will sound––cold silk against hot flesh––when she makes her amends after the blade has damaged his heart beyond repair. No matter how deep she drives the knife.

“Christ on a bike,” is all that Yoongi responds with. But even she does not seem persuaded by his dismissive tone.

The contact is ceased; her hand slinks away. They return to silent eating without him uttering a single thank you or I’m sorry, too. Neither of them expect it, either.

When she finishes first, she does not get up and leave. Rather, she rests her elbows upon the tabletop and leans her chin into her palms, directly observing his chewing. The sheer weight of her gaze is enough to lure bumps to form across Yoongi’s skin. Tiny mountains of prickled flesh that she traverses with a regardful sweep of her tentative eyes.

If Yoongi were land, she has conquered him a prodigious number of times.

“So, instant ramen is the next best bet?” Yoongi leads on from her initial comment. An attempt at conversation to shake off the sensation of her emphatic vigilance, which follows his every move. It is almost as though she is waiting for the pin to drop, expecting him to abruptly implode in a rush of accusations and insults. Ones that have tied knots around his tongue over the past three years. No, even beyond that.

Her lips are a ghost of a smile. “Ramen fits the budget.”

“True,” Yoongi chuckles, and it actually tastes sincere in the back of his throat. “But you’re wrong about the waffles. There’s a diner ten minutes from my campus that serves them up just like home.”

Yoongi does not mention how many nights he has spent there, more than in the beds of other women who taste like honeysuckle. High or intoxicated, his forehead would be pressed to the cold tabletop. He would imagine that he is at their diner, and she is sitting across from him, sipping at vanilla and about to hit him over the head with a menu while her voice sings out: Wake up!

The version that exists beside him, the real-and-now girl––beyond better than what any figment of his fantasy could ever consider creating––gapes. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious.”

“What campus?”

“South, at the State University.”

“Oh, that’s where–! Oh,” she says, eyes lighting up, as if she is about to say the name of a friend. But her expression instantly falters, realising he probably would not know them. “I’m there often. Funny how we’ve never run into each other throughout my entire first year.”

Absolutely fucking hilarious, Yoongi should say. Though his tongue trips into something just as dangerous.

“I’ll take you there sometime. To the diner.”

Yoongi inhales the remaining noodles spooled at the bottom of the cup. She, out the corner of his eye, worries teeth to lips; habits playing his heartstrings like a harp. A tiny crease forms at the centre of her brow, though it smooths out almost as soon as it surfaces. Her gaze flits down to where her fingers pick at the peeled back lid of the ramen cup.

“I’d like that,” and she says it in a tone that reminds him of car windows rolled all the way down and red dirt caked on their knees. It reminds him of the girl who loved him before she ran away after realising how frightening the monster of truth is up close; how sharp its fangs gleam.

Yoongi chokes on a stray string of pasta. He does not miss the glimpse of a tiny smile tilting her lips before the heel of her palm comes down hard on his back.

Once he has calmed, the pair of them discard of their rubbish and exit the convenience store. They fall into step with one another almost naturally. There is no parting of ways, nor calling for taxis. The night opens its arms and welcomes them in, four in the morning already so near, telltale in the way the pitch black spills into a vague navy across the horizon. Neither of them consider the possibility of separating and saying their goodbyes. Even if he had to go the opposite way, Yoongi would have silently agreed that it was his route too. Home may have been safe for girls to navigate in the thick of the night, but the city is crawling with monsters.

They are both prime examples to that. Living paradigms, slinking through the shadows.

They stroll at a languorous pace. Not out of tiredness, but more so to make up for lost time. It is reminiscent of their lazy saunter home from school, all but five years ago as the sun would beat its fists onto their backs. They would milk the twenty-minute walk home until it would last up to an hour, merely so they could spend as much of their afternoon together before they would have to part ways.

“Are midnight walks like, your thing now?” she lightly teases. Yoongi’s heart is stirred into a frantic storm when she grazes her shoulder against his; barely a nudge.

“I had a lot on my mind.” I had you eating me from the inside out. “It helps to get some fresh air. Clears the thoughts up.” Ironic how you just happen to invade me, even outside of my head. Then, he remembers the streaks of silver. The shimmering diamonds against the skin that he once, a lifetime ago, had his lips upon. “Why were you crying?”

“No reason worth sharing,” she says without missing a beat, as though she had been expecting the question all night. The answer was just waiting to be up to bat. “Girl dramas that boys like you would know nothing about.”

“She, the bane of my every single drama says.” Yoongi states it bluntly, incapable of finding the audacity to care when she flinches. She wants it all out on the table, exposed and brutally honest? Well, he is going to take to the scalpel and cut himself open until he has pulled out every shred of agony that she has tucked between the joints; threaded through the sinew.

It is not as though she is unused to blood on her hands. The mere date of her birth year is sheer fact to that.

Once those two sentences surface in his overtired mind, Yoongi mentally punches himself in the stomach for ever conjuring such a disgusting thought. God. You would think it was hate instead of love.

She comes to a halt in the middle of the road. Yoongi continues to trail a few steps before he realises she is cemented to the bitumen. For a single, distressing moment in which his heart lodges itself in his throat and then plummets like lead into his stomach, he fears he thought those twenty-five words loud enough for her to hear. The only giveaway that such a matter is not the case is her expression.

Instead of pained or horrified, it is distant. Far from here.

“Hey, you know what you need to do?”

Yoongi raises a brow. “What?”

She was looking past his shoulder. Now, she looks over her own, and then twists to stare directly at him. He is in a constant state of reminding himself how deadly those eyes are when used in full, undeviating force.

“Yell it out,” she shrugs indifferently, as if she is no longer sure about the answer herself. “Have at me. Scream everything you need to say.”

What a joke, he thinks, like their emotions are some ridiculous game and one of them has to come out a winner. Neither can rule together; a fight to the death. But she has always called him sarcastic, and so it could not do much harm to humour her request.

“Right here?”

She shrugs again, looks at his feet, and then slowly tracks back to his eyes. “Better place as any, right?”

Silence passes between them, voices reduced to make way for the breeze that caresses the leaves of a neighbouring tree. The rustling is so dense that it sounds akin to rain. Yoongi buries his hands deeper into the lone pocket of his sweater, clenching them into fists so tight that he almost expects to feel the skin split over his knuckles. After a moment, he relaxes the joints and slides his palms out of the fleece, calmly resting them at his sides.

“I’m not going to hold back.”

“I don’t want you to.” It sounds like a lie. She almost seems nervous.

“Fine,” he huffs, running a hand through his hair. When he speaks, there is no difference in volume, nor tone. “First of all, fuck you. From the very core of my being. Fuck. You.”

At that, she smiles, and the sheer sight has him scrambling for what he was going to say again. He inhales so deeply that his chest stretches with pain, and then he breathes out a calamity.

“I know that we took it too far. I know that we overstepped an unspoken boundary in our friendship. But what you did...” Yoongi can feel his voice crack. He does not notice how it rises in gradual increments; the build of a wave before it plunges down and floods the streets. “Christ, I knew you had it in you. But I never thought you would actually go ahead and do it, you know? At no point––not even when we were so close to one another on the beach that day, not even when I was touching you in my bathroom––did I convince myself that you would actually cut the ties.”

“For a few days? That’s reasonable. Two weeks? I would've given that decent leeway.” The water starts to break, hurtling down in a swooping undulation. The land is Her, and Yoongi encounters no remorse when the deluge swamps her coast and drowns the homes that they built when they were kids who knew no better. “But three years. Three whole fucking years! You picked up your things and left like the seven years of us being best friends never existed. As if we were living in some fantasy, and you decided to wake up without letting me know it was all just a dream too.

“I wanted to go after you so fucking badly. I wanted to beat down the front door to your house and grab you by the shoulders, just to ask you why. Why did you have to be so goddamn dramatic? Why did you have to act like one of us had received the envelope and it was safer to end things then and there? Why, ___, did you think I was so meaningless and insignificant that you could just throw me away without a care, after all we had been through?”

“You ruined me.” She is drowning. Yoongi can see it from here. He cannot tell if he should grin victoriously or reach out and save her. “The way you left made me feel like I was just some fucking toy that you grew out of. You tossed me away and left me for dead because you’re a heartless bitch. Yet here I stand now, still wanting– No, needing you! Here I stand, grovelling at your feet with my pleas for forgiveness, confessing the truth of how badly you screwed me up by leaving without glancing back. It’s almost as if I’m the monster who abandoned you when you knew I was going to be right by your side until the very end. No matter if the conclusion was made by a natural cause, or a piece of fucking paper sent by the government.”

“The thing is that I didn’t care if you wanted to stay as friends, or be lovesick idiots who should know better in a world like this, ___!” Air is tight in his lungs, fuelling wildfires. “I couldn’t have given a damn about whatever decision you made for us because as long as you were in my life, I was content. Don’t you fucking get that? Can you genuinely tell me that the past three years have been better off without me? Did you never sit and think that I would never push you into something that you didn’t want? That just because I know what your cum tastes like doesn’t mean I expect us to hold hands and fuck each other like we’re something more?”

“All I ever wanted was for you to be in my life. I need you. Not solely for friendship, not only for love. I just know that I have always, and will always need you!”

There are so many words left in his lungs, too many confessions and accusations that he needs to inscribe on her black as tar heart. But Yoongi’s throat crumbles; the sentences strain and fall limp. White flags are kept down. No draw is announced. Nobody is victorious because the game has been burned to ash.

Deeply, she exhales. “Are you good?”

Yoongi stares at her from across the street, partially washed in the muted orange of the overhead lamp, the rest of her concealed in the shadows. His shoulders still heave, teeth sunk in his bottom lip in order to keep the floodgates closed. She stares at him like she knows him, and god, nobody else in this world does as much as her. Even if she only discovered the raw truth of his emotions mere moments ago.

Before he can contrive any further blades in the form of his words to slice into her skin, she is gravitating close. The crunching of gravel is deadened beneath the soles of her sneakers until she stands as near as they had last week. A proximity that would have been considered mundane for them to be within beyond three years ago.

Now, all Yoongi can do is drop his gaze to their feet. Calculating the distance that separates them; only centimetres when it seems akin to vast oceans. So close, yet he has never felt so far.

“Good?” she murmurs once more, tilting her head down so that she can peer up at his drooped chin. Yoongi cannot even find it in himself to wipe away the tears. His fists loosen, useless by his sides.

What he does not expect is for her to breach the minimal space that remains. Her arms come around his waist, palms finding purchase against his shoulder blades and pressing him so tightly to her own chest that they may as well be a sole being.

It may just be his imagination, or the dissipating anger that leaves a dull ringing in his ears. But Yoongi swears he hears something break in her voice when she speaks again. Maybe, the last of her heart.

“Are we good?”

She holds on tighter when he precariously nods against the side of her head.

Yoongi does not hug her back out of fear that he may lose himself completely in her vessel. Become trapped within the bone cage of her ribs. Instead, he tips his chin back to face the stars, cheeks feeling damp and cold. He stares accusingly at the incandescents bodies, mere pinpricks of luminosity, as though it is all their fault.

How could you do this to us? Why did it get taken this far? Neither of us deserved such devastation, yet you awakened an apocalypse right where we both stood.

The stars are left speechless.

To say that matters resumed to how things were in the past would be obscene. Yet, genuinely, it is somewhat how the treacherous tides came to calm into clear waters.

The unbosoming that tainted the atmosphere of that isolated street was merely the chains to the drawbridge unhinging. From there, it plummeted back down so that the two of them could be on even ground. Enabled them to understand and embrace the differences, the hardships, which were emphasised and catastrophised beyond their initial extremity.

To themselves, they cannot help but wonder if such dramatics would have happened if they were born in a different timeline. If they existed in an entirely divergent world to the one where a ballot can tear their life from beneath their feet, even before they make it to the year’s end.

Adjustments are made with their developed maturity. Yoongi no longer waits at the bus stop to pick her up on a school-day morning. Rather, she drives to his campus and takes them to the local library to study for their courses every Wednesday afternoon.

The new diner is visited regularly, though not as often as the convenience store in the middle of the night. Usually, these ventures are planned. Yet they sometimes arrive unexpectedly when either one of them strolls up to the store entrance, discovering the other already watching with a sheepish grin through the window.

They rarely go out to parties together. Their assignments often conflict with the dates, or other responsibilities take the advantage. But Yoongi ceases with the narcotics, and instead sticks to the pleasures of alcohol. It is a matter that none of his friends seem to care for; they almost appear to admire him. He no longer needs to hallucinate in order to see the one person that his heart has been sewn back together for.

The wilted flower of their friendship slowly revives with every small step that they take forward, the petals blossoming into something familiar. Yet Yoongi cannot help but notice the vague restraint that she upholds with their every lighthearted conversation; in the small flinch that she makes when their elbows brush too close; when he squeezes her knee out of reassurance. The red strings are knotting back together, though they cannot deny the fraying of the ends. The ties are loose and unsure, as if suggesting that they may snap once again.

Yoongi only pulls tighter. All the while, she watches on with guarded contemplation, letting the threads go limp in her palms like she is wondering whether all of this was such a great idea.

Two and a half months, on the cusp of three, and only then does he discover her worst treachery of all. The reason behind her unwillingness to allow their bond to return to its utmost potential. Yoongi does not know how she hid it this well for so long.

It is made infinitely worse by the fact that he is so beyond hungover, his brain seems to have transformed into a cement brick.

On Sunday morning, he makes the trip to Shake Shack alone. Hoseok is still passed out under the dining table, Seokjin is actually studying something other than the female reproductive system with his dick, and there is the smidgen of a possibility that Jimin might be dead. It is eternally a mystery as to what happens to him after a hefty night out.

The restaurant door chimes, alarm bells that echo in cymbals through his head. Yoongi is focusing too strenuously on keeping his brain from splitting in half to realise that they might actually be warning him.

Honeysuckle captures his attention as soon as the door swings shut, sucking still air through a vacuum that drifts the aroma, like an instant hangover cure, into his senses. Yoongi, once he is convinced that his head is not about to topple off his neck, levels his gaze to see straight before him. Instantly, his eyes lock onto a figure that he could identify, even when she is merely a silhouette in the distance.

She turns from the counter, holding an extra-large takeaway cup of freshly brewed coffee. The world stutters to the slightest of stops before kickstarting again when she notices him watching on, probably appearing like a goddamn fool standing at the entrance of the restaurant. So, Yoongi decides to will his feet forward, casually calling out her name.

But he stops dead in his tracks when he sees fear ambushing her wide eyes. Yoongi almost does not notice him until her alarmed gaze sweeps away from Yoongi and up to his face.

It is the guy from the club. The one who had sundered their reunion with a single sentence. The one who had managed to draw her gaze away from Yoongi; something that always took a breath of a moment to do in the past, but was as effortless as blinking in the now. The one who had softened her eyes when he spoke, the way Yoongi always could. The one who had clambered her into his jacket and Yoongi did not, at the time, have a chance to think twice of it.

The guy from the club, who has his arm curled neatly around a waist that has always belonged to Yoongi. The guy from the club, who has the fucking stars gleaming in his eyes, because that is just the effect that belonging to somebody like her will always have.

They approach like royals striding toward a peasant. The heart thief glances between the two of them with mild scrutiny. But before the guy can say anything, she parts her lips. The sound that comes out is hardly a croak, yet it sets off World War III within Yoongi’s ribcage.

“Yoongi–”

“Oh! This is the guy– The friend from home right?” He affectionately jostles the arm around her frame, knocking her back into rationality. Her chin barely tilts in a nod. She no longer looks at Yoongi.

Underneath the seething rage that is making his migraine throb like the brink of death, Yoongi vaguely contemplates how to sever the foreign limb attached to her body.

When the guy extends his hand, Yoongi has to restart his dying heart in order to reciprocate the gesture. The defibrillator is charged, and he almost hopes that it will not work. He wishes that the flimsy vessel will collapse, and he will be sucked right out of this moment, swallowed by a most welcome eternal darkness.

“Hey man, I’m Jeongguk,” the guy says.

Three... two... one...

“I believe we already met. But I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself properly.”

Clear!

“I’m ___’s boyfriend.”

Yoongi feels his heart stutter back to life. He wonders how much betrayal the average human being endures in their lifetime, or whether he is just that fucking unlucky.

Jeon Jeongguk is one of the lucky ones in the form of a platinum certificate, declaring a free pass on genocide; cleaning his fingertips of scarlet. A promise to not die by an unlawful hand.

That is what happens, after all, when your life is deemed valuable to this world. When your intelligence is too good to be wasted. When the zeros tacked onto the end of your future inheritance are far too infinite to be ignored. They say this is the secret to immunity: hone pockets weighed down by gold, and bear diamond fangs that can tear through a piece of paper, splotched with the ink of your name.

In a town as small as their own, such a matter was deemed a myth. Then, she met him.

She never knew whether it was sheer fascination, or genuine attraction. Even now, she remains unsure. But Jeongguk was drawn to her; opposite poles of a magnet that met in unexpected harmony. He had knocked into her elbow at the campus cafe and spun to apologise. Instead, he had found himself struck silent by the graves that were on blatant, unadulterated exhibition in the cemeteries of her eyes.

Maybe, he was convinced that he could uproot the dead from where they slept. Thought he could dig his fingers into the soils, and grow bouquets from the minerals that the bones had scattered beneath the surface. Maybe, he wanted to know the secrets. The reasons behind the ghosts that lurked about her irises, eternally trapped betwixt the limbo of Heaven and Hell. Maybe, he was as selfish as the rest of the world. Precisely like her and the other, who was buried the deepest in the boneyard of her heart.

Too many maybes had filled her mind, yet she had found herself saying yes. Not just once. But again, and again, until the two of them were sharing coffee against the lips of the other instead of over a cafe table, and she could describe precisely how it felt when he entered her. Again, and again. Yes.

Now, the boy of platinum teaches her about things that she already knew, but from a different perspective. A preferable one, where one is not concerned with their fate. When their life is not threatened at the beginning of every new month, because their skin and bones are invincible to the bullets of a Government rifle.

Jeongguk takes her to the theatre. In the shadows of the back row, where their mischievous chuckles hide, he shows her what salt and butter tastes like on his tongue. He lets her listen to the sound of their voices blend off-tune with the song playing on the radio. The windows of his car are rolled all the way down, spring breeze curling through her hair, his hand resting on the sunlight that seeps gold onto her thigh. He shows her the bridge that connects the southern and northern ends of the city. The lights that are cast onto the glass surface of the river from street lamps resemble stars, flickering beneath their feet, shining on the gentle ripples rather than above in the hazy, dark skies.

This is where Jeongguk whispers that he loves her. This is where he accepts that she cannot find the voice just yet to say such a burden back. But he helps her take her dress off in the backseat anyway, and he kisses every inch of her skin as if he is trying to find the answer tucked somewhere between her joints. Engraved in her bones.

When he thrusts into her, he moans in such a way that she digs her nails deeper into his flesh, as though she can bury herself within him. Become a part of his platinum shield. She, too, can be untouchable.

It is not that she does not adore Jeongguk. Of course, her chest thrums with that certain warmth when he grazes his knuckles over her throat. Her gaze softens when she finds him walking into the room, lighting up with a grin that is specially reserved for her. He is a secure anchor amidst the raging ocean of this society, and she swears that such a matter is not the reason why she laces her knuckles together to connect at the palms, or swallows his laughter into her own lungs, or presses her lips against his bare spine when the moonlight turns his skin into stardust.

Somewhere, deep down, she thinks there may be a hint of love, too shy to reveal its face. Maybe, it is insecure; unsure whether its roots are woven through the carcass of a natural demise, rather than the tacky mint shade of an unwanted envelope.

No. That is not the reason why she desires him. She may be cruel, but she is not a monster. That is what she tells herself, at least, as she ignores the blood red gaze that watches on from the darkest shadows of her mind. It folds its talons in its lap, wearing the glint of a wicked grin.

The sight is too repulsive to even glance at.

Now, when she parts her lethargic eyes, it is to find Jeongguk already gazing at her through the tangle of her sleep-heavy lashes. He draws the tip of his finger down her nose, outlining the shape of her lips. A map that he marks with his touch before he presses his own mouth to them in a quiet good morning.

“What were you dreaming about?” he murmurs throatily, and it is then that she realises she is frowning. The sunlight that slides into his bedroom attempts to soften and smooth the crease between her brow, though it cannot seem to fade. “You were stirring and mumbling.”

She thinks back to the realm she was briefly visiting. It held the taste of vanilla, and the eyes of blackholes that would bend her at the edges. Although she had clung fiercely to the stars and suns that surrounded him, he let her be free, just like that. There was no fight left in him. No force. No will to drag her into his desolate infinity.

She is unsure if she is grateful, or if she would rather be dead.

“Nothing that I can remember,” is all that she whispers before her face finds solace in the dip of Jeongguk’s throat. There, he will not be able to see the betrayal that brews in her eyes. His ignorance is all the more confirmed when he hums indifferently and slides his palm beneath her rumpled shirt, gliding up her spine.

Because Jeon Jeongguk, with platinum luck threaded through his veins, with good fortune as a shield against unnatural fate, is not, and could never be Min Yoongi.

That day at the restaurant was like giving Yoongi all of the stars in the universe, only to rip them away into the mouth of a black hole. Leaving him with nothing but a handful of tenebrosity.

A boyfriend. A lover. A something that she claimed she could never have because this world took intimacy by the throat and squeezed until the skin blossomed blue. A lie that she threaded through Yoongi with barbwire, as though she could never actually love him. He was just another puppet that she controlled the strings of for all these years.

She was never his best friend. It was always betrayal that stuck by his side through thick and thin.

After the introductions had been made, she had dragged Jeon Jeongguk out of the restaurant without a second glance at Yoongi. She knew she had banjaxed the secret, that this took the cake for being the ultimate egregious bullet point on her list of perfidy. Yoongi did not go forth and make an order. Rather, he had waited five minutes before exiting the restaurant himself, praying on the drive back to his campus that his hangover would make him swerve off the road and bend his bones around a tree.

As per usual, he is never that lucky.

For days, they do not communicate. It eats at him; hollows his body out into a carcass of his true being. He can feel himself slipping back into the skeleton of who he once became; the version who has pupils the size of Pluto and snowy powder on his nostrils.

That is, until Yoongi is in the sanctuary of his dorm room with glass bottles containing the remnants of his heart strewn about the bedside table. He finally gains the liquid confidence to light his phone screen, pulling up a conversation that details the time and location of a recent meet up they had had. Sent over a week before he had discovered that all those times she had said she could not hang out––that she had more important plans––were probably to see him.

Delivered [2:11AM]: ___

why didn’t you tell me

It is late, and Yoongi expects no reply. He just needed to get those five words out of his head; the question that has been persisting his every thought. The memories of the past two months where she entailed no such relationship, never hinted that her heart belonged to another while Yoongi was still convinced that it was the fondest for him; they were all marked with that one word, now.

Why?

There is a gentle vibration that almost goes unnoticed, if not for the way that the shadows of his bedroom shrink away from the dim light that the screen emanates. A lump forms in Yoongi’s throat when he swipes his thumb across the device to unlock the two messages, labelled with her name.

Received [2:16AM]: ___

because it’s not important

why did I need to?

Yoongi is calling her before he even realises he has dialled the number. She, to his disbelief, answers after two rings.

“You know precisely the reason why,” he seethes. The words are laced in malice, yet airy in their tone; exhausted. “Not important, my fucking ass. What kind of horrible excuse is that? Aren’t you tired of making up bullshit? Will you ever be?”

On the other end of the line, there is the shifting of sheets, the distant scuffling of feet, the slide of a balcony door before it clicks shut. Her exhalations are shallow, hair rustling against the speaker with the hint of a breeze. Or perhaps, the distressed combing of her knuckles through the strands.

“You’re with him right now, aren’t you?” Yoongi almost laughs at the realisation, a dead smile drawn on his lips. She audibly gulps.

“Y-Yes. I mean. He’s my– Well, he’s–”

“Your boyfriend? That– That thing that you always claimed you could never have?”

She makes no acknowledgment, nor no confirmation of the aforementioned statement. Only when she sniffs does Yoongi realise that she is quietly crying. He suffocates the surge of regret that threatens to soften his anger. He is tired of being pitiful.

“What do you want from me, ___?” he barely whispers. His heart begins to detach from his body. “All this time, what is it that you wanted?”

Static crackles between them. When her voice finally sounds, it shudders.

“Everything. I wanted, no, I want everything from you. Of you. B-But it can never work.” The words are muffled around a sob, the kind that claws right out of the pits of your lungs. “Yoongi, everything you said all of those months ago is precisely the way I feel too. I need you in my life, no matter the circumstances. But being together is such a risk. We have lost so much already. And– And I don’t want to hurt you–”

“You’ve already done that, sweetheart,” Yoongi barks out with a humourless chuckle. He runs a clammy hand down his face. “You’re doing it right now. You’re doing it constantly.”

“I mean that I’m cursed, for christ’s sakes! You and I both know that!” she nearly shouts, and then her voice drops into an undercurrent. He can almost sense the way that her gaze must be darting back to the glass door, providing the view of a dark room where her lover may or may not be listening to her confess to another man. “You know that first night at the convenience store, when you asked why I was crying? A girl that I’d only just become friends with was drawn from that damned ballot. Honestly, a week before her name was pulled out, we exchanged numbers and made plans to meet for lunch.”

“This was a girl I had only just met. You would’ve been dead from the moment I gave in to you, Yoongi. I’m trying to protect you from this. I want you to live a long and happy life, as normal as it can be, without me being a burden. If that means hurting you in the process, then so be it. I refuse to let you die, especially because of my birth year...” her voice trails off, clamped down by a palm pressed to her lips.

Yoongi swings his feet off the edge of his bed and pads over to the northernmost wall of his room. Even after so many years, he refuses to believe that she still thinks of herself as a bad omen who drags those that surround her to their demise. That she continues to attain such a childish perception; a fib whispered by kids who know no better.

They are adults now. It would be moronic to believe a wives’ tale regarding the four numbers that signified the change for a better world, where all those who were born in that year supposedly honed the curse of death.

“Then why is he so different?” Yoongi murmurs, grazing his knuckles against the plaster. “Why is he the special one that gets to experience being in love with a girl who claims to be cursed?”

“Because he is exempt from the project, Yoongi,” she sounds so empty. A hollow heart. “The rumours about the wealthy families are true. They have no involvement in the ballot.”

Skin splits over bone. Scarlet streaks down his wrist and marks the wall in four bloody patches. Yoongi grunts, but the stinging sensation is soothing compared to the knife that stabs deeper through his back.

The hearsay was no new knowledge since he moved to the city. He has known a few people himself who honed the platinum certificate, bestowing them with normality. A natural end to this world that all human beings should be granted, no matter if their pockets are full of dirt rather than diamonds.

But Yoongi’s fist connects with the wall again when Jeon Jeongguk’s face violently blooms within his mind, eating up the space that she always accommodates. The guy who she can never claim to have slaughtered by the four digits of her cursed birth year. Yoongi swears she winces at the dull thud, followed by a short gasp between his gritted teeth.

“God, aren’t you just selfish,” he mutters, staring at the torn flesh of his knuckles. He clenches them tight when they remind him of her smaller, crimson hands floating amongst ocean waves. That memory, with her mouth that tasted of salt and untruths, should not be tainted by an incident like this.

There is no jocularity in her tone. “It’s a refined talent.”

The plaster is cold against his forehead; his palm is warm with drying blood. After a glacial moment of basking in the sound of her breathing––existing––Yoongi’s voice drops to merely a whisper.

“You need to realise that having you in my life is a decision that I make, not you. And what about these past two months, huh? If that were the really the case, I would be dead already, don’t you think? Stop being so ridiculous. Stop thinking you can make all of these choices for me when you’re ticking all of the opposite answers to what I want. If you don’t want me in your life, stop acting like you do. Don’t lure me in just to throw me back out in the water.”

“I can’t willingly cut you from my life, you know that,” her voice is weak, just like the both of them. “That’s why I’m pushing you away. I can accept it if you leave, but I can’t voluntarily let you go.”

“Why, ___?” God, he is so tired, the words barely come out coherent. “Why don’t you just do it already?”

“I can’t say it, Yoongi. I couldn’t before, and I especially can’t now that– Now that I’m with him.”

At that, Yoongi’s chest caves inward. The vessel within is sucked into the abyss, because the one person in this world who he cares infinitely for practically admitted the truth. She had ghosted over it, yet it was there. An echo of honesty. An admission so vague, though ringing with the utmost profundity through his head; a record that stutters back over that one same line.

I love you, Yoongi. I love you, even now that I am with him.

Yoongi sighs a lifetime of air through his teeth. “Me too, ___. Always.”

Between their paced exhalations that taste like devotion at long last divulged, there is background sound. A door sliding open. The crackle of a voice that is not her own.

She does not say that she has to go. There is no utterance of a goodbye. The line simply hangs up.

Yoongi, the next morning, cannot recall for how long afterwards he listened to the dial tone.

In July, the monthly draw lands on a Friday. The final day of the semester.

It is the end of exams. The return of the summer holidays, celebrated by a barbecue down by the foreshore. A place where all students alike arrive in their respective groups to rejoin before they part for home, but everyone mixes, mingles, and congratulates.

Friendly tournaments of beach volleyball are held between the colleges. The aroma of sizzling meat and charcoal manages to overpower the scent of salt that wafts from the waves. Laughter and conversation tucks itself into every available space. Alcohol is poured graciously and in volumes considered comparable to a frat party.

Yoongi cannot help but wonder how many of the students who have flocked to the beach are going to have their name drawn from the ballot. Whose exam scores are going to become insignificant. Who might be celebrating for the final time with their peers––their friends––before they return home to a family with cheeks stricken by tears and a mint green envelope, bloodied with their own name.

When Yoongi arrives at the foreshore, there is a solid seven minutes of texting back-and-forth with a half-drunk Hoseok––who is dreadful at giving directions as it is––to figure out where the hell he is. Though it is only when Seokjin puts the latter on his shoulders that Yoongi manages to find them amongst the dense crowd. Nobody could miss that Hawaiian shirt paired with a sunshine smile, arms flailing like one of those wacky inflatable tube men.

Their area consists of a canopy housing three coolers filled to the brim with ice and beer, and a scattering of chairs to take up the remaining shade. A portable barbecue is set up to the left of the arrangement, currently left unattended. The sausages are starting to sizzle beyond cooked, but everyone is too busy enthusiastically welcoming the new arrival to care.

Yoongi greets them all with muted excitement. Though his gaze immediately drifts down to the only person who had remained reclined throughout the entire feat, spread on the grass like a starfish. With his blank features partially concealed by his large black sunglasses, Park Jimin––who is known to be the most mercurial of the whole lot––almost appears dead.

“Is Jimin okay?”

“He’s sober,” Seokjin laughs, kicking at the ankle of the aforementioned, who grunts something incomprehensible.

Jimin shifts up from his leisurely position to lean back on his elbows.

“Three weeks off it,” Jimin squints so fiercely that it is even noticeable behind his glasses. He sounds slow, the words drawn out on his plump lips. “It’s not right to do it around family. Plus, my Ma would probably send me to the fuckin’ moon if she caught me shooting up on the coffee table that has been passed down through the generations for like, ever.”

“The fuckin’ moon, he says,” Hoseok quips whilst a safe distance from Jimin and his fists, dousing an overly burnt hotdog in sauce. “You’ve been there every weekend since the start of first semester, Mr. Low Hallucination Tolerance. Hey Yoongi, remember when Jimin literally thought we had managed to make it into outer space and we were walking on the moon like Apollo 13?”

Jimin seems to contemplate whether he should get up and beat the shit out of Hoseok. Ultimately, he decides to slump back onto the grass. “Eat my ass.”

Hoseok genuinely sighs. “You all keep offering, but you never pull through.”

“You mean Apollo 11,” Seokjin circles around Jimin to stand beside Hoseok, raising an eyebrow. “Apollo 13 never landed.”

“Amazing, Seokjin knows facts! And here we all were, thinking that he only knew the precise anatomy of the female body.” Hoseok jeers, the disparages flying out like they are a second language. “Who would have thought?”

“One, I’m not sure if I should be insulted by that,” Seokjin takes his hands out of his pockets and uses an elbow to knock Hoseok in the arm, causing the sauce he is squirting to spray over his own shoes. “Two, you’re honestly asking for a beating, from all of us. But I guess three-on-one is just your style, right?”

“Oh daddy, you know it,” Hoseok, despite that his eyes blaze lividly over the ruined shoes, takes a disgraceful bite out of his hotdog with a lewd wink as if to prove a point. Everyone gags in perfect unison.

“Speaking of, what are you guys doing for the holidays?” Yoongi asks the feuding pair, wrinkling his nose when Hoseok offers him a sausage that resembles charcoal. He opts for a beer instead, and it fizzles pleasantly on his tongue. An old friend that his liver has known well for the past three years.

“My family lives in the town just beyond Hoseok’s, so I’m going to be dropping him there on the travel home.” Seokjin states while cleaning up the grill of the blackened mess, shooting the occasional accusing glare at Jimin, who appears to have initially been on barbecue duty. “God knows how I’m going to deal with that for six hours straight, but I consider it my good deed for the year.” Seokjin effortlessly dodges a kick to the shin by the insulted. “How about you?”

“You’re driving back with ___, right?” Hoseok questions, plonking down beside Jimin, who parts his lips in a demand for a bite. The poor guy nearly chokes when Hoseok eagerly shoves half the hotdog into his mouth.

A shiver is elicited when her name infiltrates the atmosphere, crawling up his spine in a sensation near pleasurable. But now, it is weighted with the touch of a forbidden truth. She no longer belongs to him, no matter if she still keeps her heart nestled between his palms.

Yoongi chugs back a quarter of the beer as if to wash away the feeling, cringing immediately afterwards.

“Yeah, it makes sense to go in one car. Her– Uh, the boyfriend is going to be visiting his family in the east, so he won’t be coming with us,” Yoongi speaks dismissively whilst running a hand back through his hair. His friends appear to not notice the fervent longing that resides beneath his skin.

Yoongi is about to take another sip of his drink. That is, until he stares directly ahead and finds the devil herself, drying off her hair with a beach towel.

It is eternally mesmerising watching her. From the way she moves with the fluidity of water, to the beautiful manner in which her features transform into her signature expressions. Most of them are private inclinations to an opposite emotion. A habit that only he knows of after such an extensive period of time observing her throughout their growth.

She laughs at something her friends says. The surrounding commotion swallows it whole, but Yoongi can hear it in divine clarity; the harmonious melody that has been the repeating soundtrack to half of his life. The calling of songbirds; the gentle notes of a piano; the tinkling of wind chimes in a summer breeze.

There is a faint vibration against Yoongi’s thigh. When he reaches into his pocket to retrieve the device, she makes eye contact from across the grass. A smile drifts about her lips that he cannot help but return, gazing at one another like a secret. Then, she purposefully distracts herself with the entertainment surrounding her.

Yoongi stands up and departs from the group, who are already indulging in other topics. He answers the phone without checking the identification. The line crackles with static, and then, his mother is sobbing through the speaker as though the world is about to end as they know it.

And when she finally manages to choke out the syllables, he realises that such a figure of speech may not be far from the truth after all.

NOTE — this has also been adapted into third-person perspective!! to those who have never read this before, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the piece. besides that, all likes and reblogs are super duper appreciated!! ♡

our finale should be coming very soon. get ready for a true rollercoaster of emotion. I’ve already cried twice while writing certain scenes of it dfsghs.

also, I’ve removed the links to the individual parts of attts because tumblr is being dumb by deleting posts/blogs that are using links or something. until they’ve resolved this issue, you can access the other parts of the series via my master list!!

#yoongi x reader #jungkook x reader #bts scenarios #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #bts x reader #jeon jungkook #min yoongi #a ticket to the sun #seokeros

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aces-to-apples · 6 years ago

Note

DVD commentary meme! Whatever part of Family Before Honor you'd like to talk about, please!!

Alrighty, since there isn’t much of it posted and chapter two isn’t very long to start with, I’ll just do that then. Author’s commentary on chapter two of “Family Before Honor” beneath the cut:

Two Months

Domestic: 1) of or relating to the home, the household, household affairs, or the family. 2) no longer wild; tame.

I suppose the first thing to note is the pattern of the chapters and summaries—each chapter, and there’s only going to be three, is titled based on how long it’s been in the fic since Cut’s death and each summary is the theme on which the chapter is built. “Two Months” is more meant to bridge the gap between “Two Hours” and “Two Years” and is based around Rex making the transition from military life to civilian life. Settling into a rhythm with Suu and the kids that works for everyone.

Rebuilding the La’Cuane farm is an undertaking both larger and smaller than Rex had first estimated.

Ah, yes, “La’Cuane”. Because fuck Dave Filoni. Before I watched The Deserter, I was under the impression that Lawquane was most likely pronounced more like “lah-kayn” but, as is my custom, when I learned the “official” version I said “nah, fuck that” and came up with my own. So, “Lawquane” is a mistranslation as so many Basic Twi’lek names are. Because fuck you, Dave.

The first few days are an unending game of hurry-up-and-wait: for Republic forces to finish routing the Seps, for Jesse and the boys to come back to retrieve him when he didn’t answer their comms, for Suu to sniffle and stutter her way through the story they’d cooked up to explain his ‘death.’

I just don’t like “Seppies”, okay? I just don’t. “Covies” I’ll accept from Halo, because Marines, but “Seppies”, “tinnies”, and “shinies”? Mmm, how ‘bout the fuck not?

Then waiting for various scans of the remains to come up positive for Fett’s genetic material, for ‘his’ chip to come up too damaged to ping as more than simply present, for Kenobi—well, it turns out that Kenobi had a softer heart than Rex had ever thought. From what Rex spies, he looks damn near devastated for a few heartbeats after Suu tells him the news.

Departing from @norcumii’s version, “Dead Men Tell No Tales”, I decided that it’s too early in the war for Rex and Obi-Wan to have actually started a romantic relationship and kept it as more of a “what if” kind of thing for them to regret. More pining, that way ;)

Then the children march up to him and Jesse, carrying Rex’s armor in their undersized little arms, and Jek loudly proclaims that they want to keep Rex’s bucket. “He was like a, a superhero,” Jek says earnestly, and next to him Shaeeah nods vigorously. “He was so brave and he saved us from the monsters and we’ll take really good care of it.”

Listen, the La’Cuane kids are just insanely cute, okay? And according to Legends (I think?) they were aware enough that they had several million uncles out there in the universe that Shaeeah wrote a book about it, so they absolutely grew up with stars in their eyes about their extended family.

Suu makes a little scene of chastising them, calling it disrespectful, saying that his brothers should have his helmet, it was only right. Rex is dazed by the layers of manipulation they all go to just for him to keep his face; he’s even more dazed by how well it works.

Kenobi clearly melts at the display but looks to Jesse, Kix, and Hardcase for the final decision. Rex can read the silent conversation between them as clear as day. When Jesse crouches down to gaze intently into the visor of Rex’s helmet, he knows the children have won.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Jesse says decisively, and it’s settled. Quieter, he adds, “I think he’d like that…”

If Rex wasn’t so traumatized right now, he’d be absolutely indignant that Jess just blatantly lied like that. How dare you slander the good name of Captain Rex, good Lieutenant, by implying this small child whom he only knew for a few hours and “died” to protect should keep his face when Kenobi is standing over there trying not to cry. Come say that to his helmet, coward!

Rex doesn’t think about where Cut’s bucket had ended up.

I like throwing out lines that if you think about them for longer than it takes to read them then they might become incredibly depressing. What did happen to his helmet? What happened to his armor?

Jek clutches the helmet to his chest in victory and Shaeeah smiles sweetly and Suu has this fond, exasperated look on her face that Rex assumes comes standard with being eyn buir. The children magnanimously offer the rest of his armor to the men, stacked as neatly as they could manage. Rex stares as Kenobi helps pack it away with the supplies for safekeeping, subtly pocketing his left vambrace as he does.

I’m gonna be honest, at this point canon and fanon have merged so much for me that I don’t even know what’s true and what’s not. Just go with it.

Rex doesn’t think about maybes and what-ifs.

Then Kenobi turns back to Suu and his gaze goes past her to the ruined farmhouse and Rex gets the feeling that Kenobi’s about to do one of those terribly un-Jedi-like things he had never, ever admitted to sometimes doing. He pulls out a credit chip and Rex knows.

He has to turn away from the scene and take careful breaths. Kenobi wasn’t perfect—Cody has spent hours venting to Rex and Wolffe and whoever else managed to meet up at once about his hypocritical, sanctimonious Jedi—but just like Skywalker, just like Tano, just like Windu and Yoda and Secura and every other Jedi, he had his moments of breath-stealing goodness.

Listen, I love some Jedi characters to death, but I have—had, now that Tumblr filters out posts with words like “fuck” and “wank” in the tags when you search for them and pretends they don’t exist—a #fuck the jedi order tag for a reason. The narrative tends to frame both the Jedi Order and most Jedi characters as Righteous and Good, while also having them commit pretty heinous acts and tossing the audience horrific implications/pieces of information at the same time. I’ve said it somewhere before, but The Clone Wars wants to have its “deep, edgy, grimdark exploration of war” and eat its “fun, wacky space adventures” too and while we’ve all noticed the tonal whiplash that the show gives us, it plays hell with the narrative itself. Unspeakably bad shit happens in one arc, and nobody ever mentions it again. The Jedi control a slave army, and that’s Bad, but we’re told that they care about their troops and want to help them Later, which cancels out the Bad and keeps them Good Guys. In universe, it absolutely doesn’t work. We all know the Jedi pull some fuckshit every two weeks, so you bet your ass the clones know it too and routinely get sauced and rant about it to each other where no one can hear them. But they also can be extremely helpful and empathetic between three to five every other Thursday. Sorry, just mentioning #fuck the jedi order sends me off into a rant and I actually deleted a lot of other stuff from this part because Not Important.

Rex should’ve known his last act as a captain, and his first act as a free man, would be finally witnessing one of those moments.

And then Kenobi is gone, his brothers are gone, and the work begins.

- - -

It’s slow-going, and at times back-breaking, and it quickly becomes apparent that the nerve-damage Kix had warned about has set in good and proper. After the children have gone to bed, Rex and Suu go outside to have a rousing argument about what to do—the first of many on the horizon.

I know, I know, it’s common wisdom that disagreeing with your partner are normal but knockdown drag-out arguments Are Not and while I absolutely understand that, I come from a family with an absurdly large number of siblings that subscribe to the Taika Waititi School of Siblings and therefore it’s perfectly reasonable to shout yourself hoarse about some nonsense or other and get mad and stomp off and then two hours later throw a pillow at the other person’s head and say “hey dickhead come look at this funny post what’s for dinner later”. And as such that’s how every sibling relationship I ever write will function because I genuinely don’t understand siblings who don’t drag each other at every opportunity and then pop up around a corner like an awful gremlin to scare them at 2:30 in the morning just to fuck with them.

Suu demands they use part of Kenobi’s credits to pay for surgery to remove and replace the dead arm; Rex counters that he can function with only one arm, but none of them can function without a roof over their heads and walls to shield them from the elements. Suu says that they will contact a doctor she knows on the other side of the planet tomorrow and that’s final; Rex blinks, says understood, sir, and stands down.

The next morning, between frying eggs and waking the little ones, Suu apologizes for 'pulling rank’ on him. Rex can tell the words sit strangely in her civilian mouth. He accepts her apology and says nothing about how he hadn’t even noticed his own automatic reaction to her tone the night before, but. That was exactly how he’d reacted, wasn’t it?

When next they argue, about him ‘overdoing it’ and ‘exerting himself too much’, he’s ready for the gut-punching Commanding Officer Voice and shouts back when it’s his turn to talk. It works for them.

Listen, I don’t know about you, but when I hear certain tones of voice I automatically respond in certain ways. Like the vocal version of being full-named.

- - -

“White is death,” Rex explains once the final layer of base paint has settled on the plastoid. He runs his hand firmly down the prosthesis in its finalized form, from the ball of the synthetic shoulder to the tips of each finger. It’s as much to test that the molecules of paint bind properly as it is to get himself used to the difference. “White is the bones of those long gone. White is the snow that covers the fields in winter. It… stifles, and kills, but it’s also. Possibility, I suppose. White armor is shiny and new, but that just means it has yet to prove itself. You never know what you’re gonna get when you scratch beneath the surface.”

I had a lot more of @izzyovercoffee’s Mandalorian color theory stuff that I ended up cutting just because it didn’t really fit, but you should check them out because they’re suuuuuuper interesting. I love cultural worldbuiding shit like that.

Hanging on his every word, Jek and Shaeeah nod breathlessly. They watch as he picks up a foam brush and dips it into a small pot of 501st blue. He sets it to the very top of the arm and brings it down in a smooth, careful, practiced motion.

“Blue is reliability,” he continues. The unbroken line he draws down to the wrist is thinner than it was on his armor, but copying his armor isn’t the point; the point is to create something new out of its loss. “It’s faithfulness, and consistency. It’s the sky—the very air—and you can always in trust that.”

Listen, if you want subtlety, go read deadcat’s stuff. If you want to get bashed over the head with this shit, you’ve come to the right place.

Lastly, he picks up a fine detail brush and dips it into a second pot.

“This one is different,” he says eventually, gauging his little cadets’ avid expressions. “You use red to honor a parent and the word for ‘red’ in Mando’a is ge’tal—literally, ‘almost blood.’ It’s a complicated word, because to Mando’ade, your family isn’t always going to have the same blood as you. It might not be red at all—it might be green, or blue, or something else entirely. But with family, you’re always ready to spill others’ or your own in order to protect them; it’s about honor… and love.”

“Mom,” Shaeeah deduces, her voice quiet as a mouse as they all gaze at the sharp, cutting magenta that coats the brush.

Rex nods.

“Just so.” He twirls the brush around and offers it to them. “Now, what should we do with it?”

Listen, it’s very important to me that we cut that toxic masculinity shit out of Star Wars, stop linking pink to femininity, more important stop linking femininity to weakness, and ultimately I want to see more clones wearing pink. Pink flowers and curlicues mixed in with 501st blue on Rex’s sick robot arm? Sign me the fuck up.

—

Aaaaand that’s the Author’s Commentary on Chapter Two of Family Before Dishonor, hope you enjoyed!

#ask meme #dvd commentary meme #answered asks #by apples #norcumii #family before honor #star wars #the clone wars #captain rex #suu lawquane #sw fic

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itshigh-boop · 7 years ago

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Late for the Date

Omg, I finally finished this thing. I’ve had this in my WIP since January but I thought it’d fit nicely with Mcsombra Week! This ficlet was inspired by red-12am‘s two pieces of art that are connected: you can see them here and here! Written with permission!

Mcsombra week - Day 1 - First - this is kind of an AU!

“¡Chingado! Ándale...un...poco…¡más!” With trembling hands and as strong a grip as possible, Sombra attempted for the third time to inch the hem of her pants past her thighs. The stiff denim refused to budge past the first inch just above her knees. Depleted of her energy, Sombra groaned and released the grip on her jeans, dropping unceremoniously back onto her bed, letting an arm drape over her eyes. She knew skinny jeans were difficult to wear but she didn’t realize they were this frustrating. With a huff, Sombra rolled onto her side and sat up, bringing her legs close as she struggled to read the size tag on the pair of jeans. No, she bought the right size, which was lucky enough, finding skinny jeans that’d fit her wide hips. But getting them past her thighs and over her behind was another matter entirely, it seemed. She wanted this date to go well and part of that, for Sombra, meant dressing for the part. She already had the perfect blouse, sweater, coat, and boots picked out. They’d all been picked along with the jeans she was currently struggling to don. She was sure that her date would appreciate her choices and while she had no real experience with romantic affairs, she knew that making a good first impression was important. What better way to make an impression than dressing for the part? Sombra was well aware she was attractive and she planned to take advantage. But what sort of impression would she leave if she couldn’t even get dressed in the first place? With another grunt of determination, Sombra pressed her legs together as tightly as possible, laying on her back before swinging her legs into the air, momentarily using gravity to her advantage to inch and swish the impossible jeans down the contours of her legs. With each sway of her hips and tug of the pants, the hem slowly made it past her hips. Sombra grinned, happy that she was actually going to see results. Her fingers slipped into the belt hoops and tugged the rest of the pant length up her legs before she passed onto the next phase: buttoning her jeans. It took her a solid five minutes of aching, shaking fingers and grit teeth to finally button the pair of pants and she gingerly rolled onto her side, climbing off of her bed and walking toward her body-length mirror. Once she reached it, she smoothed out the few wrinkles that’d formed in her struggle, finally turning around to see the results of her efforts. Just as she expected. The word ‘perfect’ floated through her mind as she inspected her reflection over her shoulder. Now all she had left was...wait, what time was it? She turned, noting the orange light seeping in through the blinds of her window. Just how much time had passed since she got out of the shower? She rushed toward her night stand, grabbing her digital clock before nearly dropping it in alarm. How had an hour passed her by?! Did the jeans really take up that much of her time? In a realization of horror, she dove for her bed, tossing her sheets around until she found her phone, with its screen facing down. Upon turning it around, Sombra discovered two unread messages sent within the last ten minutes and a missed call. Dammit...they had agreed on this time, hadn’t they? The burn of shame and fear at the possibility of a good evening being ruined warmed her ears as Sombra quickly opened up the last unread message, her thumbs gliding across the screen in order to relay her message to her waiting beau. Please don’t let it be too late.

McCree checked his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time. It’d been almost an hour. He knew women had the universally known stereotype of running late for special events but this seemed excessive. And he was an even bigger fool for sticking around as long as he did. That, or terribly lonely. Probably both. He’d sent a few messages to the woman, even a phone call when he felt a bit desperate but each went unanswered. Why was he doing this to himself? Just because she’d seemed interested at the time didn’t mean she would still be interested at the time of their date. Quite honestly, he was used to this song and dance - a bitter tune, really, but begrudgingly familiar. McCree took one look down at the bouquet of roses he held and the numerous cigarette butts that littered the snow around him. Figured a no-show wasn’t any reason to ruin his lungs any more than he already did on a daily basis. Sighing, McCree lifted the brim of his hat, looking up at the setting sun and let his shoulders slump forward. Shifting the still lit cigarette between his lips, he took one last drag, intending to snuff it out and get going. Just as he started moving, vibrations in his pocket caused him to stop. At first he almost thought he imagined it, until he felt it again, and he grabbed his phone. A message - no, two messages. His brow lifted in question, slowly making his way to swipe his phone in order to read the messages until his phone began to vibrate once more, the plain jingle of the default ringtone filling the air. Her name - Sombra- flashed across the screen. There went his damn nerve. And his traitorous heart started beating like when he got his first kiss from a pretty girl. Would he ever learn? Apparently not, if his fingers moving to swipe right were any indication. Sighing, he lifted the phone to his ear, trying to sound as aloof as possible. “Hello?” “McCree? It’s Sombra.” The woman’s accented voice filled his eardrums and for a moment, he felt his stomach flutter in the same way it did when he’d worked up the nerve to ask her out. There was a sound of distress - a whine, almost, until she continued. “Look, I’m sorry that I’ve been keeping you waiting. It’s just-” “Ya don’t have to explain anythin’. I understand.” McCree figured he’d just fill in the gaps and awkward pauses that were coming up to save himself a headache. “Somethin’ came up, right?” “What? No.” Well, that was new. If it wasn’t silence and zero contact, he’d get some excuse or another about a friend suddenly getting sick or some important deadline that just happened to be that very night. McCree remained quiet, letting her finish. “It’s just…” A sigh resonated. “I lost track of time getting dressed. I just barely checked my phone and saw that sent me a few messages and called. I wasn’t ignoring you. I’m sorry.” When he didn’t respond, she continued, voice strained. “Look, I understand if you want to cancel plans tonight-” Ah, there it was. The old “give you the illusion that you’re making the call” line. McCree couldn’t lie - he felt himself bite down on the cigarette still in his mouth, the bitter, toxic taste spreading like the wave of disappointment over him. No matter how many times this had happened to him, it always hit him pretty hard. But this latest lady - he didn’t know how to explain it. Just that he felt someone might’ve been on the same wavelength as him, for once. “...but I personally still want to go out. Just let me know.” That...that was new. He almost didn’t know how to respond, not used to it getting this far. When he heard her voice again, asking him if he was still there, he nearly dropped his phone, fumbling to respond before she hung up, as if he hadn’t been the one waiting this entire time. “No. I mean, yeah, I still wanna head out tonight.” A sigh. “Good. Okay. Yeah.” She sounded just as nervous as he felt and that helped to calm some of the damn jitter in his belly. “I’m not going to lie, I’ve still got a bit to get ready. Is that okay?” The cold breeze that passed by subtly reminded McCree that maybe waiting longer for this woman wasn’t such a good idea. “Does it normally take you this long to get ready for a date?” he questioned, tone implying he was just teasing. “Only for those I actually want to go on.” That shut him up. “Why don’t you head down to the bar I told you about? Go ahead and order whatever you’d like, I’ve got a tab there, just mention my name.” At least it was better than standing around in the cold for another hour or however long she’d keep him waiting. He checked his watch again and sighed, though a weary smile made its way onto his face. “Tryin’ to get me drunk before the date even starts?” “Well, I hope you can hold your liquor. This might be a short date if you can’t.” The challenge in her voice spurred him into moving, already walking away from his spot as he began heading toward the aforementioned bar. “Alright. See you there, then.” He must have sounded hopeful, a hint of a question in what he perceived as a confident statement. “You will,” was all she responded with. -- True to her word, Sombra did end up having a tab. The bartender didn’t seem too suspicious, if only raising a brow at him when he mentioned her and glossed a look over the bouquet he still held, but otherwise gave him the drink he ordered. As tempting as it was to order to his heart’s content, he also wanted to make some sort of decent impression on the woman - enough to land him a second date if all went well. He’d refused to check his watch, if only because the stretch of time would feel impossible to bear if he thought about how many minutes actually passed him by. Instead, he chose to occupy his time with small talk with the bartender and by watching the holoscreen above. Just as he watched the same commercial that played for the tenth time that evening, he felt a hand tap his shoulder. He turned, perhaps a bit too quickly, and saw her again - Sombra. “Hola,” she greeted with a small smile and he swore she looked bashful. “Hey,” he replied dumbly after a few seconds. Realizing she was finally here with him, he scrambled off his barstool, moving to take off his hat and place it over his chest. “Glad ya could make it.” “Wouldn’t miss it, vaquero.” Her eyes glanced to the side. “Those for me?” He gave her the bouquet that’d been resting on the side of his barstool, awaiting their rightful owner. He hadn’t been so sure if they were a good purchase when he bought them earlier that day but seeing her holding them close and enjoying their perfumed scent, he was glad he did. The bat of her eyelashes had him feeling warm, and that was besides the drink he’d already partook. After offering to help her with her coat, he took a moment to admire her. Damn. If it took her that long to get ready and this was the result? He knows that rationally he should be annoyed at how much time she’s wasted but he can’t help but feel some level of joy that she concerned herself this much for a date with him. “Like what you see?” McCree looked up, seeing Sombra wink at him. She must’ve caught him looking. That or he took a second too long to gawk. If his jaw had been open, he had no doubt that she would have reached over to close it for him. “Mm. Ya do look stunning,” he admitted. “All that extra care ‘n attention really shows.” Sombra shrugged coyly, moving to sit on the barstool next to his. “I wanted to make a good first impression.” She turned her head, looking ahead at the shelves of bottles along the wall behind the counter. “That turned out to work out fine, didn’t it?” He took her hand in his, already trying to forget the rocky start that the evening began with. “Let’s not worry about that. We’re both here now so let’s just enjoy our time together, hm?” Quickly waving down the bartender, he turned back to his date, letting his thumbs brush over her knuckles. Slowly, but surely, he was gaining his confidence back. As much as he was charmed by this woman, he wanted to do the same. She looked surprised, violet eyes blinking slowly until she laughed through her nose, and nodded. “Of course, vaquero. I wanna see just how well you hold your liquor.” “Ya think I’m a lightweight?” he asked as the bartender placed two glasses of tequila in front of them. Sombra grabbed her glass and peered inside. “Prove to me you’re not?” The look she passed him was downright sinful, challenging, and McCree was a fool who took great delight in that fact. He laughed, instead choosing to take his own glass and lift it in good spirits. “To a good evenin’, with good drink ‘n even better company,” he offered, a grin on his lips. “Salud,” Sombra answered, lifting her tequila and taking a sip, humming in appreciation. “You’ve got good taste,” she all but purred her approval in his choice of tequila. “The best,” he answered, tipping his hat. Pleased with her reaction, he had a feeling that the rest of their evening would play out splendidly. -- “You sure you’re good to head out, McCree?” Sombra asked, holding her keys in one hand and the bouquet tucked in her arm. “We kinda got carried away there at the end.” McCree waved it off. “I’m good. I’ve ended up where I had to go worse off than this,” he explained. “Thanks for worryin’ ‘bout lil ol’ me though, darlin’. I appreciate it.” She rolled her eyes and huffed. “I’m just wondering if I’ll have someone to answer the phone when I want a second date,” she teased. He hadn’t even been thinking about it, having been preoccupied with the good time they were having that evening that McCree completely forgot about the possibility of seeing this woman a second time. Maybe even a third. “Oh?” he finally said, his head still lightly spinning. “I’ll be damned sure to answer that phone call, sweetheart.” The sweet laugh that bubbled out of Sombra’s throat warmed him right up even in the middle of the cold of that winter night. The glow of the light outside her door illuminated her face and he swore he never saw anyone more beautiful. “I’d like to kiss you,” McCree admitted, blunt and quickly. He wasn’t drunk but alcohol had the tendency to make him say things that were at the front of his mind. Instead of quiet acceptance, he felt her grab his coat and drag him down to her level before the lips he’d been staring at all night long finally pressed onto his. McCree wrapped his arms around her, as if anchoring himself to the reality that this day was ending so perfectly. As she pulled away, she made no move to remove herself from his hold, instead breathing along with him, the impact of their lip lock made evident from the visual puffs of air in the cold weather. “McCree,” Sombra started quietly. Just as he contemplated his name being the sweetest sound ever from her mouth, she continued. “Do you want to come inside?” She didn’t even have to ask twice.

#mcsombra #mcsombraweek2018 #mccree x sombra #My writing

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segadores-y-soldados · 7 years ago

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Those Who Rise Up

Part 2 of “Retribution and Reapercussions”: exploring the consequences of “Retribution” on the characters of Overwatch. The timeframe for this covers the end of the debriefings from the Venice Mission (“Retribution”) to the beginning of Null Sector’s uprising (“Uprising”), approximately a one-year span.

This part will cover the rise of Akande Ogundimu, both as the third Doomfist (“The Successor”) and as a new Talon leader; the creation of Widowmaker; and the hypothesis that the first Slipstream flight was sabotaged.

A follow-up to “Long Reasons Not to Trust Moira in Retribution”, “A Clash of Kings,” the post about the declassified Blackwatch memorandum on Venice, a post about Overwatch and Blackwatch investigating their own organization, “The Immortal Soldier?”, and other essays. The ones linked above are the most important at the moment.

Additional essays and posts related to this topic: “Tal Pai, Tal Filho”, a write-up on the new Lúcio story and interactions between Lúcio, Symmetra, and Doomfist; a reply to an ask about if the attack on Antonio was planned or not; “An Eye for An Eye”, hypotheses on the new Soldier: 76-Moira interaction and if Soldier is “in” on Reaper’s plan.

Warning: Like “Retribution and Reapercussions”, this essay will be long. As always, a “Read more” link/cut will be provided, but tumblr mobile is a buggy app, and you may encounter problems with opening this or other links on the app.

McCree: Our target was dead, so I guess he got what was coming to him. But still…it didn’t seem right. But that wasn’t the end of our problems: for the first time, people knew we were out there. New faces stepped up to fill the void in Talon. And I can’t help but wonder…if that’s where it all started to go wrong.

Even though Blackwatch was suspended in the wake of the compromised Venice mission, relatively little changed “internally” within Overwatch. We don’t fully know Moira’s status as a known Talon agent, but as described in Part 1, it is possible that Gabriel Reyes managed to secure her cooperation and her silence by permitting her to continue her experiments on him. He likely also convinced her that he was either “going rogue” and leaving Overwatch, or convinced her that she could “recruit him” if more pressures caused “visible” schisms between him and Jack Morrison.

We also don’t fully know if Moira was or is aware of this, but it is likely that Gabriel started this “masquerade” to begin a reverse-infiltration of Talon. Gabriel, and later his persona of Reaper, represent the spirit of retribution, and he was willing to bend or break “the rules” that Overwatch (and even Blackwatch) was forced to play by in order to do “the real work of keeping the world safe” (Gabriel’s own words). It is not known if Jack was in on this plan, or if the plan “evolved” over time. At the moment, in the immedate aftermath of the mission, it is possible that “Gabriel’s plan” was only in its beginning stages.

Externally, the public reeled from the revelation of Blackwatch’s existence.

However, while we don’t know the all of the details, the “Uprising” comic shows us that, even a year after the events of “Retribution” -

Overwatch and select, trusted members of Blackwatch continued to work as they normally did. This implies that Blackwatch’s suspension was essentially...just a masquerade of its own.

So, despite what seemed to have been implied by McCree’s ending narration of “Retribution,” Overwatch itself did not fall, did not struggle.

Arguably, it didn’t even really crack.

In Part 1, I posited the idea that Gabriel and Jack possibly welcomed the Blackwatch suspension, as an immediate and “official” way for them, Ana, and Gérard to begin cracking down on “compromised” Blackwatch and Overwatch agents. The suspension would have allowed them adequate cover to investigate their own organization and divisions, and clear individual agents or groups as trustworthy, in order to isolate the effects of Talon’s spreading infiltration.

In fact, the suspension and internal investigation don’t stop Overwatch from continuing its missions or external investigations. By the time of Null Sector’s uprising in London a year later, Overwatch has several on-going investigations or “active situations” it is monitoring:

(A lot more under the cut.)

This map is taken directly from the screen in Jack’s office in the “Uprising” comic. Though incredibly small, we actually roughly know the majority of the location of the dots. From right to left, they are:

Tokyo, Japan: likely the investigation of the Shimada criminal empire, as Genji is still present in Overwatch.

Cairo and/or Giza, Egypt: no mission is known, but an Overwatch official was killed there shortly before the comic takes place. It is also the present-day home of the Anubis AI.

An unknown location in Switzerland: possibly Overwatch’s internal investigation of itself, or an investigation into the UN’s Geneva base.

Either Oyo, Nigeria or Numbani: an investigation into the new “Doomfist”, Akande Ogundimu, and his “mercenary” troops

London, UK: this is Null Sector’s uprising

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil: with the new revelation about Lúcio’s father working for Vishkar, this investigation becomes tantalizing to hypothesize about

Dorado, Mexico: though we don’t know what Overwatch was investigating specifically, the location is home to Los Muertos, the gang affiliated with Sombra (who was a new Talon agent at the time) and possibly the site of LumériCo’s then-new developments

Pacific Northwest, United States and/or Canada: unknown entirely, aside from being where Fareeha Amari’s biological father, Sam, is from.

Several of these locations can be double-checked against the map from the Soldier: 76 Origin video.

One obvious and major diffierence between the maps is...well...

Paris, France.

Which is almost certainly tied to:

Odette, Odile skin description: For much of her life, Amélie Lacroix was better known as an accomplished ballet dancer in Paris.

Overwatch went through several major decisions in the immediate aftermath of the Venice mission, likely in rapid-fire succession. Arguably, due to the speed and efficiency of the decisions (the debriefings, Gabriel working with Moira, the suspension), Overwatch was able to pretty quickly recover and return to relative equilibrium, with surprisingly few side-effects internally.

In fact, it was arguably Talon which went through much bigger and more significant changes after the Venice mission. The effects of Antonio’s death rippled throughout the paramilitary organization’s core, likely setting off a number of events in the days to months that followed.

The most important and - quite frankly - “world-changing” of these consequences would absolutely be:

The True Successor: Akande overthrows Akinjide

We know from the Blackwatch memorandum and an interaction in “Retribution” that the “Doomfist” associated with Antonio was actually the second one:

Akinjide Adeyemi, also known as “The Scourge”.

McCree: Did Antonio have any associates? Gabriel: There’s the one who will probably take over for him - Vialli. Don’t know too much about him. Then Doomfist in Numbani, and an Omnic, who runs a casino in Monaco - uh, Maximilien or something.

While we don’t know for certain if Talon was organized the exact same way then (8-9 years ago) as it is during the events of the “Masquerade” comic, it seems fairly reasonable to conclude that the major aspects of leadership were roughly the same: a council made up of select leaders, each of whom runs a major faction or component of the organization, and who form “alliances” to achieve their objectives.

At the time of “Retribution,” Blackwatch did not fully know: 1) the exact nature of these relationships and connections between Talon “leaders” and 2) the extent of them. In fact, the whole point of the Venice mission was to grab Antonio and get information from him, to help Blackwatch conduct a more thorough investigation and coordinate covert operations against Talon.

This is significant for two main reasons:

The first is that - as part of the “Gabriel is infiltrating Talon” theory - Gabriel Reyes does not actually know all of the Talon leaders at the time of “Masquerade”. In fact, it is very likely that the crux of his infiltration plan is to find all the major Talon leaders and...well, enact retribution upon them (hence the references to Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death”).

“Retribution” rather subtly slips in an important clue: Gabriel Reyes did not know exactly who “Vialli” was at the time of the Venice mission. He knew him by name, and knew that he was associated with Antonio, but he could not actually recognize him in person.

And roughly nine years later, “Reaper” still cannot recognize Vialli in-person.

Getting access to the secretive Talon council is vital for Gabriel’s infiltration, or everything he’s done between “Retribution” and “Masquerade” will have been a hugely wasted and incredibly costly effort - he’s arguably “lost” everything in exchange for this “retribution infiltration” mission against Talon.

However, unlike “Retribution-era” Gabriel and Blackwatch, “we the audience” have additional sources of information at our disposal: we know who Vialli is, we know his relationship with Antonio (who was his “predecessor”), we know his relationship with Akande (though there are a number of interesting plot twists there), and we know what he eventually becomes after Overwatch falls (the main “leader”/commander of Talon).

We also know the rough structure of Talon’s council and its overall hierarchy: Talon should be viewed as a sort of network of alliances between powerful, cunning, and extreme individuals who manage either actual mercenary or paramilitary troops (such as Antonio?):

Or who control access to resources or funding (such as Maximilien):

Or who possess the abilities or technical knowledge to apply certain extreme technologies, enhancements, or augmentations to Talon assets (such as Moira).

From what we know from Akande’s Hero Profile, Akinjide Adeyemi was a member of Talon who actually led and organized mercenary and paramilitary units:

We don’t know when exactly Akinjide recruited Akande, or what he said to encourage Akande to join him. Akande did not “start” in Talon, but instead was brought on as a mercenary (much like another Talon character, hmmm). Implied in the wording is that Akinjide wanted to see what Akande’s enhanced capabilities were actually “worth” before he brought him to Talon, and therefore made him do a lot of “mercenary grunt work” before he started introducing Akande to his Talon forces or - more importantly - his Talon associates, notably Maximilien.

However, even though it isn’t directly stated in Akande’s Hero Profile or in the “Masquerade” comic (likely because the latter occurs much later in the story), it’s important to realize that what Akinjide said may have mattered significantly less to Akande than who Akinjide was.

Or at least...who he represented.

There are a number of “Doomfists” in the history of the Overwatch universe, so it’s sort of a title that’s been carried by different characters. The original “Doomfist” was a really good guy - one of the heroes of the Omnic Crisis...

(Source: Michael Chu)

Ages and ages ago - before any real aspects of “Doomfist” had been fully revealed - I wrote one of my first “big essay” posts discussing his then-immenient release. It was titled “Doomfist: Lineage and Legacy” and essentially, it analyzed the names of the three main “Doomfists” (and originally postulated the possible existence of a fourth). What was most important about the essay was that: it established that there was a mythological/historical inspiration for the “lineage” of Doomfists (which is similar to how many Overwatch characters have mythological inspirations), that there was a certain amount of “regality” and “kingship” among the three (maybe four) Doomfists (which was shortly confirmed by the literary references in the “Masquerade” comic), and that the usage of the Gauntlets was being transformed from a tool for justice into a weapon of war.

Not all of it was correct: obviously, the idea of a “fourth” Doomfist was wrong (at least...for now, lol). But what was correct was the concept of “rightful inheritance” and “legacy”, along with a twisting transformation of both ideas from one of heroism to one of “war”.

To begin with, the first Doomfist was a man named Adhabu Ngumi.

It means “Doom Fist” in Swahili.

However, it is not so much his direct name meaning that is the significant part, but the fact that it is Swahili, which is found in the region of the African Great Lakes (for example, Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Tanzania, etc). This is notably east of Nigeria.

Adhabu is also dressed in an extremely militarized manner - he is wearing body armor, what appears to be a biotic field (compare to the yellow one on the Strike-Commander Morrison skin), and a military beret. He is framed with a rising sun, showing him as a heroic, bold figure.

This, coupled with his title “The Savior,” implies that he was a military figure in Africa - arguably Eastern Africa.

However, given the backstory of the OR-14s, we know there was an Omnium in Nigeria:

“Originally put into service before the Omnic Crisis, the OR14 “Idina” line of security robots was built in Nigeria’s massive manufacturing omnium. After the war, they were taken out of production, along with many of the other models used during the crisis. Twenty years later, Numbani revived and recommissioned the OR14 program to protect the city from external threats. These new OR15s were deployed for a short time before they were destroyed in an attack by Doomfist.”

Which means that it’s very, very likely Adhabu was the man who led African military forces to triumph over the Nigerian Omnium.

It may be possible that Numbani itself was built in Adhabu’s honor.

Although Adhabu is Swahili, he seems to bear some references to the Oduduwa mythology of the Yoruba people (whom the Scourge and Akande are a part of): he “hails from the east,” and appears to be “a bringer of light.” Oduduwa is considered the ancestor of all Yoruba kings.

Many of his details referencing Oduduwa is important: regality and kingship are deliberate and intentional choices in Akande’s design.

“We really wanted to give [Akande] colors that made him feel very powerful like red, gold - and really adorn him with that regal presence.” - Arnold Tsang, Doomfist Hero Preview video

Moreover, the concept of “kingly inheritance” and “kingly successorship” is integral into the entire “Doomfist” title and lineage: Adhabu set the precedent, both in presence and in story. He came from the east, represented by his Swahili origins and the sun, and helped save Nigeria and other parts of West Africa from the Nigerian Omnium. He is a noble, heroic figure, a modern-day king-commander (not unlike a few other characters in Overwatch, mainly Gabriel Reyes, Jack Morrison, Fareeha Amari, and Hanzo Shimada), and he represented how a human with added augmentation (his Gauntlet) could become powerful - more powerful than literal machines. The people of Numbani still hold him in high regard, bestowing the title of “The Savior” upon him.

This goes further than just Adhabu:

Because even though his “title” is “The Scourge,” Akinjide Adeyemi has all the hallmarks of “a king”.

(Again, wrote this before Doomfist/Akande was released.)

Much like how Akinjide eventually took Akande under his wing, it is very plausible that Adhabu taught or possibly even raised Akinjide. The meaning of Akinjide’s full name - “the strong one who is worthy of the crown has returned” - certainly bestows a weighty and powerful “right” of successorship upon him. Like names like “Gabriel Reyes” or “Moira O’Deorain”, “Akinjide Adeyemi” is a name that gives us the sense that he was supposed to be a heroic and just figure - a true inheritor of Adhabu’s title, Gauntlet, and legacy. That he should have been another “Savior” to Numbani and Nigeria.

Instead...he became a “scourge” upon the city and the region.

Akinjide took his version of the Gauntlet (or perhaps even Adhabu’s own Gauntlet) and recrafted it: he made it bigger, more aggressive, more powerful, and more weaponized. He took what was originally a symbol of hope, power, and honor, and transformed it into one of destruction and despair. Whatever ties he had to Adhabu were severed when he began to abuse this power and “worthiness” for ill.

A young Akande grew up through all of this - the Omnic Crisis, Adhabu saving Nigeria, the construction of Numbani, the growth and flourishing of the city and region. He watched his family’s prosthetic company change the lives of those injured during the Crisis, making them stronger, better, more powerful. He witnessed how a single man, a single commander - Adhabu Ngumi - could change the course of history of parts of the world with a single, powerful tool.

What Akande witnessed was that war - perhaps the greatest war in Overwatch’s fictional history - did not weaken humanity.

War had made everything around him grow. Thrive. Flourish. And improve.

Numbani and Nigeria rose from the ashes of the Omnic Crisis with a burgeoning economy and rapid advancements in technology. It was a vision of the future, a vision of what humanity - coupled with new technology, new ideas, and new power - could create.

And Akande himself had gotten stronger because of the Crisis.

Though perhaps...at the time, he did not think so:

Here, we have a collision.

Akinjide - a man who should’ve had the world in the palm of his hand - running mercenary groups, raiding off the edges of Numbani’s wealth and advancements, coming in contact with Akande - a man who should’ve inherited the wealth, technology, the power, and the prestige of his family - completely discontent with his life...

Discontent with his destiny.

Two inheritors of two similar yet different legacies, both of whom had lost them for different reasons - Akinjide for reasons unknown, but for methods we know about (he abused his power), and Akande for the reasons above, who lost all interest in simply “running a company,” even if the company was prestigous and doing remarkable work.

So perhaps, it was not specifically Akinjide who Akande was interested in working with, but rather, the “legacy” he was carrying:

His Gauntlet

His title of “Doomfist”

And eventually - his “army”.

We know from Akande’s Hero Profile that he excelled in his new line of work, first as a mercenary, then as a “rising” Talon leader. He worked his way up the ranks, proving himself as a capable, calm, tactical commander, and others in Talon...took notice of his “greater potential”.

We are bedeviled by the mysteries of creation. Science can reveal the truths that lie behind these many questions. What we learn can unlock the true potential of humanity.

- Moira (source)

We don’t know when or how Akande and Moira met, but it is clear that - at their cores - they share a similar vision, though the means and methods they use to achieve those are different. Akande focuses on conflict as a way of driving technological advancement, while Moira is more interested in the research aspect of progress. However, both individuals are extremely loose in their ethics, and capable of switching to alternate methods when necessary to achieve their goals.

Symmetra: Doomfist, you are mistaken - only with order can humanity evolve! Doomfist: Order…chaos… means to an end.

---

Moira: Well, that was certainly a decisive solution to the Antonio problem. McCree: It’s not how we do things! Moira: Well, it seems we’ve had a change in methodology. McCree, muttering: …A little too much change.

Both Akande and Moira found pre-Retribution Talon suitable to their then-purposes: Akande, listless in the direction his life had been taking, found a place where his “true potential” as a visionary king-commander could thrive, while Moira, who had lost her life’s research after Overwatch had shut down her original lab, found an organization whose lack of ethics (and seemingly endless supply of human test subjects) suited her own amoral experiments.

There was, however, a problem.

...Or rather, two problems.

The first and most important, of course, was Overwatch: Overwatch was a militarized organization with the authority and actual power (e.g. resources, agents, teams, divisions, and motivations) to enforce peacekeeping and other regulations. While Numbani had grown from the ashes of the Crisis, so too had Overwatch, expanding from a team of five known individuals into an international, UN-chartered organization that helped build global peace and stability. And despite what Akande and Moira claim, Overwatch did support scientific, economic, and social advancement, such as helping fund the development of different research divisions or different projects (see: Mercy, Winston, Mei, and Torbjörn as examples).

However, while Overwatch was not perfect about stopping global or international crime, it made a concerted effort to do so: disbanding arms-trafficking groups like the Deadlock Gang or focusing missions against criminal networks like the Shimada clan.

In fact, it is loosely implied that Talon was formed specifically to counter and undermine Overwatch: a conglomeration of “well-funding criminals” who wanted to see the peacekeeping organization destabilized so they could run their “profitable” crimes, from operating mercenary groups to arms-dealing to laundering money through casinos (currently only implied). A hint at this comes from Genji in Retribution:

Genji: Talon once tried to recruit my father. Gabriel: He didn’t take them up on their offer? Genji: He did not find them to his liking. Their aims did not…coincide with his own.

(Source)

And we know that even though Hanzo has left the clan in the present-day, Akande and Widowmaker very actively try to recruit him into Talon, bluntly saying that they could help him restore the Shimada clan to its former glory at the head of a criminal empire. Talon - then and now - makes a concentrated effort to recruit people who are powerful in the...unethical side of the story.

However, we now run into “Retribution-era” Akande’s and Moira’s second problem:

The Talon leadership at the time of Retribution was...“narrow-minded” in its focus, purpose, and methods.

Adeyemi was a useful asset to Talon, but the organization saw far greater potential in Ogundimu, with his intelligence and his ability to inspire as a commander. While Adeyemi was content to profit from raids on Numbani, Ogundimu had a grander vision.

(Source)

Petty “raids” on wealthy cities, disjointed and unorganized attacks on Overwatch facilities -

Attacks that didn’t even work in killing or harming their intended targets:

After all, the explosion on the temporary Blackwatch base in Rome was meant to kill Gérard Lacroix, but not only did it fail to do that, Gérard was set to make a full recovery. Instead, approximately fourteen Blackwatch members - possibly even just support staff or third-party contractors - were killed. While those numbers were still emotionally upsetting for Gabriel and Jack, they did not actually impact Overwatch’s or Blackwatch’s ability to function.

We can conclude that with individuals like Antonio and Akinjide in charge of Talon, these semi-randomized attacks on Overwatch had been going on for awhile, maybe a few months to a year, and that they were largely unsuccessful in harming the overal integrity of the peacekeeping organzation (but they were successful at emotional “wear-and-tear” on Overwatch’s leaders).

Antonio’s lines in “Retribution” show us this sort of “narrow-minded” focus:

Antonio: …Good evening, Commander Reyes. Ha, how will this look on the news? Overwatch unlawfully abducting a respected businessman? Even if you take me now, my friends would have me released within the week. All these…theatrics have been a waste of our time.

All that Antonio is focused on is “appearances” - the news coverage of his arrest, his public “respected businessman” stature, how he derides the back-and-forth exchanges between Overwatch/Blackwatch and Talon as simple “theatrics” (“theatrics” which resulted in deaths that impacted Gabriel). His message to Gabriel is surprisingly simple: Talon and Blackwatch can keep playing these “theatrics” of not-really-harming each other, or Gabriel and his team can turn around, walk away from the situation, back off of the investigation of Talon, and turn a blind eye to Talon’s future crimes.

No talk of “visionary futures.” No talk of “true potentials.” No talk of dedication to research, experiments seeking the truth. No talk of ideologies of how war reshapes humanity, how conflict is the “crucible through which we evolve”.

Just “business” and “theatrics.”

So like -

Is it really that surprising that she’s happy to see Antonio die?

As I wrote in this answer, I don’t think Moira particularly expected Antonio to die. I think she expected to put Gabriel - one of her current “research interests” - into an extremely tough “experiment” against her other “research interests” (the Talon paramilitary agents), and see who came out on top. If it was Gabriel, well, she knew he was bound to her by her research, and if it was the Talon army, then great, her new experiments were a success.

However, instead, she was excited to see an unexpected “result” of her experiment:

Gabriel’s intense and sudden “change of plans,” which result in Antonio’s death.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it as many times as I need to: Moira’s sense of “loyalty” obviously runs by a different “ethical code” than most people. Her loyalty is to her research first, and those who support it second. If Antonio was as “narrow-minded” as Akinjide or (for example) Winston or Mercy, of course she’d be pretty happy to see him removed from Talon, just as she would be happy to undermine Overwatch. Her “loyalty” is not about who is giving her a paycheck or protection, but who best aligns with her vision of free and “unrestricted” research.

In his own way, Antonio and the “old” Talon leadership hindered Moira almost as much as Overwatch did.

We don’t exactly know who or what compelled Moira to join Blackwatch when Gabriel recruited her. We know from Michael’s implications and her paper on curing degenerative diseases that it’s pretty plausible Gabriel recruited Moira mainly to solve his SEP side-effects, but we don’t know if that alone was enough to catch Moira’s interest.

However, considering the wording on her Hero Profile (which implies she was already a Talon agent in Blackwatch), her obvious hatred for Overwatch, the themes of “parallel retributions gone wrong” (e.g. Gabriel’s retribution vs. Moira’s retribution), and her obvious amorality in using, leaking, and “repurposing” Gabriel’s biodata, I don’t think it’s very surprising that someone probably encouraged her to accept Gabriel’s request and enter Blackwatch as a Talon spy.

“We stand on the brink of a breakthrough in human evolution. I have dedicated my life to unraveling its secrets. I take risks that others would consider to be ‘unwise,’ for I do not share their caution. Overwatch held back the pace of scientific discovery for decades. They believed my methods were too radical… too controversial…

“And they tried…to silence me.

“…But there were others in the shadows, searching for ways to circumvent their rules. Freed from my shackles, the pace of our research hastened - together, we delved deeper into those areas forbidden by law, by morality…and by fear. “New patrons emerged who possessed an appetite for my discoveries. And with this knowledge…what new world could we build?”

- Moira Origin story (source)

Someone encouraged Moira. Though her Origin video wants you to think it was Gabriel, we know from the “Retribution” comic that his priorities were on protecting Jack and Overwatch. In that case, the part about “others in the shadows, searching for ways to circumvent [Overwatch’s] rules” almost certainly implies Talon as a whole.

But the line “Together, we delved deeper into those areas forbidden by law, by morality...and by fear” is stronger, but in different ways.

If Moira is talking about Talon, then she appears to be describing both her experimental work on the Talon paramilitary agents, and - most likely - her work as a “spy” in Blackwatch. Talon has no problem breaking “law and morality,” but “fear” is an interesting one, because the sentence structure makes it sound like Moira is talking about her own fear.

As if someone had to help her get past her fear of being an untrained, noncombatant spy entering Blackwatch, a division specializing in covert operations.

Adeyemi was a useful asset to Talon, but the organization saw far greater potential in Ogundimu, with his intelligence and his ability to inspire as a commander.

We know one member of Retribution-era Talon who had the ability to inspire others to be “courageous.”

I don’t know if Moira joined Blackwatch under Akande’s orders or interests. I don’t know if she saw him as a “king-commander” or if she saw him as an associate, or even as a friend. However, 8-9 years later, Moira has answered Akande’s “call to war” seemingly without hesitation:

In the present day, we know that other characters like Maximilien and Sanjay are also apparently loyal to Akande, along with a few others that we haven’t seen. “Reaper” appears to be acting as an “inspired” henchman to Akande, though we know he helped Sombra sabotage the Volskaya mission, and he might have deliberately thrown the “stop Recall” and “reclaim the Gauntlet” missions as well.

At the very least, at the time of Retribution, Moira and Akande’s intra-Talon interests aligned:

They would see Overwatch brought down.

And if “sacrifices” within Talon had to be made in the name of science and progress, then so be it.

This is Akande’s moment.

When we look at it from his perspective, we see a long sequence of events that have finally “aligned”:

Akinjide, who initially appeared promising to Akande as the “successor” to Adhabu, has proven to be a disappointment, ideologically and motivationally weak compared to Akande’s own “grander vision.”

Moira, who has slipped into Blackwatch as a Talon spy, has found a number of abilities to experiment with, and has possibly found a critical weakness to one of the founding members of Overwatch.

Against all odds, that exact member of Overwatch - Gabriel Reyes - has actually killed Antonio, who was a “weak willed” and “narrow-minded” leader of Talon, and one of Akinjide’s allies.

And - perhaps what is truly shocking (or motivating) to Akande - is that Antonio’s new experimental army and paramilitary units have been decimated by Gabriel, two additional Blackwatch agents, and Moira, who was more or less there to keep herself alive.

If there is ever a time to remake and reforge Talon, it is now.

After all, only through conflict do we evolve.

And Akande is going to fulfill his “true potential.”

Akande is a male Yoruba name meaning "firstborn." Ogun is a Yoruba god of war and metalwork, and dimu is Yoruba for "grasping." Akande Ogundimu can therefore be roughly translated as, "heir to the god who grasps iron and war.”

And he is going to remake and reforge the Doomfist legacy, from a “savior” to a “scourge” to a true “success(or)”.

Humanity has always been tested. Conflict and war is the crucible through which we evolve. Every battle makes us stronger. Those who fall will be forgotten. Those who rise up - their names will be remembered forever. (source)

History is written by the victors... Ha. You know my name. (source)

By killing and overthrowing Akinjide, Akande would embody - in name, in title, in inheritance, in legacy, in motivation, in literal “armaments” - his ideology of conflict making people (and organizations) stronger.

As the new Doomfist, Ogundimu rose high in Talon and helped to orchestrate a conflict that the organization hoped would someday engulf the world.

With Akinjide and Antonio gone, a new set of alliances is made among the remaining members of the Talon council. Incredibly, Maximilien - the casino-owning French Omnic - survives the coup (we’ll get a little more into him later), no doubt using his political savvy and money to persuade the new “successors” to Akinjide and Antonio (Akande and Vialli respectively) to keep him around. It is not known if Moira is able to contact her allies in Talon, but she is obviously intelligent enough and clever enough to survive whatever situation she is in.

Secured in his new position on the Talon council, Akande sets out to make his “grander vision” a reality. He is not going to make the same mistakes as Akinjide and Antonio. His “grander vision” is noble, honorable, powerful. It will require the abilities and inspirations of a king-commander, the genius of brilliant but troubled scientists, and the craftsmanship of engineers and architechs (lol).

Akande is going to use all the resources at his disposal to make more tactical, precision strikes against Overwatch.

You don’t break a dam by chipping away at the top, and you don’t weaken an organization by killing random agents.

You break a dam by destroying the foundation -

And you weaken an organization by taking down important targets.

Swan song: the death of Gérard Lacroix and the creation of Widowmaker

Moira: How are you feeling, Lacroix? Widowmaker: I don't feel. That's the point, isn't it?

Gabriel Reyes had shown that he was “too hard to kill” in a direct confrontation, and if he had formed some sort of negotiations with Moira, he may have been “safe” from further Talon attacks. Similarly, Jesse McCree and Genji Shimada had also proven themselves pretty difficult to kill in Venice, and with Gabriel vouching for their loyalty, they may have been extra “guarded” by Overwatch.

Furthermore, the Blackwatch suspension would’ve made it impossible for Moira or any other Talon double-agents to make any aggressive moves against the organization (if they were even allowed in the Overwatch facilities).

Inside Overwatch’s “castles,” the core members of Overwatch and Blackwatch were relatively safe from direct Talon attacks or from Talon infiltrators leaking information (at the moment). Business resumed some degree of normalcy.

After Gabriel Reyes, Jesse McCree, and Genji Shimada, Gérard Lacroix was arguably the most important member of Blackwatch (that we know of). He was the principle investigator in the anti-Talon operations, and he was also a crucial witness in Gabriel’s debriefing:

However, inside Overwatch facilities, Gérard would have been secure, surrounded by allies and medics who could help him. Because of Gabriel’s debriefing, Gérard would also have been aware of Moira’s role as a Talon infiltrator, and like Jesse and Genji, would’ve kept his guard up around her.

He might also have been the first person to start identifying other Talon infiltrators (if there were some).

Removing him would’ve become the top spot on Talon’s priority list.

With Akande now leading Talon, it was time to try a different set of tactics. Aggressive but semi-randomized attacks had failed to take down the most important Blackwatch and Overwatch leaders and agents. Even direct ambushes had proven dicey, as Talon had lost one of their own major leaders in their last attempt at that.

However, there was one avenue that had proven to be effective.

Extremely effective:

“Hope” had been Overwatch’s greatest strength for nearly 25 years -

And much like how Moira had found “hope” to be Gabriel’s weakness -

All the virtues that had helped make Overwatch strong would be its undoing.

Love, courage, loyalty, determination, and hope -

Moira had proven with her “experiment” that these things could be used to put Overwatch and Blackwatch agents in critical situations, where their guards were lowered and their judgments weakened.

Other methods had failed, but with a new “visionary” at the helm of Talon, perhaps they could try her “new methodology.”

It is believed that in her former life, Widowmaker was married to Gérard Lacroix, an Overwatch agent spearheading operations against the Talon terrorist organization. After several unsuccessful attempts to eliminate Gérard, Talon decided to change its focus to his wife, Amélie.

We don’t know where, when, or how exactly Amélie’s kidnapping occurred, but based on her Odette and Odile skin descriptions:

For much of her life, Amélie Lacroix was better known as an accomplished ballet dancer in Paris.

She was probably kidnapped in Paris.

We don’t know how long she was missing, or where she was found again, but we can surmise or hypothesize about a few things:

Talon operatives kidnapped her and subjected her to an intense program of neural reconditioning. They broke her will, suppressed her personality, and reprogrammed her as a sleeper agent. She was eventually found by Overwatch agents, apparently none the worse for wear, and returned to her normal life.

Now, we don’t exactly know if Moira was involved in her reconditioning. Personally, I believe that if Moira did get involved, it occurred at a later phase, when Amélie’s physiology changed. It would be extremely strange for a geneticist to be involved in brainwashing, though considering Blizzard doesn’t have the best track record for “accurate” science fiction, I wouldn’t be surprised if they somehow threw that in there.

However, we do know that Talon - especially Akande’s new Talon - was full of extreme, powerful individuals, many of whom shared the same intense ideology and principles of “conflict/stress/experimentation makes us stronger”, “we are part of a grander vision/truer potential/greater order”, and “the ends justifies the methods”. In fact, Widowmaker’s “reconditioning” has a very strong parallel in another character:

Now, let me make this very clear: I do not think Satya Vaswani has been deliberately brainwashed like Amélie Lacroix. I do think Vishkar has been such a massive and looming part of Satya’s life for so long that it has an incredibly strong grip on her views and mindset.

We also know that Vishkar demands an extreme amount of loyalty, dedication, and ruthlessness from its employees. This point had long been implied by Satya’s dialogue and her behavior, but it was more overtly confirmed by a new interaction:

Lúcio: Vishkar’s using you - just like they used my father! …You just wait - you’ll see. Symmetra: Your father was a Vishkar employee. He understood our company’s vision…a shame he never educated you.

We don’t know when exactly Sanjay Korpal joined Talon: he appears to be relatively young, but so do Moira and Akande, who are both in their 40′s, and they were part of Talon before the events of the Venice mission. An intriguing “hint” that Sanjay might have also been part of Talon during Retribution comes from the Blackwatch Venice memorandum:

On the “Organization Profile”, the list of known members of Talon is different than the list of Antonio’s known associates.

Notably, Akinjide Adeyemi was not listed as a member, but was later identified by Blackwatch as a Talon associate (when they monitor his fight with Akande):

Both of the [redacted] names are relatively short - approximately the same length as “Maximilien”. “Sanjay Korpal” could fit in one of them. The only other member of Talon at the time (though we do not know if Blackwatch was aware of her) was Olivia Colomar, better known as “Sombra”.

Also the fact that the Talon Assassin appears to use hard light and sonic technology for her blades and her increased speed:

While I would not be surprised for Blizzard to released a new character who is directly responsible for Amélie’s brainwashing, I would also be unsurprised if the role is pinned on Sanjay and/or Moira.

After all, Moira is already responsible for parts of another character’s “condition”:

Moira: How are you feeling, Commander? Gabriel: Fine, no ill effects so far. Moira: Let me know if that changes.

Which is suspiciously parallel to:

Moira: How are you feeling, Lacroix? Widowmaker: I don’t feel - that’s the point, isn’t it?

In fact, Widowmaker’s story has a number of intriguing plot elements that pointedly mirror Reaper’s.

The first is that both appear to have been - or currently be - double-agents or sleeper agents. Amélie was made into a sleeper agent on behalf of Talon, killing her husband Gérard and then returning to Talon for further conditioning and training. Gabriel, on the other hand, appears to currently be infiltrating Talon as a double-agent, notably after having a “falling out” with his “partner”, Jack Morrison.

The second is that they both claim - admittedly for different reasons - to not feel any emotion in regards to their actions, but both of these are lies.

This is an outright lie by Reaper. Even if he is genuinely angry with Jack, Reaper refused to kill Ana Amari when he had a chance because he got emotional.

Meanwhile, in the above interaction with Moira, Widowmaker claims to feel nothing, but during the events of “Reflections”, she visits Gérard’s grave and brings a rose:

(Amusingly, she also claims she cannot feel “the cold” in Volskaya, but wears a coat here.)

Widowmaker also retains Gérard’s picture in her mansion.

Which - while we haven’t seen this in the present day - has a side-eyeing parallel to Gabriel’s situation room during the “Retribution” comic:

Lastly, both of them have had major emotional virtues undermined as their points of weakness by Talon:

Gabriel had his trust and hope betrayed.

Amélie’s love and loyalty were taken from her:

Two weeks later she killed Gérard in his sleep.

Personally, I’m not a fan of the “Gabriel is brainwashed” theory because I think it removes a lot of his in-universe agency and decision-making power from him (which, admittedly, I don’t love that aspect of Widowmaker either), but I do think there are strong parallels and connections to be made between Widowmaker and “Reaper”. As I said earlier, it appears that Moira may be holding onto Gabriel’s “cure” or blackmailing him about his “secrets” to have him work as a mercenary for Talon (though obviously this could be perceived differently to one or both of them - hell, it may even be a relatively “mutual” agreement between them by the time of Recall). In both situations, Talon seems to have a “grip” on an emotional or meaningful aspect of both Widowmaker’s and Reaper’s personal lives and motivations, and Talon appears to have targeted a “virtuous emotion” (love, hope, trust, etc) and transformed it into a weakness or even a weapon -

An opening to kill Gérard, or an opening to bring down Overwatch.

I also personally think that, given that this was his reaction to Gérard getting hurt:

Gabriel almost certainly escalated his “plans” for Talon upon Gérard’s death.

Again, I don’t know if Jack, Ana, Reinhardt, Torbjörn, or McCree were aware of Gabriel’s plans. Based on Ana’s reaction in the “Old Soldiers” comic, and her’s and the other characters’ interactions with “Reaper” in the game (though not necessarily canon, Reinhardt and McCree’s reactions certainly feel like they would be genuinely angry to find out that Gabriel had “switched sides” for Talon), I would say that many of the characters closest to Gabriel were unaware of his “change in methodology.”

And that, if there was any one character who knew about Gabriel “intensifying” his mission against Talon -

It would be Jack.

As I wrote in “An Eye for An Eye,” it’s hard to tell what exactly Soldier: 76 is aware of in terms of Reaper’s “masquerade” inside Talon. I think it’s pretty safe to conclude that he knows what Moira did during Retribution (or at least was convinced of it during Gabriel’s debriefing), but how aware he is of “what Reyes had been planning” is more vague and open to wider interpretations.

However, unlike Ana and McCree, who have much stronger reactions to Reaper in-game, Soldier: 76′s interactions with him are...surprisingly calm, almost joking at times. It’s not unlike how Reaper and Sombra talk to each other, actually (which is an important point, given that Reaper and Sombra are allies in this “masquerade” in Talon).

It’s also difficult to say where Widowmaker falls in Reaper’s “plans”. According to Michael Chu, “Reaper” had no involvement in Widowmaker’s conditioning:

And based on Gabriel’s close friendship with Gérard, I cannot see him as willingly authorizing or approving of Amélie’s reconditioning or Gérard’s assassination.

A popular fan theory - which works in tandem with the “Gabriel is infiltrating Talon to bring it down” theory - is that Gabriel is attempting to save Amélie (or whatever remains of her) from Talon. It is a theory I am personally a fan of, but I recognize that, aside from the above parallels, there isn’t a lot of direct evidence for it (as opposed to the other elements of the theory, e.g. Sombra is working with Reaper). Reaper makes little to no effort to protect or help Widowmaker, even undermining a major assassination mission for her, so while I like the idea, currently, it doesn’t really have much to support it.

And speaking of “pure speculation theories”...

Time keeps on slippin’: was the disappearance of the Slipstream an accident or sabotage?

Pharah: Helix should keep the peace in Vishkar developments! Symmetra: We does not need an army to keep the peace. We prefer our own methods...

Lena Oxton (call sign: "Tracer") was the youngest person ever inducted into Overwatch's experimental flight program. Known for her fearless piloting skills, she was handpicked to test the prototype of a teleporting fighter, the Slipstream. But during its first flight, the aircraft's teleportation matrix malfunctioned, and it disappeared. Lena was presumed dead.

She reappeared months later, but her ordeal had greatly changed her: her molecules had been desynchronized from the flow of time. Suffering from "chronal disassociation," she was a living ghost, disappearing for hours and days at a time. Even for the brief moments she was present, she was unable to maintain physical form.

(source)

Overwatch was looking for a hotshot pilot to test their next-generation teleporting fighter, The Slipstream. Enter Lena Oxton - call sign: “Tracer”! Haha, that’s me! It was the sort of opportunity I had dreamed of my whole life. But on my first flight, the teleportation matrix malfunctioned, and I disappeared! I was missing for months! And no one knew where - or when - I had gone.

By the time Overwatch found me, I was little more than a ghost...

(source)

It seems innocent enough.

After all, pretty much every story involving a teleportation device, or a time machine, or some sort of “time-and-or-space” controlling element involves a plot point of someone or something getting “lost” in time and/or space, right? It’s a common enough trope that no one bats an eye over it. “Of course the Slipstream was going to fail - you don’t mess around with teleportation, something always goes wrong.”

Right?

But like I said earlier -

We have concrete evidence of a major company with ties to Talon that specializes in teleportation that will literally go to extremes to undermine any “competition”:

Yes, “A Better World” takes place approximately a few months to about a year before the events of “Recall.” However, I personally have been skeptical of Tracer’s profile and Lena’s Origin story narrative since I first read and watched them. Remember: both of these have “a perspective”. The former is meant to be vague or just...“thin” enough to cover the surface, while the latter is told from Lena’s own perspective.

She was young at the time - only 18 - and brand new to Overwatch. We know she admired Overwatch, and dreamed of joining their ranks “[her] whole life.”

But at the time, Tracer probably didn’t know what was happening in the upper levels of Overwatch: that Overwatch and Blackwatch were starting to unravel, holes being poked through their defenses, critical individuals being blackmailed, threatened, hurt, or even assassinated.

Just like McCree in Retribution -

It is not that Tracer’s narrative of the Slipstream flight is untrustworthy -

It is just extremely limited.

If, after the fall and disbandment of Overwatch, Vishkar is willing to blow up a rival construction company in order to secure a building contract in a new location -

What would Vishkar (read: Sanjay) have done to prevent Overwatch from developing a teleporting, rapid-flight fighter jet from being successful?

For the last year and a half, I thought of the possibility of Vishkar sabotaging the Slipstream test flight as little more than an interesting hypothesis, a funny little “red conspiracy string” idea that had some distant and “barely there” connections. Interesting, intriguing, but unlikely. Tracer’s “story” hadn’t been looked at since Uprising last year, and even then, the details of her Slipstream flight were just taken for granted - background elements to the “current plot” of Null Sector and Tracer’s first mission.

But then came this:

Which showed how easy it was for a trusted third-party to enter “secure” Blackwatch bases.

And then during the Retribution mission -

She shows up.

And much, much more recently, we have new interactions indicating that Vishkar had access to “hyper-speed-inducing, light-and-sound-based” technology, possibly even at the time of Retribution:

Mercy: Lúcio, I never realized your father was the one who made Vishkar’s sonic technology! Lúcio: The core tech was his life’s work, owned and patented by Vishkar…but it’s mine now.

— Lúcio: Vishkar’s using you - just like they used my father! …You just wait - you’ll see. Symmetra: Your father was a Vishkar employee. He understood our company’s vision…a shame he never educated you.

Lúcio, who has an intimate and personal history with the sonic technology, fully believes that Vishkar has either “wrongfully” claimed the rights to his father’s work, or is likely misusing it. His Hero Profile implies the latter:

Lúcio wouldn’t stand for it. He stole Vishkar sonic technology that had been used to suppress the people, and he converted it into a tool to rally them to action.

We don’t know what Lúcio’s father intended to use the sonic technology for (but given that there’s the possibility Lúcio is a synesthete, it might have originally been meant to help him manage his sensory perceptions), but if Lúcio’s father was anything like Symmetra in the present-day, then he was probably unware of how Vishkar was misusing it.

We know that by the time of “Uprising”, Overwatch is investigating an “active threat” in Rio de Janeiro:

It is possible (again, not saying how likely this hypothesis is, just that it is possible) that Overwatch tracked down the technology that made the Talon Assassins and traced it to an engineer/architech in Rio - but that he himself was likely not directly involved in the creation of the Assassins.

And from Talon and/or Vishkar’s side of it, there is an additional...complication.

If it is true that the Assassin is using prototype hard light and/or sonic technology, she represents Talon/Vishkar’s attempts to create a some sort of “hyper-fast, speed-boosted” warrior, an agent capable of appearing, killing, and then disappearing.

But again - consider her screams. Her disjointed movement. How seemingly every “Assassin” in the Retribution mission dies to Blackwatch.

If the Assassins are “Vishkar experiments” -

Then they are failures.

Vishkar, and Talon, likely give up on the Assassin tech, as it looks to be a combination of too dangerous and too ineffective to utilize in a serious manner. It’s not that I personally think characters like Moira or Sanjay are worried about safety, but when “high cost” experiments/assets like the Assassins and Snipers keep dying, it might be worthwhile to set those “projects” aside and come back to them later (like...maybe when you don’t have the “pressure” of Overwatch and Blackwatch breathing down your neck). And if Overwatch has its “eyes” on the architech who developed the technology, it might not be a bad idea to “lay low” while Akande puts other plans into action (like, say, reconditioning the wife of the anti-Talon investigator to kill him?).

That said, if or when Vishkar and/or Talon discover that Overwatch is making a teleporting, rapid-flight fighter jet, how would they have reacted to that?

Imagine if Overwatch and/or an unsuspended Blackwatch could literally appear over known Talon hideouts, infiltrate them, either kill Talon’s paramilitary troops or take information and technology, and then leave in the blink of an eye?

Well...let’s just say that “Retribution” probably could’ve ended in a very different way if the Slipstream had been available at the time.

Hell, even Null Sector’s uprising probably would’ve been much easier to deal with if Overwatch had not needed to worry about those “anti-air defense systems” by simply materializing fighter jets out of a timestream.

Point is, a teleporting fighter jet could’ve revitalized Overwatch’s “aging” military technology, pushing it ahead of Talon, Vishkar, and possibly other “competing” groups like Helix and reestablishing Overwatch’s peacekeeping efforts in Talon-stronghold or “anti-Overwatch” regions.

And if Vishkar and/or Talon did sabotage the Slipstream, their efforts appear to have paid off - the Slipstream is never mentioned again, as the project was likely dropped from Overwatch’s development docket for being too dangerous and too unstable.

But what no one expected was a different success.

Winston, who was probably well-known within Overwatch but kept a lower profile in the public, develops his first big, internal “claim to fame” moment when he creates the chronal accelerator and saves Tracer from her disassociation condition.

And this is why Tracer and Winston are the two biggest “mascot” characters for Overwatch:

“Hope” does not die.

No matter how it gets undermined or betrayed -

No matter what horrific losses and heartbreak it faces -

No matter how frequently it gets hurt or lost -

Hope and heroes always rise.

All the virtues that made Overwatch “weak” to Talon’s infiltrations, “weak” to disruption, “weak” to sabotage -

Are the same virtues that will help it return in the future.

But at the time of Lena’s accident, Talon doesn’t know this.

With Akande commanding the new Talon leadership, Talon deals what they believe are decisive blows to Overwatch’s power: Gérard Lacroix is dead and unable to “track” Talon’s movements. The Slipstream project is abandoned, and Talon thinks their ability to start more intense, “global-scale” conflicts has reached a new high.

As the new Doomfist, Ogundimu rose high in Talon and helped to orchestrate a conflict that the organization hoped would someday engulf the world.

Doomfist, on King’s Row:

Omnics will not be kept down forever. The ashes of the Crisis still smolder. This city is a powder keg that could ignite the world. And Talon is the flame.

Akande would embody uprisings.

And his new version of Talon would help others do the same.

Jack: This is Morrison. London has been attacked! King’s Row has fallen. We’re on the brink of open war. Ana: Hundreds are dead, and thousands injured! Jack: Team, it’s up to you.

In the next part, analyzing the implications that Talon fueled the Null Sector uprising in King’s Row, and how they plan to do it again, starting with Mondatta’s death.

And in a rather retributive turn of events, Akande gets arrested:

Probably because someone wanted to see him fall.

“Many were happy to see you go away.”

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