#a rewrite of chapter 5

[say-hwaet]

That's the Way it Is

Chapter 32: Old Habits Die Hard Next Chapter: Thirty-three Summary: You open your eyes to find yourself in an unfamiliar land. Is it heaven? Is it hell? Or is it a different place entirely? Warnings: Mature themes, language, violence, oppression/implied slavery Word Count: ~7,800

Something cool laps against your face, a contrast to the heat pressed against your cheek. Your body aches all over, muscles taut and limp all at the same time. 

You hear water. Birds. Wind. The color a bright red beneath your eyelids. 

You smack your lips, the taste of salt on your tongue. 

You have the sudden urge to cough, so you do, and water expels from your lungs. It burns your throat and your nasal passages, causing you to gasp for air. 

Air. You’re breathing. 

You’re not dead!

You open your eyes, and quickly squint to adjust to the brightness. The sky is a beautiful blue. You see a white bird fly overhead. Seagull. Lifting your head, you feel something stick to your face. Touching your cheek you feel something fine and grainy. You wipe it off and bring it in your line of sight. 

Sand. Beautiful, white sand. You turn your neck slowly, feeling its ache, your skin hot and tight. You look to see the ocean rolling into the shore. Large rocks like mountains line the cape. 

Where are you?

And as you ask yourself this question, a sharp pain pierces through your skull, the remnant of your memories flooding in. 

You remember. 

You remember it all.

The day Antek was born. The day your parents died. Every song you used to sing. Every performance. Every animal you’ve ridden. Mac. Davey. Jenny. Bessie. Annabelle. From every bottle of tincture to every incendiary bullet you crafted. 

Every exchanged glance that you shared with Arthur across the campfire, every subtle brush of the hand as you both served yourselves some stew. 

When you taught him a dance from your home country. He’s been holding out on you. 

Dutch was right, your memory is like a steel trap. 

Oh no. Dutch. 

Blackwater. 

The Schofield revolvers. 

Everything is in linear order now. The patches and pieces are all embroidered together with golden thread, never to be severed again. You remember the end from the beginning, and what was now confusion is replaced with certainty. 

And now you realize the true danger. The enemy that was always closer by. The man who you thought was family, but only saw you as less than. Only wanted you for himself. 

And then you think of who you may never see again. 

“My God,” you gasp and you struggle to rise to your feet. “Arthur…” You feel a sting in your eyes, an ache deeper than any pain you’ve felt welling in your chest. “My husband…” Your voice is hoarse, you barely recognize yourself as you speak in a lower octave. You must have been screaming for hours during your spell, or the saltwater has dried your throat greatly to the point of damage. 

You look out to the ocean. Wherever you are, you are nowhere near the spot where the boat sank. There are no lifeboats on the coast. No sign of human life anywhere. 

Is he dead? You pray not. You aren’t sure how you can carry on. 

But you made a promise. You told Arthur you would. 

You need to live for him. To get off this island and find your way to John and Abigail. Hosea and Jack. And any others who might have decided to go out in courage and leave the world of thieves behind. 

Easier said than done. 

Now it’s your turn. You don’t want to be a widow. You don’t want to be alone. 

Your legs feel weak, but you manage to stand, pausing to catch your breath. You need water. 

You know that freshwater is inland. You remember. California was the same way, despite the ocean flanking its spine. 

You’re out of strength, but you must press on. 

Taking hesitant steps forward, you focus on the task at hand. The island isn't familiar, yet your instincts from days roaming wild terrains with the gang guide you. The sun beats down harshly, reminding you of the many afternoons spent under the open sky, planning escapes, or setting up camp.

As you make your way through the beach, each step sinks deeper into the soft sand, forcing you to exert more effort with every movement. The grains of sand cling to your toes, tugging at your feet and slowing your progress. It's like walking through deep snow, each step a struggle against the sinking grains beneath you. But you press on, determined to reach your destination despite the challenging terrain.

Every few steps you have to pause to catch your breath. You try to keep track of your surroundings. Of course, you don’t know where you’re going, but you know where you’ve been. If you had a way to scribble a map, that could help you keep track of specific landmarks or spots where there’s food or water, but you will just have to rely on your memory to keep track of it all. 

Now that you can really use it to its full capacity. 

You run your hand through your hair, wishing that you had a way to tie it up, like Javier’s hair. When you bring your hand down, you notice how red your skin is. Like boiled crawfish in Pearson’s stew. 

How long were you lying in that sand? Days?

It’s a miracle you’re still alive. Somehow, you continue to cheat Death. 

You remember what Sister Calderon had said of you. Maybe there’s something to her words and you let yourself smile. Just a little. 

You support yourself on a nearby boulder as you nearly lose your footing. You exhale sharply, frustrated that you’re too weak to really function like a normal human being, just as you’ve now come back to who you are. 

You find an opening in the trees as there are fewer vines hanging low, forming an almost curtain-like barrier that you push aside. The foliage is dense, a stark contrast to the open, sunlit beach you've just traversed. The change in environment is immediately cooling, a small relief from the relentless sun.

The shade of the trees envelops you as you tread cautiously into the dense undergrowth. The air grows cooler and damper, the sounds of the island life more pronounced in this secluded area. Birds chirp overhead, unseen but ever-present, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of running water teases your parched senses.

You follow the sound, your mind fixated on the fresh water that grows louder and louder with each step. You’re grateful you don’t have to travel too far for water. Maybe if you can replenish yourself, you can find a sharp stick and fish on the cape. Or maybe there’s fruit. 

If you’re in Cuba or Tahiti, you just might find some mangoes. 

It wasn’t too long ago that you’d laugh at that, but now you’re hoping that Dutch was right. 

You keep walking, pushing away large plants, and carefully watching your step. You aren’t sure if there are snakes or other creatures that could just as easily kill you as look at you, and you aren’t looking to be a predator’s next meal. It wears you down, being vigilant while trying to keep track of where you are and to make sure you keep moving. 

What a mess you’ve found yourself in. 

Pushing through a large bush, you come to a clearing and a small pool with a waterfall. At your hurried movements, a large creature, a monkey, spots you and quickly makes itself scarce, hollering as it hurries away in the opposite direction. 

They don’t look exactly like the drawings you’ve seen in the encyclopedias you’ve read. 

You wonder if you might see zebras and tigers, too. 

But that would be too far east to travel. You couldn’t possibly have traveled that far across the ocean…

Could you?

You shake the worry out of your mind for now, making your way to the water. If the monkey had been drinking it, then there’s a higher probability that it could be safe. 

Well, it’s either you die of thirst, or you die from some illness. 

Pick your poison. 

You quicken your steps, nearly stumbling as relief washes over you. You go to your knees at the edge of the pool, scooping your cupped hands into the cool water and bringing it to your lips. There is a taste to it, but it isn’t awful, nor will cause your instincts to alert you. You swallow it slowly, letting it soothe your dry throat and cool your insides. 

After drinking your fill, you scoop your hands and splash the water against your face. 

That’s when you hear a subtle snap behind you. 

“¡No te muevas, muchacho!”

You understand him. He ordered you to stay still. Given the aggression in the voice, the unwavering tone, you know he’s serious. You don’t move, but sit up straight and raise your hands when you hear him cock back his gun. 

“Por favor,” you say, speaking low and raspy still. “Estoy desarmado.”

There is a pause and you desire to turn around to see who is willing to shoot you, but you remain still. 

“¡Señor!” the man calls. “¡Encontré algo!”

There is a larger rustling behind you and the soft whinny of an equine. With the extra noise and distraction, you turn at the waist, keeping your hands raised and see the source of the new noises. 

There are several men on foot, all wearing distinct uniforms. Their hats, assorted styles, are straw or canvas, but they all carry some sort of weapon. 

Their skin is tanned and all have dark hair, some mustached, some clean-shaven. They don’t look tired or hungry, so it is clear to you that they must occupy this beach. 

The equine that you heard, a mule, carries a white man, his outfit different than the men that flank his sides. He is the Señor . 

You need to play your cards right. You can’t mess this up. 

The white man eyes you for a moment, lifting his chin. “Speak English?”

You swallow before answering, keeping your low voice. “Yes.”

He eyes your clothes, your body. You feel exposed, never liking anyone forming an opinion based on looks alone, but you wouldn’t expect anything more from the life you’ve lived. “You don’t look like one of my men,” he says pensively. “Where did you come from?”

“A boat,” you answer. “A storm sunk it.”

His eyes narrow. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

He gestures to your clothes. “You were part of the crew?”

“This is a police uniform,” you explain. You know that a yarn is better believed when you share part of the truth. “Saint Denis Police.”

“Saint Denis? That far?” The man’s brows lift in interest and he nearly smiles. “Didn’t think they hired young boys.”

You tilt your head. “I’m old enough. But I…I am not police yet.”

“And how’s that?”

“I wanted to make a good impression. Snuck onto the boat to chase some men.”

“Who?”

“You haven’t heard?” You slowly rise to your feet, eyeing the guns pointed at you. “I suppose word hasn’t reached this place.” You look around. “Where are we?”

The man grins. “Guarma. My boss owns the sugar plantations. I run them and this militia.”

Guarma. You remember Bronte speaking of it, and you remember the people he wanted you to spy on. 

“You mean Colonel Fussar?” you ask. 

“You know of him?” The foreman nods to his men, who slowly lower their weapons. 

You feel more relaxed, but you still keep your hands up. “Yes…the police work with him and Mr. Bronte.”

The foreman nods. “I know the name. Fussar has taken a great interest in him and Saint Denis as of late.”

You try not to grin. “Has he?” Boy, is he about to be disappointed.

“Yes…” He goes quiet for a minute, studying you. “What’s your name?”

And the name comes naturally to you, your wit quick and ready now that you’ve been restored. “Romauldo Cortez, Mister…?”

“Levi Simon.” Then he goes quiet again. “You know…you have an odd accent for a Mexican.”

“I never said I was Mexican.”

He raises his brow. “My mistake,” he replies with a hint of sarcasm. “Where you from, then?”

“I’m from Europe. My familia came to America when I was a boy.”

“You speak other languages?”

“Some.”

He seems to like your answer, nodding softly. “We’ve been running into some pirates lately. Been smuggling goods and workers off the island. Haitians. Speak French.” He nods toward you. “We get some of these mongrels, you can tell me what they’re sayin’.”

For a fact, you don’t know French, but you aren’t about to tell him that. “No offense, but I intend to get back home.”

“So soon?” His tone says that’s not a genuine question. It’s more of a threat. A challenge for you to even have such a thought. 

“Mi padre died. I’m the man of the house now. Someone needs to put food on the table.”

“When was the last time you had a meal?” At his question, you’re reminded of the emptiness in your belly and put a hand over your stomach without thinking. “I thought as much.” He turns to his men. “El chico viene con nosotros. Dispara sólo si intenta correr.” He looks back at you. “At least stay for some food…but I think the colonel can convince you of your opportunities should you decide to stay with us.”

The audacity to lie so boldly. It is clear as to who holds the power on this island and it appears that you’ve traded one tyrant for another. You watch as some of the men raise their guns, not directly pointed at you, but ready to shoot should the need arise. 

Levi Simon gently kicks the mule’s barrel. “¡Vamos!” The mule begins to walk steadily and with a sharp nudge of a rifle, you walk alongside the mule, keeping your eyes on your surroundings. You will bide your time, and let your performance continue until you have your own opportunity for escape. 

“Welcome to Guarma, Mr. Cortez,” Levi says smugly. “I think you’ll like it here.”

***

You wish that this island was uninhabited. You feel like you might have a better chance of survival if it weren’t for the armed men escorting you into their settlement. There are some ruins of a civilization long gone, but there are newer buildings that they’ve erected. Made with plaster and wood, it is clear as to which ones are for the workers and for the enforcers.

With a simple command, the militia breaks off, leaving only one fully armed man to walk with you and Levi Simon into the nicer-looking vista, which has potted flowers at the window sills and vines growing elegantly on the building.

No doubt, Fussar lives here.

You brace yourself. He has seen you before. Not up close, thankfully, but you can’t risk giving yourself away. You have to be quick-witted and unassuming, he can’t connect Romualdo to Dáma motýl.

The door opens and Mr. Simon takes you by the arm, escorting you inside. The armed guard follows close behind.

“Don’t touch anything,” Simon orders quietly.

As you enter the room, the scent of tobacco and something floral lingers heavily in the air, mixed with the jungle air that you just left from outside, as it has managed to creep its way inside through the open windows. The interior is spacious, adorned sparsely but with an eye for intimidation—paintings of a stern-looking man—a likeness to Fussar himself.

Even though the decor is simple, it is not cheap.

The floors are polished wood, gleaming under the sparse but strategically placed lamps, and the furniture though minimal, is heavy and ornate, suggesting the importance of appearances here. You keep your eyes scanning every detail, mentally noting exits and potential weapons. Old habits die hard.

You are led down a hallway and are made to stop in front of two large wooden doors.

Simon turns to the guard, letting you go for a moment. “Míralo. Voy a hablar con el Coronel Fussar.”

The guard nods, holding up his rifle. “Si, señor,” the guard eyes you, and without another word, Simon turns and lets himself into the next room.

You know it’d be stupid to try to create small talk with the guard. The less amount you have to talk, the better. You also figure it would be good to look away, to avoid giving him the chance to study your face. You don’t have a fake mustache or makeup that you can use to alter your face, just the red in your cheeks from the sunburns and cracked, chapped lips. You fold your arms, reminded of the bandaging that you had done and you try not to smile. For all intents and purposes, you look like a teenage boy.

You lean against the cool wood of the corridor, your gaze fixed on the intricate patterns carved into the doorframe opposite you. You can barely hear the muffled voices beyond the wooden barrier—Simon’s low murmur and a deeper voice that must belong to Colonel Fussar. Your heart beats a nervous rhythm against your ribcage, your curiosity as to the content of their conversation worrying you.

But you keep a calm expression on your face. This is all part of your act. One of the greatest cons you will ever pull.

After a few minutes longer, the large wooden doors swing open, revealing Mr. Simon.

“El Coronel Fussar quiere hablar con usted, ” he tells you.

You nod. It is showtime.

Being led in by the guard, you both follow behind Mr. Simon as he steps further into the room. When you hear the two large doors close behind you, you nearly jump but you manage to keep your composure. Inside, the room is even more lavishly appointed than the hallway. A large desk dominates the space, piled high with maps and papers, illuminated by a brass lamp that casts a golden glow over everything. Colonel Fussar sits behind it, his face stern and lined with experience, dressed in more casual clothing more fitting for the tropical heat, but still carries an air of authority and power.

Bronte had his own type of power over Saint Denis. He acted as though he were invincible, using people as pawns to get what he wanted, using intimidation and temptation to bribe willingness out of people.

Your task now is to figure out what Fussar’s tactics are.

And once you know them, you can exploit them and secure a way back home.

Fussar eyes you as you stand in between Simon and the guard and he rises to a standing position. He leans over his desk, bracing himself by placing his hands on its surface. Your eyes drift downward for just a millisecond, trying to catch a glimpse of a map that rests beneath his palms.

“Mr. Simon says that you’ve come from Saint Denis?” Fussar begins calmly.

You lift your eyes and nod. “Yes, señor,” you answer.

“He also says you know Angelo Bronte?”

“I know of him,” you explain. “He and the police have an understanding.”

Fussar's eyes narrow slightly, the light from the brass lamp reflecting off his probing gaze. "An understanding, you say? What kind of understanding might that be?"

You feel a bead of sweat trail down your spine, but you maintain your composure. Your voice remains steady as you spin your tale. "One like the understanding you have with Mr. Cornwall.”

Fussar’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, before he grins with a low chortle. “You seem to know a lot, Cortez.”

“I have eyes and ears, do I not?”

He pushes himself away from his desk. Placing his hands behind his back he comes around his desk and walks up to you. “But Simon tells me that you do not yet work with the police…” You feel like prey being stalked by a jaguar, his eyes intently watching you for any slight reaction to his words. “How would you have come to know of my relationship with Mr. Cornwall?”

You need to think. You can’t spin a yarn too long. It needs to be believable. Something so commonplace that it can’t be denied. “Do you want the long or short version, Colonel Fussar?”

Fussar pauses, his calculating eyes still fixed on you, as if trying to unravel your thoughts. "The short version will suffice," he finally says, his voice a mix of curiosity and caution.

You carefully measure your words, aware that one slip could spell disaster. "I made a deal with Bronte. He got me a job with the police if I helped bring in more…goods. I was merely an errand boy, not where I wanted to be. I heard about Cornwall through Bronte and the police.”

Fussar nods, the story satisfactory for now. He turns away to pace about the room. “Bronte likes to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. He also likes to keep people waiting.”

“He’s wronged you, Colonel Fussar?” you venture to ask.

This seems to get his attention and he looks at you over his shoulder. “Among many things. He’s refused to answer my letters or telegrams regarding a…certain treasure.”

You swallow. “Colonel Fussar, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news…” you begin, putting on an expression of sympathy. “but Bronte is dead.”

Fussar stops pacing and turns to face you fully, the stark surprise briefly unsettling his usually composed demeanor. "Dead?" he echoes, his voice a blend of disbelief and a hint of satisfaction. "How did this come to pass?"

You hesitate for just a moment, choosing your next words with care. "It was a house fire. It lit up the whole city. Scared mi madre something terrible.”

He turns to face you fully, his back against the window. You can see the sun begin its descent in the sky, the day more than half gone. “Nobody knows how?”

“We, I mean the police, were investigating still when I snuck on the boat.” But of course, you know how it happened. That is the beauty of secrets. They can be a great power if you wield them properly.

Fussar nods. “Yes, Simon told me you were after some men.”

You swallow. “Yes. I suppose you don’t hear much of what goes on back there, given that you didn’t hear about Bronte.”

“Who are these men you’re after?”

You aren’t sure how to answer. Well, yes you do. You know what the answer is. But you don’t want to incriminate your husband, to start a manhunt, in the event that he’s still alive or that it will somehow tie you to the mess. 

But if Dutch and Micah are alive…

“Two men. Dutch Van Der Linde and Micah Bell. They robbed the bank.”

“Two men? The Lemoyne National Bank?” Fussar cackles incredulously. “I think you were a fool to believe that—”

“You clearly don’t know who those two men are, Colonel,” you interject. “Van Der Linde has been wanted for years. I’ve seen his posters.”

“And Bell?”

“Wanted since he was just a boy. They might have been foolish to try the large bank in Saint Denis, but I’m not foolish for going after them.”

Fussar looks over at Simon and they share a look. Perhaps they’ve already heard of them? You wouldn’t put it past you that this will all connect at some point. It seems that everyone knows everyone except you.

“Describe them to me,” Fussar demands.

You swallow. “Dutch Van Der Linde. A little over six feet tall. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Moustache. Broad shoulders and very charismatic.”

He nods thoughtfully, gesturing for you to continue with a flick of his hand.

“Micah Bell. Under six feet. long, blonde hair. Moustache. Protruding belly. Violent and smells terrible.”

He laughs at this. “And you got all of this by a few moments at a bank robbery?”

“And their posters,” you quickly answer. “You have to be descriptive if you’re going to get them.”

The Colonel, still chuckling, leans back against the wooden wall of the ship's cabin. "You've got spirit, I'll grant you that. But what makes you think you can catch men who've eluded authorities for years?"

You feel a spark of your old self flickering inside you, the part that refused to be cowed or defeated, even by life’s cruelest turns. “Because,” you say, your voice steady despite the danger in front of you, “I know that courage and strength can be found in the unexpected of persons. No one would suspect a young man to track down two outlaws. They would see me and underestimate me…And hearing them talk on the boat, as I kept hidden…I was close enough to know their weaknesses.”

“And what, pray tell, are these weaknesses?” Fussar leans forward, interest piqued, his skepticism mixing with a hint of amusement.

“They trust no one,” you say softly, your voice almost lost in the memories finally restored to you. “Not even each other. Dutch is paranoid, always looking over his shoulder. Micah was the devil on his shoulder. Without him, Dutch has to think on his own.”

“That's a clever observation,” Fussar muses, tapping a finger against his chin, scrutinizing you as if seeing you in a new light. “And how do you plan to use this to your advantage?”

You don’t want to share it with him. You’d rather keep some mystique about you, otherwise you have nothing to bargain with. You want to go home. You don’t want to be used then killed out here.

Your gaze flickers to the window as the light creeps in. You wish you could just run and leap out of it, hurrying into the jungle before a bullet reaches your skull. “I have to find them first.” You turn to look back at Fussar. “They may have gone down with the ship.”

Fussar nods thoughtfully. “If I find them, then you won’t be making the impression on the police that you wanted.”

You shrug your shoulders. “My loss.”

The tyrant chuckles. “A good sport, too? If only my men were as good-natured as you.”

“I’ve learned to take loss pretty well.”

Fussar grins. “I see.” He then looks to Simon. “Give this young man some food and a place to sleep. We will talk in the morning.”

As Simon ushers you out, you can't help but feel the weight of Fussar's gaze on your back, like the cold touch of a shadow that refuses to detach itself.

“Just a minute—” Simon halts and makes you turn back around and you see Fissar take a step forward. “Did Bronte ever mention a…a woman?”

You blink. “Woman?”

Fussar almost looks bashful even speaking about this to you. “You said you heard Bronte talking. You seem like a stealthy type, yes?”

You shrug your shoulders. “I’ve had to be.”

“Don’t be modest, boy.” He grins. “Did he speak about a diamond of Lemoyne?”

You know who he speaks of. You know he is thinking about you. A prize that Bronte tried to barter with. A tool he could use to gain information. You need to appeal to Fussar’s imagination, maybe it could be of use to you. “He said that he had a diamond…hidden away. That it wasn’t going anywhere.”

A smile appears on Fussar’s face, and it almost seems uncharacteristic of him. “Let me make an arrangement with you, of sorts.” He leans against the front of his desk, stroking his mustache. “You go out with Simon and my men. Search the Island. You bring back these outlaws or even some pirates, get information; I will take you back to Saint Denis myself.” He clears his throat. “I intend on going back anyway.”

This is it. This is your way in. If he is going to head back, there is a boat. You find this boat, and you can get on it before Fussar and leave this place. “When do you expect an answer?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

You nod. “Alright.”

Fussar nods at Simon, who turns to escort you out of the room.

***

Your sleeping quarters are meager. A cot with no blanket, and a simple chair. When Simon left you, you heard the click of a lock and you have been left in the silence and a tin plate of food—an offering that provides sustenance but hardly looks appetizing.

Sure aren’t any mangoes.

You don’t have a fork, so you are forced to eat with your hands. The meat is stringy, in some kind of sauce and as you eat it, you hope that it isn’t monkey or snake. But after a few bites, it tastes more like some kind of bird. Gamey, but a bird. The sauce is spicy and you wish that you had some water but beggars can’t be choosers.

There aren’t any windows, but there are fine cracks in between the boards of the shack. After finishing the spicy meal, you stand up and try to peak through the cracks, hoping to get a view of anything that is going on.

You see a group of armed men leaving the compound, and you wonder where they are going. It will be dark soon, perhaps they are heading to their own quarters?

You think about the nightfall. Fussar will be expecting an answer tomorrow.

Do you agree to go along with his conditions? Maybe. You aren’t sure you really have a choice. Your option is to buy some time. Unlike Bronte’s deals, you find it difficult to assess Fussar’s motivation. He doesn’t know who you are, and that is your saving grace right now.

Now that he knows that Bronte is dead, he is eager to claim the lost diamond and who knows what his intentions are with it. With you. 

You back away from the wall and turn to the cot. It creaks as you sit down on it, and finally able to sit and rest, you are able to process everything.

You are alone. With only your restored memories and your wits. You wish you had them sooner, maybe you would have seen the true danger. Called out Dutch in front of the entire gang, making the division more visible.

You miss Arthur. You miss your husband. You want to hold onto that small thread of hope that he’s still alive. Hopefully away from Dutch and that mess. There’s no doubt that Dutch and Micah both would do their absolute best to convince him of your demise, as they had tried so hard to before.

Micah Bell tried to kill you on the ship. And you survived it.

It has to be for a reason.

It has to be.

You look at your hands. Your long nails. While like claws, they look odd on the hands of a teenage boy. 

You bring your thumbnail to your lips, and using your teeth, you bite it off, gnawing on the edge at first to weaken it, before ripping it off. 

It is like Hosea said, you need to become a different person.

***

A splash of cold water on your face startles you awake. You rise to a sitting position, and after wiping your eyes you look to see a guard with a pitcher in his hand.

“¡Levantarse! El coronel Fussar quiere hablar con usted,” he barks. You nod your head and once you rise to your feet, he grips you rudely by the arm and shoves you out the door.

You don’t know what time it is, but you aren’t about to ask. All you know is that Fussar is waiting for his answer. Stepping out of the shack, the sun beats down on your face. You want water to drink, your lips still cracked and your throat burning to no end.

As you're pushed along the sandy path, your mind races, trying to piece together a plan. Fussar's compound sprawls out in front of you, a mishmash of old buildings that speak to his makeshift authority in these parts. The guard's tight grip on your arm feels like a tangible representation of the situation in front of you.

Once you see the landscaped entrance to Fussar’s dwelling, you know you don’t have much time to deliberate on what your answer will be.

You haven’t seen Levi Simon anywhere. Perhaps he is inside?

You are shoved inside the house and hurriedly taken down the familiar hallway to the wooden double doors. Only, two other guards watch the door this time.

With a subtle nod, they open the doors and the guard leads you in.

Fussar is, once again, at his desk, with a plate of assorted foods before him. He eats quite leisurely, taking a piece of a fleshy, golden fruit with the tip of a knife and bringing it to his lips. He eats the flesh in one bite, letting the juice run down his chin. With no rush at all, he takes a cloth napkin and dabs his chin, then finally lifts his eyes to look at you.

“Mr. Cortez,” he begins. “I trust that you rested well?”

“It beats the wooden floor of the ship,” you answer candidly.

He chuckles at this, his amusement fleeting as the wrinkles around his eyes tighten with a more serious intent. "Indeed, I would imagine so," Fussar replies, wiping his hands carefully with the napkin before leaning back in his chair. His gaze is calculating, sharp like the cut of the knife he just used. "Now, to business. You’ve considered my request?”

You nod but say nothing.

He waits for a moment or two, before raising his brow. “Well…?”

“You say you will go back to Saint Denis?” you ask.

He nods. “Yes…”

“What boat?” you ask, trying to bait him into divulging details so that you may steal the boat later for yourself.

Fussar pauses, scrutinizing you with keen interest. The corners of his mouth twitch as if he's weighing the sincerity of your question. Finally, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the massive oak desk. "An honest question," he muses, steepling his fingers. "The SS Lamantin. She is how I always travel between here and anywhere else I choose. You would be traveling in style for once, Mr. Cortez. As an honored guest, not a sneaky stowaway.”

“Is it far from here?”

Fussar shakes his head. “It is on the cape. I have a port there.”

You tilt your head, considering your options. “And…it is prepared to leave at any time? Say, if we catch the outlaws tomorrow…?”

Fussar grins. “It would be ready.”

Good. All you need do now is find your opening and take the boat. “I will agree to join you.”

Fussar leans back, a thin smile spreading across his face, satisfied yet still somewhat guarded. "Excellent," he intones, his voice silky with a hint of triumph. "I knew you were a man of vision, Mr. Cortez."

You nod, maintaining a façade of composure while your mind races with plans of your own. “Where is Mr. Simon, the foreman?”

Fussar flits his fingers toward the window. “He went on an earlier patrol. Sometimes the workers make wishful attempts to leave the safety of the plantations in the early hours of the morning, so we go about the island to bring them back.” He eyes his plate and reaches for another piece of fruit. “He will be back soon, and you can join them.” He looks back up at you, eyeing you up and down. “You aren’t very strong looking…can you shoot a gun?”

You nod. “Some. I never really had much practice, being just an errand boy.”

Fussar tilts his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if trying to peer into your very soul. "Well, Mr. Cortez, perhaps it’s time you learn proper. A man should know how to defend himself… and his interests." His tone suggests a thinly veiled threat woven with a mentor's advice. "Provided that I can trust you first, of course.”

“Of course.” You knew it was too good to be true. If you could have a weapon in your hands, that would make your escape that much easier. “And how must I prove that?”

He nods towards the door. “Go with these men. We have a few…dissenters over at the sugar processing factory. See if you can get some information out of them.”

You raise your brow. “You think they’ll talk to someone like me?”

“Make them talk,” he answers, his tone dark and menacing. “You seem to have a way with words. Use them. If you’re successful, you might just earn yourself a gun.” He turns to one of the guards. “Dale al niño ropa nueva. Si está con nosotros, se parecerá a nosotros...”

And with that, you are quickly led away, again, to be used until you are useless.

***

You readjust the hat on your head as you follow the men through the jungle. You can see the appeal for escape, for if one could reach the thick foliage and trees, they could hide for some time. Fussar and his men seem to think they have control over this island, but you are beginning to see that it is like gilded iron, a false sheen that will soon reveal the rust beneath.

Once the jungle opens up, you see old ruins of a kingdom long gone, but a new building or two has been erected down below. You see smoke coming from the larger building. This must be the place that processes all of the sugar that the slaves have procured.

One of the guards nudges your shoulder, pointing to cages. “Allá arriba.”

Your eyes focus on the cages and you instantly recognize one of the figures.

It’s Javier!

You resist the urge to run and free him, as you are faced with multiple challenges. The guards, for one, are armed and you are not. They expect you to interrogate these men, for whatever reason. You can’t risk Javier blowing your cover. You are disguised well enough, but one good look at you and he will surely recognize you.

You see some mud and without thinking, you reach down and start smearing it on your jawline. You’re giving yourself a five o’clock shadow.

The guards watch you with arched brows, clearly thinking you are loco, but you give them intimidating glances. “Un hombre sucio puede parecer loco e impredecible,” you growl, keeping your voice low and gruff, hoping it disguises any familiar tone that might carry to Javier.

The guards chuckle amongst themselves, shaking their heads as if amused by a madman’s antics. But they lead you onwards, through the thick humidity and buzzing insects.

This is so much worse than Lemoyne.

The guards hang back once you reach the large stone steps that lead up to the cages. You’re glad of that, the less they hear from you, the better.

You walk up to them slowly, making yourself look as imposing as possible. The other man in the cage, weak and emaciated, notices you right away and leans into the back of his cage.

Javier is still turned away from you. He almost looks…forlorn.

What has happened to him these last few days? Has he been alone this whole time?

You need to know what has happened.

As you approach the cage, your heart hammers against your ribs, each step echoing the turmoil within. You keep your head low, the brim of your hat casting a deep shadow over your face, amplifying the gruff persona you've adopted. This close, you can smell the tang of sweat and despair that clings to the bars of the cage, a pungent reminder of the dire circumstances you both occupy. Javier shifts slightly, and his movement is sluggish, weighed down perhaps by malnutrition or despair—or both. You stop a few paces away from the cage, your gaze intense and unyielding, your voice a rough thunder as you get his attention.

“Speak English?” you ask.

Javier slowly turns his head, clearly undaunted by a voice speaking to him. His face looks battered, but the cuts and bruises aren’t exactly fresh. His swollen eye looks worse as both eyes narrow with a suspicious glare, but you can still see the sadness behind them. “Yes,” he answers.

You gesture to the guards behind you. “These men don’t. So whatever you say to me will be between us.”

He looks at you with a furrowed brow. “You’re here to interrogate me.”

“Yes,” you answer. “No harm will fall upon you if you tell me the truth.”

He seems to study you, trying to search your eyes, but you keep them obscured under the brim of your hat. “Who are you?”

You need to intimidate him. You smack your hands against the bars of the cage, shouting in Spanish. “¡Quién soy no te concierne, tonto!”

Javier recoils and you hear the guards chuckle behind you.

You straighten, towering over the cage, your shadow engulfing Javier in an ominous gloom. Your voice, when you continue, is icier, each syllable heavy with unspoken threat. "What's important is what you've seen here, and what you've done."

Javier swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. His eyes dart from side to side, seeking an escape that doesn't exist within the iron confines of the cage. With a resigned sigh, he leans back against the cold metal, his voice barely above a whisper as he confides in you.

"I've been left here to rot, or maybe to be forgotten. I saw too much, and said too little until it was too late." His fingers grip the straw beneath him, knuckles whitening under the strain. "They think I'm a traitor to both sides. But all I ever wanted was to keep my head down, survive."

You nod slowly, understanding the precarious edge he walks, the fine line between allegiance and survival in a land where loyalties are bought and sold like cattle at an auction. “Survival is a luxury at times,” you say, your voice echoing in the hollow space between the bars.

Javier’s gaze lifts to meet yours again, this time a flicker of mutual understanding. “It is.”

“Who is ‘they?’” you press, your hands going knuckle white as you grip the bars. “Who are the two sides?”

He nearly snarls with his cut lip at you, leaning further away from the cage. “You think I’ll just tell you?”

You have to convince him to tell you about what happened to the rest of them. Something that will get him to tell you even the smallest bit of information. “They are looking for someone…” you say, trying to keep your voice as low and as quiet as you can. “Someone that goes by the name of Dutch Van Der Linde.” You see a change in his expression as he looks at you from the corner of his eye. “Ever heard of him?”

Javier grits his teeth, the grinding nearly audible. For a moment, the only sounds are the distant calls of birds and the gravel as the guards shift their feet. Then, he exhales sharply, his head lowering for a moment before he meets your gaze fully. A spark of anger flashes in his brown irises. “I knew him. Once.”

Once. “So he’s dead?”

He shakes his head. “Someone is alive, but it’s not him. Not anymore.”

You draw closer to the cage, your excitement nearly betraying you. “Word has it that he ran with another man. A Micah Bell. He with him?”

Javier goes quiet for a moment, and you begin to feel impatient. But as long as you can tread the thin wire between friend and foe, he may be willing to answer. “He’s dead.”

Well. That’s that. You’re glad to hear of it, but you feel miffed that you didn’t get the pleasure of seeing yourself. “And you are all that’s left?”

He nods, turning his head away. “It’s the price I pay for seeing things too late.”

He’s all that remains. Arthur, gone. Bill, gone. You swallow thickly and try not to sob. You have to keep it hidden, your anger sated. You will have nothing else after this. 

And what of Javier? You don’t want him to die like this. Even if your paths may never cross again, you want him to find a way off this island. But he can’t leave while being in the cage.

You back away from the cage and turn to look at the four guards who escorted you here. “¡Tenemos que llevarlo ante el coronel Fussar! Tiene información importante para él.”

They look at each other for a moment, either unsure or clueless.

You raise your voice, anger flushing through it. “¿Quieres que Fussar venga aquí y lo deje salir él mismo? ¡Déjalo salir ahora!”

Easily persuaded by intimidation, one of them brings out a set of keys and runs up the steps to meet you. You step aside to let him begin working on unlocking the cage and you eye the man’s gun in his holster.

You know what you promised. But you suppose that you aren’t that person anymore.

For now, you are Romualdo Cortez.

And you want to get home. To whatever is left of it. Left of your life. 

Just as the guard pulls back the cage door, you reach down, draw the guard’s weapon, and aim the gun at his head, wrapping your arm around his neck.

There is a brief pause before anyone realizes what is happening. You turn to Javier and yell at him. “If you value your life,” you toss him the keys so that he may free the other prisoner. “run! Survive!”

He’s almost taken aback, but doesn’t hesitate to leave. He fumbles, but you don’t watch him go, for you have three other guards to negotiate with.

Your voice carries with a roaring rage. “Si alguno de ustedes se muda, su amigo aquí morirá, ¿entendido?”

You listen for the clicking of the next cage as you keep your eyes on the guards and you step to the side and away from the cages. If they can keep their eyes on you, Javier can free the other man and they can disappear.

But the seconds stretch into a taut silence, broken only by the distant calls of tropical birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Your heart pounds in your chest, a relentless drum reminding you of the danger of your current gambit. The guards' eyes flick between you and their captured comrade, uncertainty plain on their faces. Each moment they hesitate increases the odds in your favor. You tighten your grip around the guard's neck, ensuring they understand the stakes are life and death here.

You turn to watch as Javier frees the prisoner and with one quick glance at you, he turns and they flee. Your eyes follow them until they reach the jungle, disappearing into the dark shades of green.

But your eyes have been distracted for too long, as one of the three guards down below has snuck off, reaching the steps.

And reaching you.

And just as you turn your head, you see the butt of a rifle coming at your face.

Thank you for going on this journey with me!

Tag Requests: @photo1030 @eternalsams

[alliegations]

drv3 ch 5 spoilers

When i was 16 years old i was jumped by a trained assasin for one luminary of the stars. When i woke up from my unconscuosness i still had my luminary of the stars, my DIGNITY, and now poison in my veins

[bugtypesneaky]

Mars Synga Suit Sync Pair With Deoxys ☄️

[coeluvr]

Totally normal reactions to the rewritten prologue btw

[whattheskyknows]

Chapter 5 au where instead of Maki breaking into the hangar, it's Tsumugi. She breaks in using an Exisal but doesn't reveal herself. Instead, she uses the voice changer using Maki's voice so both Kaito and Kokichi think she's inside. Tsumugi wounds Kokichi using the Exisal's gun and tries to kick-start another trial because everyone is too depressed to do anything (including Maki, hence why Tsumugi has taken matters into her own hands.) She leaves pretty soon afterwards, assuming Kaito will sort everything out (Kaito tells 'Maki' to leave, promising her everything will be okay.) Kaito and Kokichi are still both alive but Kokichi is gravely wounded and Kaito's illness is getting worse. Kokichi points out that it's strange 'Maki' didn't leave the Exisal and reluctantly reveals he thinks the true mastermind is trying to continue the game, bating Kaito to murder. Kaito believes him eventually and they both work together to trick the mastermind. I think they'd go down the hydraulic press mystery route, although there's a different outcome at the trial.

Stopping there because I kinda want to write this as a fic because I've already started to plan out what could happen lol

[pikolswonderland]

some Chapter 6 sillies because yes

******************************************************

[uniquethingtastemaker]

Alright, gang, I’m back after being dead for decades.

Working on a Vil x Reader fanfic that takes place during Chapter 5. Finally actually working on it lol. Be excited that it’s coming up lol

Also armed with better writing skills… I’m thinking of editing my Neige x Reader fanfic to be a little smoother at the beginning cause I never explicitly explain why Neige is crying. I just assumed people would know, but reading it back after being gone for so long. I had no idea low key. Was a little confused lol

[sunlight-shunlight]

ok i'm slowly psyching myself up to Finish and Post the opening part of my fic. it's in the editing stage now. i WILL get this done and posted at some point. i'm too far into the sunk cost fallacy to stop, and it is becoming plausibly readable instead of 34374 unconnected notes 🙏

[gittetj]

I'm soooo looking forward to when I can move on to finishing the next 5 End of the World chapters. I'm doing my very best to demolish the status quo.

Have some doodles that took way too long to draw because I haven't drawn anything in ages.

[justworthlessreblogs]

headcanons for the hapcha team?

i still haven't seen hacha all the way through so i'm not sure how founded in canon these will end up being but here's some!

megumi is a big, big precure fangirl and has lots of official and unofficial merch

also if any of the cures were to be mcu fans it'd be her. i find it really funny i got this ask right after the rio headcanon one because this headcanon of mine dates back to 2022 i swear i'm not just weirdly fixated on the mcu right now

she also has undiagnosed adhd

hime's definitely got some sort of social anxiety going on

they're all gay. megumi's crush on blue is just comphet

fortune's resentment towards princess isn't just because she opened the axia box, there's also a bit of misplaced survivor guilt (or taking it out on the survivor? idk what the term would be) because tender couldn't win against the phantom empire and yet here's princess, who's really weak and shouldn't have lasted a day, who keeps on surviving

[spookymoonybeasty]

Holy shit. It's happening. I'm finally rewriting In This Together. I really thought nothing could sneak past my current dinosaur hyperfixation yet here we are; 1000 words into the first rewrite chapter.

This is already SOOO much better than the original.

[ghostlycod]

“I have this scene in my head for my fic that I really love but i don’t feel like writing all of the other stuff to get to it.”

I see this comment like 5 times a day in fic writing spaces lol

a scene that you don’t want to write is a scene you don’t want to read. don’t write stuff you don’t want to read.

me, personally: wait until the scenes that get you to that first initial scene you were excited about are just as interesting as that scene too. it won’t be the first, second, or third thing you think of. if u have a scene you really want to write, write that, and keep writing only those exciting scenes that come to you. eventually you have a million interesting scenes for your fic and they become puzzle pieces for you to arrange and then eventually the strings come together and you realize you really do have an interesting way to get to that original scene, and you’re just as excited to write it, if you haven’t already written it when you were brainstorming other scenes earlier in the writing process that you didn’t even realize could carry your story like that.

[idontknowanametouse]

Miraculous Rewrite AU Chapter 5: Loverbug (Antibug)

(SO SORRY FOR THE HIATUS WRITER BLOCK KILLED ME AAAAAAA)

(Loverbug design inspiration by @glitterpensupremacy)

(long post under the cut)

(tw/cw: slight internalized homophobia)

-Wanna sit next to me?

Chloé blinked at the girl in front of her. She was going to sit there anyway, but shrugged:

-Okay, sure.

She sits down, and the red-haired girl next to her says:

-My name is Sabrina, what's yours?

-Chloé.

-Are you new?

-Yeah.

-I can be your friend, if you want.

-…seriously?

-Yes.

-…thanks.

-

When she woke up in the middle of the night, the first thing she did, only half conscious, was call her.

-Huh? Chloe? – Sabrina murmured from the other side. – Did something happen?

-…I can't sleep. Sorry to bother you, but… can you talk and stay with me for a while? …sorry… I… shouldn't have called…

-No, no problem. What do you want to talk about?

-

-Do you want to go out after school? – Sabrina asked, smiling at her.

-Huh? Do you want to… go out with me? Together?

-Yeah, you're my friend. We are friends, right?

-…yes…

-So, let's go!

-

-…um… – Chloé mutters, frustrated.

-What's the matter? – Sabrina's voice is low due to the fact that they are in the library.

-I can't understand this biology shit…

-Do you want help?

-No, it's okay, I can do it alone.

-You sure? – and tilted her head, some red curls falling over the lenses that enlarged her blue eyes. Chloé hesitated for a moment.

-I have.

-Ah, okay then. Anything, you can ask me, okay? – and smiled.

-

-Are you sure it's okay for me to be here? – Sabrina asks from behind the screen.

-Of course! My parents are out and none of the employees will question it. If anything, they'll be happy that I brought someone other than Adrien here! – and came out from behind her screen. The short, yellow dress is tight at the skirt and has a fuzzy white collar. – What do you think?

Sabrina's head appears from behind the screen and she opens her eyes wide in admiration.

-Oh! You look beautiful!

-Y-you think so? I mean, of course! Of course! – and tries to hide the slight blush that appears on her cheeks. – And you, aren't you going to come out?

-Ah, I don't know if it was good…

-Nonsense! Come, let me see here!

-Um, okay… – and she showed herself. The satin dress was light green and full of ruffles. It wasn't one of Chloé's favorites, but…

-My God.

-W-what? What it was?

-You look like a princess!

-R-really? – her pale cheeks flushed and she ran to Chloé, hugging her and burying the blonde's face in her chest. The rich girl couldn't help but feel her heart racing suddenly. – Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! You know, you're the first friend I've felt comfortable with! I love the girls at school, but I'm always so nervous around them, but everything's fine with you!

-Um… you're welcome… – Chloé murmurs, without realizing that she wanted that moment and that hug to never end.

-

-Chloé? You ok?

-…I know you heard about me in class today, there's no need to hide it.

-…yeah, I heard it.

-I was trying to help. Just that.

-Uh… how, exactly? I didn't want to, but I'm judging a little.

-Remember how I gave advice about how your mom should go on a date with that guy?

-I remember, but what about… oh!! Oh… – and, with a look of understanding on her face, she sat down next to her. – You wanted to help him with the date and it ended up going wrong?

-Yes. And now the whole class hates me. Excellent…

-Adrien doesn't hate you.

-Yeah, but they've been my best friend since we were six years old, they can't hate me.

-I don't hate you either.

-…oh. That's… very nice of you.

-You're a nice person, Chloé.

When she went to sleep, Chloé lay awake for a long time thinking about it.

-

-How was the first month of school? In a… general analysis? – Chloé asks Adrien on the phone, while taking care of her cuticles.

-It was incredible! The best month of my life! I didn't even know it was possible for someone to actually feel this happy! - ouch. That one hurt.

-That… is a bit worrying… but I'm glad you liked it! I'm loving it too!

-Don't they hate you because of that misunderstanding?

-Who cares about their opinion? What comes from below doesn't reach me, as they say! But tell me, Adrien… do you like someone? A crush, so to speak?

-Ah, no, not like that! And you?

-Neither! Even though people fall for me, obviously, I haven't fallen in love once!

-Do you know what it's like to fall in love?

-…no, but you don't know it either!

-I have a list of things here that show whether you have fallen in love or not.

-What are they?

-Thinking about the person, listening to everything they say, appreciating them, nervousness around them, wanting to look good around them…

Chloe froze.

-Um… Adrien…

-Uh?

-I… have to hang up now, okay? I'll see you in class tomorrow, kiss you, love you.

-Kiss you… I love you too.

As soon as the phone hung up, Chloé got out of bed and did what she always did when she panicked: she started walking in circles. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. She was in love with Sabrina. Like, really in love with Sabrina. And that wasn't good at all.

She should have been perfect. She was always perfect! Liking a girl isn't perfect, not at all! Her mother would hate her! Shit, she hated herself! And even if there was no problem, the rest of the class hates her because of that thing at pont des arts! There would be no way for her to date Sabrina if all of the girl's friends hated her, right?! What should she do, what should she do, what should she…

Her train of thought is interrupted when she sees a butterfly. A black butterfly.

No… she stumbles backwards, falling to the ground, her entire body shaking. Not that, please… otherwise… they'll never stop hating me…

-

Marinette's day was going excellently!

Sure, the day itself was normal but relatively pleasant, and now, while rummaging through her Ladybug costume, she discovered that she had an option to create noise-blocking phones in her ears! Furthermore, she had managed to release a thing that obscured her eyes and had the same effect on her vision as sunglasses! This would really help with her sensory issues!

Suddenly, however, they are interrupted by a vibration in their yo-yo. Remembering that it also works as a cell phone, they pick it up and slide the screen to see what was happening. The new civil defense alarm was sounding: AKUMA ALERT, and, next to it, the location of the akumatized woman herself and a video of her.

She wore a red and black doll dress, black tights, red heels, a red scarf, a black face mask shaped like a broken heart, black gloves, and her hair was white and moved like tentacles. Honestly, if it weren't for the situation, Ladybug would have found her really cute.

Suddenly, they feel a familiar presence at their side: their partner. When they turn around, however, Chat Noir looks more worried than usual.

-Chat? You ok? – She frowns.

-Yes, but… I think I know who she is.

-Who?

-Chloé.

-Oh.

-We better go soon.

-Yeah, you're right.

With that, they both left towards the address mentioned there.

As they traveled through Paris, Ladybug continued looking at the news to see if she could get any more information about the akumatized girl. Apparently, with her power, she invoked an emotion and was able to see the memories related to that feeling in the people around her. It wasn't the most destructive power in the world, but it could be quite dangerous when it came to the two of them and their civilian memories. Better avoid getting hit. She also didn't seem to be very violent or physically strong, which was good, making Ladybug call the talisman to start thinking about a plan.

It was a tamagochi.

Ladybug was almost frustrated by how easy and simple it was.

-The item is her cell phone, right? – Chat asks as they pass a flying pigeon.

-Ah, it's definitely the cell phone.

-What do we do, then? What's the plan?

-It's so ridiculously simple that I'm embarrassed that it's mine.

-…wait, what?

-Do you know how to hurl well?

-…I do?

-Good, because I don't. We're going to stay out of her reach, you're going to throw the tamagochi in her lap and, in the second she gets confused, I'll wrap the yo-yo around her and you can use cataclysm on her cell phone. Quick, easy and free.

-…this one is actually quite simple. Even I could think about it.

-I know.

And… well, there isn't much mystery this time or anything that makes the plot more interesting. They do it, and it works. The damage caused by her was also almost nothing, so the miraculous ladybug never had a day off like this. Once the ladybugs fix everything, Ladybug approaches Chloé (it really was her) and asks:

-You ok?

-Yeah… but… was I akumatized? – She looks confused. This is already normal at this point.

-Yep.

-Ah… thank you for saving me… – she seems to mumble and starts walking away.

-Hey, wait! Do you want help getting home?

-NO! I don't need your help!! – she says, irritated, and leaves.

Ladybug is outraged.

-But how does she have the nerve to talk like that after we saved her?! I'm outraged!

-She's just like that, my lady. – Chat sighs, and then says: – Look, give her a chance. She almost never does these things on purpose. It's not her intention.

-…ok. I'll give her a chance, but only because you're so nice!

-You are very nice, my lady. – they laugh.

-

-Hey! – exclaims Chloé, giving her best fake smile.

-Hi, are you… are you okay? – asks Sabrina.

-Of course, why the question?

-You never smile like that, and yesterday I saw what happened, so… – this makes Chloé deflate.

-You saw it in the news, right?

-Yeah… is everything okay?

-Okay… it was for a reason… pretty stupid, actually… - and she handed something to Sabrina, feeling her face blush profusely. A ring box. A very fancy one.

-Chloé…?!

-I know it's out of the blue and you'll probably hate me, but… do you want to go on a date with me?!

-…Yes! – and a smile lights up her face.

-Wait, seriously?!

-Yeah!

And, truly this time, Chloé smiles.

-

I'M SO SORRY FOR THE HIATUS I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY *dies of shame* Ok. So. Writer's block caught me, huh. And I also couldn't force myself to consume MLB content, so... yeah, it was a hard time. But I'm back! And will try to keep up with the chapters! I promise I will do my best, I really like this story and want you all to see what I got planned! As for the chapter, sorry it ain't that good. I tried to focus more on Chloé's feelings and how she handles stuff that are out of her control (very badly). Also, I tried my best as an aro person to show her crush in Sabrina and make it cute. Next one will be Lady Wi-Fi, which I'll try diving more into Alya!

[walkingstackofbooks]

I really didn't think I was going to get Chapter 19 up on time, but I did and I have!

And MAN the Garashir in this chapter is some of my favourite stuff I've ever written, honestly I'm rereading it and I can't believe I wrote it... Ah man, I'm so hype to share this chapter with youuuuu!

[everythingsinred]

rest in pieces to this zombie au fic thats been abandoned in my drafts for almost a decade... we coulda made history together, u and i....

[faresong]

deliver us from evil is a very serious au.