#it would be so toxic for him to go home after. which is so presumptuous and projecting to me (also white western culture of having to

[c-kiddo]

Your perspective on Essek has made me rethink how he actually behaved in the campaign. I just fell into the the blind forgiving love for him like many others.

Thanks for sharing your thoughts! I do need to rewatch the episodes myself as it has been a few years now. But I think it's good to be aware and not jump on the bandwagon as the default!

np :- ) ! tbh ive really enjoyed rewatching it without fandom input (like presuming things like ships and characters feelings abt stuff, various discourse, fanon stuff etc) after every episode each week. feels like seeing the characters clearer

[glimmerglanger]

Hi! Thank you so much for sharing Bush League.

Is there any chance we could get some more insight into Meg and Bobas side of things?

cannibalisticgalaxy asked:

Can you write what happens with Meg in the baseball AU? Like do they and Anakin come and live with Cody and Obi-Wan because of toxic homes? (I love the Bush League au so much omg.)

peachville1982 asked:

Snippet request: anything about anakin or qui-gon and their perspective on the boys' relationship? OR The wedding? OR The outcome of the boys getting Meg and Boba out of their parents poisonous hands? If none of these suit, please know I love this story and am super enjoying the snippets you've provided.

adiduck asked:

A snippet request: so does Cody ever see any of his parents again after he cuts contact with them? How does that go?

EHEHE. I am VERY happy to get to dip some more into the situation with Meg and Boba! Which ALSO folded in nicely with Cody’s parents showing up….

(Set after the Coda, warnings for EVERYTHING warned for in the original fic). Also: this got kind of long.

~~~~~~~~

When they’d bought the house, they’d mutually agreed to go for one with lots of guest bedrooms. Cody’s siblings and Anakin were all regular enough guests, after all, and frequently they brought friends with them, so it had only been sensible.

Meg and Boba had never seen the house, though, not in person. They were minors, still, and Cody’s parents had forbidden it. They hadn’t wanted any of their children in the same house with Ben, not if they could help it.

Well, they were in his house now, looking at the rooms set aside for them.

Ben watched from the doorway, a knot in his gut. Cody was in Meg’s room with her, explaining how the bed worked, apparently. He’d not stopped radiating nervous, protective energy since he’d gotten the call from his sister.

Ben hadn’t seen him so unbalanced for a long time. Years, now. Since he’d gone almost completely no-contact with his parents after some kind of conflict that Cody didn’t like to talk about directly. Ben knew it had involved a disagreement about him.

He frowned, itchy down his back. He knew, by now, the kind of support Cody needed when the trauma from his childhood crawled back into his life. And he’d provide it. He left Cody fussing over Meg and turned to check on Boba, who he found just sitting on the side of the bed in his room, staring forward at the wall.

It was strange how much he looked like the Cody from years ago, when Ben had first met him. But Boba had longer hair, loose curls, and no scar on his brow. The same worried tension around his eyes and mouth, though….

“Hey,” Ben said, quietly. He knew how to comfort Fetts, at this point. “I thought I’d go grab some dinner. You want to come along?”

Boba looked up at him, dark eyes bloodshot and worried, and he said, “Will Meg be okay here?”

“Yeah,” Ben said, working a comforting smile onto his face. “You’re both going to be okay here. And Cody’ll stay with her.”

#

Dinner settled some more of the anxiety pouring off their guests. They started eating slowly, but ended up putting away the better part of three pizzas. Ben got the feeling they hadn’t eaten much, the last few days.

Afterwards, the kids - well, they were so close to graduating, he thought they’d probably resent being referred to as kids - went to the living room and picked a movie, wedging themselves on the couch to watch.

Ben stayed in the kitchen, cleaning away the leftovers, aware that Cody was still sitting at the table, hands clenched together and head bowed over. Ben gave him the quiet, letting him think and collect himself.

“I want them to stay here,” Cody said, as Ben slid the decimated remains of the pizzas into the fridge; if he recalled what it was like to be that age well enough, he doubted the plates would make it through until morning.

“Okay,” he said, simply, because ‘I know,’ while true, would have felt presumptuous.

“Can we do that?” Cody asked, and Ben turned to look at him, finding him staring at the far wall, expression all tense. “Legally, I mean. Can we do it legally?”

“You’re family,” Ben said, coming over and pulling a chair over so he could sit down close to Cody, leaning into him. “And Satine says that’ll make this easier.” He’d spent hours talking to her, earlier. She’d gone into law, instead of politics, in the end, and did a damn fine job of it. “And they’re old enough to have a lot of say about where they live.”

“So…” Cody said, relaxing a little, turning to look at him, “the police can’t just--come and take them away?”

“We can make it very hard for them to do that,” Ben told him, squeezing Cody’s hand when Cody reached for him. “I’ve already got paperwork started.”

Cody stared at him for a moment, and then let out a ragged breath and slumped down into him. Ben curled an arm around his shoulders, and murmured, soft, “It’s fine. It’s okay. They’re safe. And so are you.”

“Thank you,” Cody whispered, soft, against his shoulder, and Ben just hummed, tightened his grip, and held him a little tighter.

#

Ben felt grateful that the season had ended as they made their way through the coming weeks. They had so much to do, contacting the online schooling program that he’d got Anakin signed up for during his Senior year, when he’d begged and begged to come stay….

It was easier to get the entire thing working, this time. Money, he found, made many things smoother, especially when it came to taking in two teenagers.

They filled out countless legal forms, some of them beginning to blur together, and got both twins in to see their doctor, just to make sure they were healthy and to let Meg start going over her options….

Not everything felt productive.

Cody’s parents called--a lot, at first. It got somewhat better when they started screening each call, relieved some of the pressure around them. Ben felt more than content to let the lawyers handle all contact with the Fett parents.

He was frowning at another legal form sent along for them to sign while Cody moved around the kitchen with Meg and Boba; they were baking cookies, apparently, to go with all the rest of the cooking they’d been doing the last few days in preparation for the rest of their siblings to arrive, along with Anakin and maybe even Qui-Gon, if he remembered.

Everyone had focused…intensely on the holidays, though he supposed he couldn’t blame them, even if--

He looked up when someone knocked, and Cody’s phone chimed to let them know the cameras had something to show them. Cody rubbed flour off a hand on one leg of his jeans, grabbing for the phone while teasing Boba about some long-ago kitchen mishap, looking down at the screen and--

Freezing.

Ben watched his expression crack, eyes widening as his hand tightened around the phone and he stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence.

Ben slid to his feet without thought, crossing to him. Cody looked at him, blankly, unseeing, when Ben took the phone from his hand and looked down at the screen. He had a pretty good idea what he’d find, only wondering if it would be one or both of them--

It was just one. A woman he’d seen once in his life, when they’d ended up in the same room during their postseason run. She’d refused to look in his direction, neatly editing him out of the world.

Cody’s mother.

“Would you and Boba and Meg go upstairs and see if you can find the rest of the decorations?” Ben said softly, putting the phone down on the island. The twins were watching them, picking up on the tension, huddling closer to Cody.

“What?” Cody asked, blinking rapidly. “I should--”

“You should go upstairs and see if you can find the rest of the decorations,” Ben repeated, because he’d seen this expression on Cody’s face too often, in the years after they met, and he’d never liked it, and he wasn’t going to let anyone make it worse.

“Right,” Cody said, blinking again. “You’ll get the door?”

“I’ll get the door,” Ben confirmed, and watched them move towards the stairs. And then he cracked his neck to the side, exhaled, and went to get the door.

#

Cody’s mother - Adelaide, he’d heard - stood on their porch. She’d left little of herself in her children, physically, as far as Ben could tell. They all took heavily after Jango. Perhaps that was why she’d dug into their brains so much, trying to imprint something of herself on them.

She was frowning, bundled up for the cold weather, when Ben opened the door, stepped out, and shut it neatly behind his back. She wasn’t much shorter than Cody, with the same dark hair hidden under the hood of her winter coat.

He saw no one else with her, no one else in the car pulled to one side.

She said, the first words he thought she’d ever said to him, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Ben tilted his head to the side, trying not to think about every halting conversation he’d ever had with Cody about what his childhood had been like, about Cody curled into a knot against his chest, about Cody crying-- And said, “Strange, then, that you’d come to my house.”

She scowled up at him. “This is my son’s house.”

“Not legally until the wedding,” Ben told her, keeping his voice airy, mouth twitching in the corner when she visibly flinched at the word wedding. “We’re going to put his name on everything then. Part of our postnuptial plans--”

He caught her arm when she jerked a hand towards his face, grateful for the reaction speed trained into him over so many years, and said, mild, “Ma’am, don’t give me reason to accuse you of assault in addition to the trespassing.”

She wrenched her arm free; he let her. “I’m not trespassing,” she said, eyes flashing and bright, jaw tight. “You kidnapped my sons.”

He snorted, could not help it, and said, “Not your daughter?”

“I don’t have any daughters,” she snapped back, and he had no softness left to burn away for her, but he thought, if he had, it would have dissolved then.

“You’re not welcome here,” he said, because he had--a family inside. Cody would be upset, and trying to hide it, and probably Meg and Boba would be, too. Taking care of them mattered more than bandying words with a bigot on his porch on a cold December morning. “You don’t have my permission to be on the property. Leave, now, or I’ll have to call the police.”

“If my husband was here--”

“He’d what?” Ben interrupted, narrowing his eyes, because, oh, had they moved into threats? He should have expected it, he supposed. “Attack me? Hurt me?” He shrugged. “He wouldn’t be the first. Do you think that’s going to frighten me? Do you think it would get you what you want? He could kill me, and you’d still never get them back.”

“You’re going to pay for what you’ve done,” she said, voice almost a hiss, and he could see her trembling, more with adrenaline than the cold, he thought.

She wasn’t the first to say it, in his life. He regarded her, taking a step forward, and she stepped back. He asked, “What is it you think I’ve done?”

“You stole my sons,” she said, chin up and quivering, voice cracking with whatever emotion it was she felt. “Cody was a good boy before you ruined him.”

“Cody’s a good man,” he said, and meant it with every bit of his being. “An amazing man, actually. The best I’ve ever met. And he is despite what you did to him. So, now--”

“Don’t you feel guilty at all? Whoring yourself--”

“Everything I’ve ever done with your son, I did for free,” Ben interrupted, chirpy, and she flinched back from him. “And we’re done with this conversation. Go, now, and I won’t call the police, won’t make this all front page news, won’t make sure everyone knows exactly what you did to your sons and daughter. Don’t come back here. Don’t contact any of them, because I swear, if you hurt them again, I’ll find a way to ruin both of you.”

She stared at him for a long, long moment, and he read the hatred on her face even as she screwed up her mouth, turning his face to the side when she spat.

He ignored the slurs - ugly, but nothing he hadn’t been hearing off and on since he was fourteen - she snarled at him when she turned on her heel and walked, fast and jerky, back to the rental car.

He watched her leave, exhaled, and went back inside.

#

Ben washed his face in the downstairs bathroom, scrubbing at his beard until it felt clean again, and then turned off the water and--

Startled, a little, when Cody offered him a towel from the side. He took it, shaking it open to dry his hands, and assessed Cody’s expression. He looked, outwardly, almost blank, but there was nothing but tension in his shoulders and jaw.

“She’s gone,” Ben told him, softly, bringing the towel up to pat at his cheeks and beard.

“I know,” Cody said, and wiggled his hand a little, drawing attention to the phone he held.

Ben winced, hissing and reaching out to take it; the app for the doorcam was still up. “You didn’t need to listen to that,” he said, aching inside, all at once, because his parents had hurt Cody enough, he shouldn’t have to--

“Yes,” Cody disagreed, voice hoarse, “I did. Ben--” His voice broke, cracking uneven and jagged, like a pane of glass dropped on a corner, and his expression shattered with it. Ben swore, softly, stepping into his space and curling arms around him, pulling him closer.

Cody slumped into him, rasping, “I shouldn’t have made you talk to her. I should have done it. I--”

“You shouldn’t ever talk to her again,” Ben countered, kissing the side of his head. “She didn’t hurt me, Cody. Nothing she could have said would have hurt me.”

Cody made a faint, disbelieving sound, but Ben already expected that the next few days were going to be rough, emotionally. That was fine. He’d be there, anyway. And they’d finish up with all the legalities. And he’d make sure, somehow, that Cody and all his siblings stayed safe.

[ocean-again]

my life continues to be useless and this continues to be the only tiny space I have to write anything down where my mom won’t find it. so, here’s what’s up

the lesbian who grew up in a cult and wanted science facts from me turned out to be kind of a transphobe. this was distressing but we mutually ghosted each other over it so it’s also fine.

the short guy has a crush on an electrical engineer. she honestly sounds pretty cool, so I’ve kinda shrugged my shoulders and moved on.

at some point I am going to make friends with her and when she dumps him, because she honestly sounds too cool for his “I can’t go to therapy I’m a pilot” nonsense, I will probably keep her. this is my usual MO and I have a number of really great lady friends, just fucking ride-or-die bitches, who started off being introduced to me as an effort to make us both jealous.

this is a risky move with bisexual women, as I inherently do not see other women as rivals, only friends. dick is, after all, plentiful and low-value. cool girls are, by contrast, irreplaceable diamonds.

which, brings me to the major point in the ongoing drama. how mad this is making my extremely cool friend who, I am realizing, has had a crush on me for a while now, and I feel like she feels like coming home. thing is, she has a long-term local girlfriend.

I have been respecting their relationship as best I can, but her girlfriend is clingy bordering on toxically jealous and possessive. which, has lead me to not making a move, despite apparently the poly community and everyone I’ve talked to about this telling me that somebody’s unhappy primary partner ought to not be my problem. it feels like it is. so I went from simply not making a move to distancing myself from my friend and making a pass at the aforementioned disinterested short guy, who is also, one of her friends.

I though initially she would be cool with this, she is was not cool with that.

her girlfriend appeared to be happy with the idea of me spending more time elsewhere but after shortguy turned me down, in apparently an effort to continue to distance me from my cool friend, this other dude from fucking california has been trying to get everyone else to suggest that I ought to date him and I am so utterly disinterested and done with this bullshit that I am beginning to find his efforts, to not flirt with me, but to suggest that I ought to flirt with him, to be offensive.

I generally do not react well to the suggestion that, y’know, if I was lonely some time I could maybe, *looks at ground, twiddles foot, Looks Up, bites lip* ask him to hang out some time?

like, 1. if I was going to? I would have

2. presumptuous much?

3. are you’re asking me to ask you out? like, I don’t know what to do with that, there’s no parameters. what do you want? you’re not giving me anything to work with here and it’s very easy to just go “Okay.” and never call you.

4. I am a tremendously disappointing weirdo. everyone seems to get this impression that I’m a cozy cup of hot cocoa on a rainy day, warm socks, and fuzzy blankets kinda cottage core bitch, but like, I am in reality, a very weird gremlin with a sink full of unwashed dishes and the closer you get to me the more disappointed you’re going to be by reality.

like, I don’t not-travel and stay home because I’m a homebody, its because I am impoverished. ditto: mending my own clothes? impoverished. making stews? impoverished. making my own home decor? Impoverished. wildcrafting? impoverished. all my Vintage clothes and Vintage furniture? Impoverished. like, this is not for aesthetics. the aesthetics are Emergent from the Impoverishment.

5. at this point I feel like I’ve been repeatedly treated like a problem to be solved and also somebody who can and should withstand infinite screaming fits. and I’m plain tired of being yelled at.

6. I am also just generally tired of being simped-at by like a decent handful of reply guys on twitter and insta that seem to think me calling myself a gremlin is like, a lie, and the cozy bitch they’ve built in their heads to be disappointed by is the real me.

relatedly, one of those nerds hunted me down at my friend’s wedding and flung me around the dance floor so violently I nearly vomited in my respirator. he is now trying to slide into my twitter DM’s having found that I don’t go on insta very often.

I just, I would like a relationship with somebody who sees me, and knows me, but to see me, and to know me is to be disappointed by me.

anyways, that’s where it’s at.

[greyhavensking]

Blackout (MCU Fanfic)

So this is me trying to hype up my own fanfiction, which I have posted on AO3 and am currently working on. It’s an OC story, featuring most of New York’s small-time heroes, like Daredevil and pre-Civil War Spider-Man. Any feedback would be appreciated, either here or on AO3!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20239192/chapters/47966818#main 

prologue | shocking beginnings 

The static shock is new.

Michaela isn’t an idiot (most days); static shock as a concept isn’t new. She’s been terrorizing the neighborhood with it since she was seven and her grandma knitted her a pair of incredibly ugly wool socks that she refused to take off, which were then forcibly removed after she’d gone two days without a bath. And she’s hardly a stranger to grabbing onto a pole on the subway and zapping the hell out of herself.

But this is… more. 

Tuesday morning dawns, presumably, bright and bitterly cold, though Michaela doesn’t open her eyes until 8:53, approximately seven minutes before her first class. The only comment she has about the weather is to declare it was too fucking cold as she hurriedly threw on a seasonally-inappropriate jacket on her way out of her apartment. Late as she is, she can’t grab breakfast from the cafe on campus, or even a coffee, which doesn’t bode well for her attitude for the rest of the day.

She snaps at a professor or two. Her next paper is probably going to get tanked. Oh fucking well.

The point is, though, that she wasn’t in any state of mind to notice it until well into the afternoon when she’s holed up behind the register at Cody’s, mindlessly greeting customers and desperately hoping none of them choose to mention her smudged makeup or the unavoidable stains under her arms. This wasn’t a clean shirt by any means, hadn’t been clean when she wore it last, either. Is it her fault that the washers in her apartment complex ate quarters like they were fucking caviar? 

A few regulars pass through — Diego and Carla, Tommy and Riley, Mr. Yang — but they don’t linger today like they might have otherwise. The shop isn’t busy, really, there are only a handful of people browsing, so apparently she’s giving off pretty strong don’t-engage-with-me-I’m-not-human-today vibes, which suits her fine. For the most part. 

The absence of friendly conversation is starting to wear on her the longer her shift drags on. Her leg shakes, knee bobbing against the row of drawers behind the register; she worries at a hangnail on her thumb, too chicken just to rip it off; the copper on her tongue comes from having her teeth planted a little viciously in her lower lip. God, she has so much homework for this week, and then finals are coming up, she’ll be swamped, how the hell is she going to come into work when she already knows she has three papers, two projects, and an oral presentation due in a few weeks—

Someone steps up to the register and Michaela straightens instinctively, whacking her knee against the drawers in her haste. She hisses out a strangled breath, fighting the urge to crouch down and cradle her leg; instead, she forces a brittle smile at the man in front of her and says, “Hope you found everything alright. Want me to ring you up?”

The man smiles in sympathy, his brows drawn together behind his red-tinted glasses. “Yeah, that’d be great.” He loads his things onto the counter and Michaela dutifully ignores them; she’s learned not to make assumptions based on what people bought, and more to the point, she doesn’t care to make a guessing game out of it, not when she has better things to waste brainpower on. She’s already started working his purchases into the register when he says, with a smidge of hesitation, “Are you alright? I heard a bang and it, uh, didn’t sound great.”

Michaela pauses, biting again at her lip. She doesn’t normally take notice of customers, aside from the ones that turn up on a daily basis, but — the guy smiles at her, sheepish but charming, and she drops her gaze to give him an absent once-over and—

Ah. Fuck.

His suit is nice, though she doesn’t really have an eye for expensive tastes. For all she knows he’d nicked it from a Good Will bin and it’s really thirty years old. But it looks good on him; charcoal jacket and pants, crisp white shirt, maroon tie that she thinks maybe matches his glasses? Short, dark-brown hair, stubble on his cheeks and chin. Cute, overall. And then there’s the cane.

She’d thought his phrasing had been a little odd. He’d heard her, didn’t mention the pained grimace that had undoubtedly flashed across her face before she schooled her features into reluctant professionalism. 

So. Cute and blind, if she isn’t being too presumptuous. Huh.

“I’m…” She waves a hand, mentally curses herself, then says, “You know. Banged my knee a little. Nothing to complain to HR about.” What HR? She works at a convenience store. Michaela squeezes her eyes shut, breathes out slowly, embarrassingly grateful he can’t see just how much of a fool she is. Awkward as fuck and caffeine-deficient, she isn’t at her best today, or. Well. She can’t remember the last time she’d been at her best. “I’m fine, really, but thanks for asking. This all for today?” she asks, grabbing at a subject change with both hands and yanking for all she was worth.

He probably sees— or, not sees, hell. He can probably tell what she was doing, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just gives an easy shrug and taps his cane lightly against the floor. “That’s all. I’m just on a snack run for my partner. We’ve been at the office all day, and he likes to remind me when I’ve gone too long without getting some fresh air.”

Aw, nice guy. Michaela could use someone like that, if she’s being honest with herself. Which she isn’t, not today anyway. Today is not a day for honesty. She needs more sleep for that, and like, at least one espresso. 

She grins, another reflex, and bags his snacks. “Not sure if the air here qualifies. Especially not after last week.”

The man’s brows twitch upwards, just a little. “Were you around for the attack?”

“Uh.” Way to go, Michaela. That’s a pleasant topic, very casual. “Yes? Technically?” Stop making everything a question, Jesus! “The, um, the blast, or whatever, I wasn’t all that close to it, but I got caught by the cloud of…” 

She trails off. Fuck if she knew what tragic-backstory-of-the-week exposed them to. The doctors at the hospital she’d woken up at didn’t know what it was, either, but they’d collectively decided that it hadn’t been toxic, so. Death isn’t on the horizon, apparently. 

What a pity. 

“I mean, I’m fine, obviously. Got kinda scraped up when I fell and all, but nothing serious.” That’s when she clocks the bandage wrapped around the guy’s hand, and since she’d already stuck her foot in her mouth, she might as well go for broke. “Did you… What about you?”

That gives him pause, only for a moment, before his injured hand flexes and then cinches tighter around the handle of his cane. He laughs, shakes his head. “Oh, no, I got lucky. I was visiting a friend when it happened, so I wasn’t in town.” Another smile. “But I’m glad to hear you’re alright.”

Right. Sure. This isn’t just two people exchanging niceties for a (nearly) awkward length of time. Michaela abruptly ducks her head and pushes his bag closer to the edge of the counter. “Yeah, good news for me,” she says, refusing to acknowledge her flushed cheeks. When is her shift over again? Not soon enough. “Here you go. That’ll be $8.37.”

He passes her a twenty, insists she keep the change (which is absurd, she doesn’t get tips, and she can’t be rude—) but when she makes  to press the bill back into his hands she yelps at the shock of their skin meeting. And for once she isn’t being dramatic, there was a literal shock, she could’ve sworn she’d seen a spark—

Glasses frowns as his hand spasms, then shakes out his fingers and tips his head, looking at her just a bit off-center, his gaze seemingly focused over her left shoulder. “That was…”

“Static,” she mutters, staring at her own hand. It doesn’t look— she doesn’t know, burned? She’s pale as ever, though, no blemishes or marks that she can see. “My fault, probably. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says graciously, like there was nothing out of the ordinary about what had just happened. And maybe there wasn’t anything strange there, maybe Michaela just needs someone to knock her the fuck out so she can move on from today. “Have a nice day!”

It takes her a solid fifteen minutes once he’s left to realize she hadn’t given him his change.

“Motherfucker.”

__________

She’d write it off as another product of her shitty, shitty day and care not at all about the significance of it, but it… keeps happening. 

Two more customers brush hands with her and two more times they both got shocked. Then, when she’s on her way out, so, so ready to bury her head in a pillow and possibly never emerge into the light of day again, she closes her hand around the door handle and — her whole hand this time, a bright burst of pain, electricity crackling over her skin, but now it isn’t quite pain. Or, it’s not as painful as before, like the shock has diffused across her hand, up her forearm, dissipating quicker. 

She doesn’t have the chance to dwell on it, because Emmett’s taking over her position at the register and she does not want to get sucked into a conversation with him, well-meaning as he is. (He’s in college, too, which he likes to remind her about whenever possible, but he can’t seem to grasp that he’s eighteen and she’s twenty-four and that their experiences weren’t really the same at all). So she shoves aside the prickle of worry at the back of her neck, decides very promptly that she’s imagining things and slips out onto the street, hands stuffed deep into her pockets and her breath crystallizing in the air as she makes her way home.

Then she’s inhaling a cup of ramen, speed reading (i.e., skimming) through an article for her modern graphics class tomorrow, and internally freaking out about no less than five separate and completely unrelated problems. It’s her greatest talent, and also the reason she averages four hours of sleep a night. Why had she wanted to go back to college again?

By the time Michaela is ready to start on the logo project that’s due Friday, it’s eleven at night and she’s drained three cups of absolutely disgusting coffee, so she’s looking at little to no sleep. Again. Hurray for her impulsive nature and inability to course-correct even when she knows she’s fucking herself over and careening right into a terrible decision. She’d always heard her twenties would be the best time of her life, and wow, so many people had lied to her, it’s not even funny.

Michaela drops heavily into her armchair (which she’d stolen off the sidewalk and felt no shame whatsoever about), dragging her laptop off the coffee table and into her lap. She’s buzzing, her skin too tight. Her mouth’s gone dry despite the coffee and she feels like the absolute last thing she should be doing is sitting down, but she isn’t going to go for a run at eleven o’clock at night in Hell’s Kitchen. Her brain betrays her on a nearly daily basis and she’s failed more tests than she can count, but she isn’t that stupid. Taking one year of karate when she was eight does not mean she has any business defending herself, so she isn’t going to stick her neck out just to run off the jitters, thanks. She’ll distract herself with schoolwork and maybe take a couple of laps around her tiny shithole of an apartment. 

That’s the plan, at least, until she sets her fingers down on the keyboard and the laptop abruptly goes up in smoke.

Michaela shrieks, her hands tingling as she tosses the laptop onto the ground, watching wide-eyed as it spits out sparks like she’d dumped a bucket of water over it. That… is not normal. Neither is whatever the hell is going on with her hands because they’re tingling, yeah, but it’s more than pins and needles; they feel charged, staticky in a way that’s far from the harmless zaps you prank people with. 

What the fucking fuck? 

The smoking laptop is a lost cause, or not one worth pursuing right now, anyway. And her hands, well — she could, uh, go to the emergency room? Would they even take her in for something like this, whatever this was? Does she need a therapist?

That’s a stupid question. Who doesn’t need a therapist? Michaela doesn’t want to meet that person, honestly.

Why is she daydreaming about the emergency room, anyway? She doesn’t have health insurance. Hell, she’d nearly had a panic attack when she woke up in the hospital in the wake of the Avengers bagging another bad guy; not because she was in a hospital, but because she’d have to pay for being in a hospital. Which was a nightmare worse than death, really, and god, can’t Tony Start just cover everyone who ends up bruised and broken after they save the day? She’s grateful the Avengers are around, she is, New York wouldn’t exist without them, but the man has literal billions of dollars. Hospital fees won’t even make a dent in his gold-plated wallet, or whatever. 

Focus, Michaela. Weird electrical shenanigans take precedence over lingering bitterness towards Tony Fucking Stark. 

Yeah, there would always be time for that. Just not right now.

Michaela jabs a toe at the laptop, which responds by coughing up another round of sparks, so she draws  her legs hastily onto the chair and cowers there for a minute, then flings her hands out away from her body. The tightness in her chest is a warning she doesn’t need, and she forces herself to breathe as evenly as she can, hoping to stave off the inevitable anxiety attack for a little while longer. 

She flips her hands over, fingers splayed wide. Her careful breathing hitches. She’s always been pale despite her more colorful heritage, but not to the point where her veins stand out glacial blue against her skin. And she’s kidding herself if she labels the blue, arcing lights beneath her skin as veins — that’s electricity, or something like it. Something almost… alive, right there, writhing even as she watches, snaking through her palms, and when it reaches her fingertips, sparks fizzle in the air just beyond her bitten-off nails.

That’s about when her panic hits the wall, too big for her chest, and she lets out a sharp, broken breath that coincidentally coincides with all of the lights in her apartment — and, she’ll learn later, her entire complex — blanking out with a high-pitched whine.

Somehow her awkward failure of an encounter with the cute office worker doesn’t seem like such a big deal anymore.

[arielle0808]

May I request some hcs for rfa and minor 3 and how they’d propose?

Aaaaaaw 😍😍😍 That’s so cuuute!!

Here it goes! Thank you for your patience and your request, lovely~

I hope you like it <3

Yoosung

He has the perfect ring, and he really, really wants to propose, but… He has too many ideas and doesn’t know which to choose. 

A romantic dinner at an expensive restaurant, really fancy, with candle lights, champagne… Or a simple, cosy dinner at home with… candle lights, and champaigne. Or an impromptu trip to the beach! Or the mountains! And candle lights!!! And champaigne!!!! And roses, and….

He wants it to be perfect!!! It’s going to be his first (and only proposal) and he wants to make it perfect to MC.

Of course, he asks Zen for advice. It’s really complicated at first because none of them seem to agree in what’s best.

He decides to do it at their flat. He wants to save the money he would spend on a restaurant to buy a good wine, fine ingredients for a hand-made dinner and flowers and candles. He decorates the living room and bedroom as neatly and beautiful as he can and puts on his favourite suit. He even puts a ribbon around Lisa’s neck.

When MC arrives, they let out a gasp of surprise. “Are we celebrating something?” they ask.

“Just how much I love you?” Yoosung says with a blush, not really convinced. He’s so nervous he thinks he’s going to faint!!

MC, on the other hand, doesn’t give it much of a thought. They are used to Yoosung having small details for them, though he has never prepared something as beautiful as this. Maybe they have forgotten something after all? They try to remember, but they can’t. It isn’t Saint Valentines, is it?

The dinner is delicious, MC’s favourite dish prepared with all of Yoosung’s love and care, and he has even made their favourite dessert. He looks more nervous than usual, but MC is so excited about everything, they don’t really notice.

Yoosung and MC move to the sofa and he opens the champagne.

“Wow!” MC exclaims in surprise. “Ok, this is too much for a normal dinner. You really have to tell me what we are celebrating.”

“MC,” Yoosung takes their hand in a serious way and even MC gets nervous. They want to ask what’s wrong, but Yoosung talks before they can. “I meant it when I told you I wanted to celebrate how much I love you. And… So I’ve organised all this. I wanted it to be perfect and…” he’s so nervous he’s starting to mess up the speech Zen and he had thought about!! He takes deep breaths. He only has to tell MC how he feels. “MC, I love you. I was so lost when I first met you. You gave me stability, a reason to fight, to grow up, to go on. You saw the potential in me and helped me seeing it too. You make me feel loved every day and… I want to feel like this forever,” by that moment, MC is sobbing, knowing what comes next, and Yoosung is fighting against tears as well. He takes the ring from his pocket. “MC, would you marry me?”

“Yes! Oh, Yoosung!” they embrace him and he puts the ring on their finger, both of them crying and chuckling as he does. MC kisses him and he returns it. They’ve never been happier.

Zen

He’s a romantic baby, so he’d take MC to the roof of his place on a night in which there was a meteor shower, since that was the first place where they saw the stars together <3

He’d decorate it with a picnic blanquet, some drinks, his guitar and MC and he would spend a romantic night singing under the light of the stars.

The first stars start falling and Zen encourages MC to say their wishes aloud, just for fun.

“I wish the next RFA guest doesn’t do weird questions!”

Zen and MC fool around for some time until Zen suddenly kneels in front of MC and says:

“I wish the brightest star married me,” he takes a ring from his pocket, looking at MC with a deep blush on his cheeks, his look serious.

MC takes their hands to their mouth and throws themselves into his arms.

“Yes!!”

Jaehee

She’s been wanting to propose to MC for some time, but since the tradition says that a man has to be the one proposing, she feels very self-conscious about it.

One day she finds the ring that would go perfectly well around MC’s finger and she finds herself buying it.

She can’t bring herself to give it to MC, so she just thinks about waiting for their birthday to have an excuse to give them a ring… But she really wants to marry them!!

Finally, she asks Zen for advice, and he says that she definitely has to propose!!!

So one day Jaehee takes MC to the venue where the first RFA party they coordinated was held.

“Jaehee, what are we doing here?” MC chuckles.

“MC, once I made you a proposal here which changed my life forever. I asked you to be my partner in my dream business and you said yes, which made me the happiest woman in my life,” her voice is trembling a little, and she is blushing lightly, but she continues. MC widens their eyes, realising what is happening. “I want this happiness to last forever and I want you to be my partner in life, so…” Jaehee feels too self-conscious to kneel, but she takes the ring out of her purse. “Would you marry me?”

“Of course I will!”

Jumin

Well, he already proposed once, but lets say that MC turned him down in the privacy of Jumin’s penthouse because they had only known each other for 11 days and stuff.

He would like the next time to be completely different than the previous one since MC seemed to have said “yes” at first because of the pressure they felt in front of all those people.

Thus, he books the entire restaurant with the most beautiful views in Korea and takes MC there for dinner. They order some wine and have a lovely dinner with the live music of some violins and a piano. MC is surprised that he has booked the entire restaurant, but it’s not really the first time Jumin goes over the top to do something romantic.

Then Jumin leads them to the roof, which he had had decorated with rose petals and candles on the floor and other flowers. MC looks around them, surprised and marvelled at the beautiful scenery, the views, and how everything is so perfect. When they turn around, Jumin is kneeling with a ring in his hands.

“MC, the first time I proposed to you, I didn’t do it the right way. I believe now, with your help, I have become a better man, truly worthy of your love, and I don’t think I would be too presumptuous if I said you think so too. MC, I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. Would you marry me?”

There’s only an answer: “yes.”

707

His brother was tired of Seven’s crazy experiments with robots, more so after their house was almost burnt to ashes twice, so he had decided to teach him how to draw so that he could distract himself with other stuff. Seven, of course, had taken the chance for that to be a “bonding activity between the tomato brothers” and had agreed to it more than willingly. That was when Seven found himself designing rings he thought would look good on MC.

“… what’s this?” Saeran asked.

“Oh, just some doodles,” Seven replied. “Don’t you think they’d look good on MC?” he’d say with a dreamy smile.

“You have to propose,” Saeran would say. MC had been really helpful in his recovery and they had grown really close, so he wanted his brother and them to get married before they changed their mind about being with him or something.

He would help Seven organising everything, not really trusting his brother’s skills organising… anything. They took one of Seven’s drawings to a jewellery store to see if it could be done (Seven still had an insane amount of money from when he was an agent, so that wasn’t a problem), and they replied affirmatively.

Finally, the day arrived. MC woke up to find the bed next to them empty, and they wondered why. They went out to find Saeran with an envelope which he gave to them. They took it with a puzzled expression and read its content as they had breakfast. That envelope led them to those places Seven and them frequented or where they had made special memories, and there they found more envelopes which indicated them where to go.

Finally, they arrived to one of Seven’s car, Saeran in it. He gave MC a last envelope. 

“Don’t open it yet,” he instructed them. He started riding and MC recognised the road. They were going to the beach. Saeran stopped the car near it. It was already night when they got there. MC opened the envelope and widened their eyes when he read it was a ticket to the space station.

They got down the car and followed the way Saeran had indicated them until they saw Seven. There was a spaceship-shaped towel on the sand and he patted the spot next to him so that they sat down. They saw the sky full of stars and they looked at Seven, whose blush was noticeable even in that faint light.

He kneeled before them and took the ring.

“I have always feel my life was miserable, that I didn’t deserve anything good or beautiful… until you arrived. You helped me overcome my fears, my traumas, to fight. You gave me a reason to live. MC, I want to live feeling like this all my life. I didn’t need to go to the outer space to find my place. My place is next to you. Would you marry me?”

“Yes!” MC finally exclaims, embracing him and making both of them fall on the sand. “Of course I will.”

V

MC and he had gone to Paris for one of V’s art exhibitions. There, V realised that none of that would have been possible if MC hadn’t suddenly appeared in his life. He would have never overcome his toxic relationship with Rika, have surgery and, finally, decided to pursue his dream of being an artist. He would have never realised what is like to be truly loved.

He looked at MC under the lights of the French city and realised that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with them. He had always known it, but he thought he wanted to make it official.

“MC, can you wait here for a second?” he asked them and MC nodded, confused, sitting on a bench.

So V rushed to the nearest jewellery store he found and bought a ring for MC. He went back to them, his heart rushing from the nerves and the exercise, and MC looked up at him with an expectant and puzzled expression.

V kneeled in front of them, unable to wait a moment longer, and took the ring, making MC widen their eyes in surprise.

“MC, thank you. Thank you for being the love of my life, for helping me throughout everything, helping me fix what was wrong in my life. Thank you for loving me and teaching me so much about love. Thank you for being there as I fulfilled my dreams. I want to be the same for you. I want to love you as you love me, I want to help you pursuing your dreams and to be there when you do. I want to spend the rest of my life loving you. MC, would you marry me?”

MC was already nodding at the beginning of his speech, but when he finished it, they threw themselves on his arms uttering a “yes” between tears of joy.

Saeran

He’s had it prepared for so long. He has rehearsed it a million times, taken MC to all these special places, but when it comes the moment of proposing, he always freaks out and backs off.

So he ends up proposing one day, out of the blue.

It’s a lazy afternoon. MC and he are watching a film on the sofa and Saeran is suddenly struck with how much he loves them. How happy he is just being there, lying on the couch with MC and how he would spend the rest of his life just like that.

It’s something casual, nothing special, but it’s because of these moments that he is in love with MC. Because he can live them and MC makes them valuable.

So he suddenly blurts out the words.

“MC, would you marry me?”

MC looks at him in surprise, far from expecting it, and it’s at that moment that he realises what he’s just said. So he quickly looks for the ring in his pocket (he’s been keeping it there for so long) and kneels before them.

MC starts crying.

“Yes. Yes, of course I will.”

Vanderwood

He’s a perfectionist, so he would make sure eveything was absolutely perfect before proposing. Nevertheless, nothing seemed to be as perfect as it should, so he would find himself postponing it.

He was starting to give up, which upset him. He really wanted to propose, but all the stress and fears that involved by itself (the risks of MC saying no, and that making them uncomfortable, of nothing going on as planned or as perfect as it had to be for MC, MC agreeing out of pity, etc) together with his OCD was making it an impossible task.

MC noticed he was upset, so they decided to organise a dinner for him. He was received home that day with a beautifully arranged table, a delicious dinner and the person he loved most in the world being there for him to cheer him up, even though he had never told them he was upset or why. He smiled and, after the dessert, kneeled before them and took their hand.

“Vanderwood?” they asked, confused.

“MC, I love you. More than anything,” MC’s heart started racing in their chest, unable to believe what was happening. “You love me and accept me just the way I am, but you also help me become a better man every day. I spend most of my days looking for things to be perfect, and everything that involves you is just that.” He would take the ring out of his pocket. “MC, would you marry me?”

The answer was also perfect: yes.

Headcanons Masterlist

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[theophenes]

Seattle Nights, Byte 1: We were Running in the 90′s

The thing you need to remember about shadow-runners, as we begin this story, is that runners are not happy, well-adjusted people. No happy, well-adjusted person decides to live their life as a criminal mercenary of varying use and expendability to a wide variety of patrons in the hope of scoring enough money to do other things. No reasonable person wakes up one day and decides, “You know, I think I'm going to run around the city as a pawn for competing corporate, private, and criminal interests!” while making an omelet and smiling at their nice lawn.

Well-adjusted, happy people, with sane, reasonable lives, go into things like accountancy or mystical beauty school or amateur drone racing or making little holograms of dancing hot-dogs to lay over furniture on your AR goggles. This crappy little dive bar in Renton, however, was home to people who had far bigger problems on their minds than simply paying the bills and keeping the tedium from killing them. Hell, half of the people in this bar were worried about people who couldn't spell tedium trying to kill them.

In the back, near a particularly poorly lit fish tank, sat two men, with a woman between them. The one on left, with his back to the bar, looked so damn normal it was frankly strange that he was here. The man had all the appearance of a well-mannered corporate secretary—including the expensive suit. He nodded, sternly, looking at the other two. “I'd like to thank you for considering retaining me for this operation,” he said with a polite bow. He was so stiff and coifed, it seemed like he was likely an AI or some sort of cold-blooded cephalopod in a skin suit. Blonde hair that never seemed to move, frameless glasses with square lenses, and a three-piece suit that seemed perfectly tailored. His tie and pocket square were both dark red. The jacket and pants were a simple metallic gray affair with black, needle thin stripes. If the plain white human man with a height and weight that seemed so average as to be on purpose had any sign of emotion is his message, it certainly wasn't noticed by the two he addressed. Between the stiffness and the suit, people took to calling him “Jeeves.” For his part, he let it stick.

The other two, on the other hand, well, they didn't look like the type to hire runners. One of them, a large, dark-skinned orc in a heavily tailored jacket design to show off how hard it was to make a jacket in his size, wearing several gold chains and a rather thick turtle-neck. His posture was conspiratorial, his movements slow and stiff, as if he had been sore from something. The woman beside him wore some odd, extravagant not-quite-Chinese robes, her large horns and heavily-braided hair adding a look that earned her the nickname “Oni Queen” among other fixers. She had been happy to set up the meeting, but the employer wanted to meet her runner in person. No idea why.

“You read the files, Mr....Jeeves,” the Orc said. “I've got the check in hand. Can you deliver the goods to me?”

The blonde man grinned. “I can, but I'll need more talent.”

The Orc shrugged. “Yeah, no offense, but you're not exactly the guru of Wu. To get and reach this prize, you'll need a good third eye. No mage eye goggles, you need a drekkin' pro here,” he said calmly. “But I've sized you up in person, and you skills ain't hurtin'. You've got moves and confidence. And frankly, you're in my budget,” he said with a slight chuckle, his New York accent clicking in slightly with the weird, sing-songy delivery. “Still, it's easy. You get in, you steal back what's mine, bring the ruckus on the goons who took it. Now, are you ready to bring the coming of Wu, the new neon,” the orc said as he raised an eyebrow, “Or are you not playing with a full deck?”

The blonde man took a second to parse all the slang and nodded confidently. “I can assure you,” he said gently, “I've got a few aces up my sleeve, regardless of the deck. And I'm certain our dear queen has a mystic in mind to aid me in handling your project,” he extended a hand to her.

“Presumptuous,” she began with a smirk, “but not incorrect, Jeeves. I have a man, named Fong. He is experienced, but new to Seattle. He would be happy to assist you. However, he refuses to work with those he has not met,” she said as she produce a data-stick from somewhere in the complex structure of her hair, resting upon and woven with her horns like some bizarre pagoda of overwrought Wu Jen tradition. Whether or not the troll was actually Chinese, or just played up the incense master gimmick was a matter of debate. Her knack for knowing things, however, wasn't.

“The data-stick will give you relevant contact info. You need only text him. When the operation is finished, you may inform me, and I will see to it that payment and exchange are handled. Now, you two tend to your business. I need to finish preparing tomorrow's drink specials,” the troll stood up from the table, and moved towards the kitchen of the dive, as the blond man stood up as well.

“I'll see you after we've confirmed the merchandise is in our possession, Mr. Johnson.”

The orc nodded. “I suppose fake names are the rule, even if I'm known? Do your thing, Jeeves. I'll make sure you got enough Nuyen to make some waves, as per the contract with Oni.”

Jeeves gave a very small smile and slightly inclined forward. “Your earnestness is appreciated. I'll take it from here.” With that, the man dressed like a corporate flunky wandered up and out of the bar, tapping away and uploading the data to his comm-link.

--------------

Fong's 'pad', to put it politely, was a dump in Puyallup. Originally, years ago, it'd been some kind of a boxing gym. The sort of place that would've trained fighters and occasionally lent “talent” to local gangs for extra muscle.

Fong was by no means a trainer. He was an adept, but he wasn't known for taking on students, or doing much of anything other than winning the occasional local brawl. Still, this half-burned building, with some canvas on the floor, was better at keeping out the acid rain than some other parts of town, and if he'd been honest about it, there were fewer cash-cop patrols here. Not that there were any non-private cops in Seattle, mind you. Every officer on the beat was owned, either by Lone Errant, or some in-house corp security investigator with limited jurisdiction and a chip on their shoulder. Either way, the Barrens were better. Safer, at least until a little start-up cash could be had. Or the occasional fling with someone who had an actual bed.

Fong himself looked like a character from a bad action Trid. His outer robe was black and green, with small embroidered bits here and there. His beard—a rarity for an elf—was this white, wispy thing. He didn't look a day over twenty-five, but his hair and beard were white as clouds that were, well, not festooned with toxic sludge. His slacks were also black, but in that oh-so-futuristic hex pattern that was all the rage six years ago. Of course, anachronistic fashion added to his charm, if he was to be believed. His skin had a sort of ruddiness to it, with a few freckles on his arms on the rare occasions he rolled up his sleeves, or the less rare occasions he removed his shirt. His eyes seemed to always be cheerful, and he seemed to have a near permanent shit-eating grin.

While Fong sat, meditating with the stillness of a tree amongst the rubble, if a tree had been mildly hung-over. For in this moment, there was time, not only to reflect, but to transcend the limitations of the physical. To attune to the power of the mystical, and channel the raw energy of barrens into a heated, passionate wisdom. For in the chaos of this city, there a chance at enlightenment, and ascendance. Soon, he could move past the physical, and transcend the limitations of metahumanity to become something akin to a god. Something akin to a legend. A few more moments, and his meditation could afford him--

beeep-borp. Unknown caller. Beeeeep-borp. Uknown call--

The elf grabbed the phone. So much for seeking enlightenment in starvation. The monk sniggered to himself and answered the phone. “Only about eight people have this number. So, who has the universe added to my phone list?” His voice seemed cheery and slightly rehearsed, as if greeting a customer more than a person.

“Mr. Fong, I presume,” the sterner voice answered. “I'm a runner. Queen Oni believes you could assist me with a...mystical matter.”

A snicker. “Probably. I'm decent enough with magic. A bit out of practice as far as runs go. What details have you come to offer before the altar of my wisdom?” He said, a bit of dry cheesiness as a wry grin spread across his face. Half of the grin because he might have finally found some paying work, and half because he was likely enjoying teasing this man.

“Mr. Fong, my name is Jeeves. I will send you the details via comm.”

“Afraid my winning looks will reduce you to jelly? Fair enough,” the elf said with a chuckle. “Shoot me the details. I'll let you know if it's up my alley, and we'll meet up and talk shop. Happy to consider doing business with you, Jeeves.”

Jeeves simply made a severely noncommittal “Mmhmm” noise.

The elf smiled weakly. How did a guy scold you over the phone without a word? That was some talent. “Gotcha. Not the friend-making type. Still, I'll get back to you with a response after I'd had time to eye your dossier.”

“Very well. I expect to hear from you shortly, Mr. Fong. Time is not necessarily on our side.”

“Can and will handle it, my main man. Unless you're a lady with a voice modulator. Or a really dry accent. In that case, you do you!” The monk made a cheerful finger gun at a nearby rusted over turn-buckle, which did not seem to appreciate his plucky can-do attitude any more than the irascible well-dressed man on the other end of this conversation. Mr. Fong hung up and sighed. “Well, a deal's a deal. Let's see if this is worth it,” the elf said as he opened a message attachment. Big file.

The elf raised an eyebrow. “Client says they're missing a lost family heirloom, it's in a storage facility in a Horizon archive section for study...” he grunted. “Smash and grab, they probably just want some magic eyes to evade any para-security.....what are we grabbing, anyhow? Isn't Horizon into media production and PR? Does some local suit want to go antiquing....oh, there's the image. Oh. Shit. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeetttttttt.”

The elf stopped reading, typing back a text only comm message. “I'm in. I realize we haven't discussed payment, but I'm sure you'll come up with a fair rate. What has the client told you about this heirloom, and where are they from?”

“Not much. Just that it was taken and they want it back. Also, he's from New York, but tried to hide his accent. Why? What do you know about it?” The text came back.

“Not w/comms,” the elf said, typing with a finger while reading the dossier up and down intensely. “U kno Tasheem's Grub n'Gas? dive in Puyallup. Rough patch=secure.”

There was a long pause, were Jeeves was apparently typing something. However, after what was around five minutes of either hesitation or consistent revision, a third channel appeared.

Hel's Harpy has been added to the chat.

Mr. Fong's glorious white brows knitted together in a shape that would've made a numerologist blush if there had been one handy. Meh. Best to play it cool. “New party-goer? Groovy. We can meet at 7 tonight?”

He added coordinates to the chat.

Jeeves hesitated again and type something. “She insisted. She prefers to size you up herself.”

Mr. Fong sent an holo-ji of a disco-dancing elf. “Good. She can join our briefing party. I'll arrive early, ask the bouncer for Cloudy Fong. I have a usual spot at this point.”

Hel sent a holo-ji of a burning drumstick. “Order an appetizer, something spicy.”

“Please stop with the holo-ji's, I'm trying to avoid flashing lights right now.”

“Deal. 4 both,” Mr. Fong tapped out, still half-immersed in the dossier. So many details!

Hel sent an “image” made of text in the shape of a pouting ani-trid character. “Fine, but don't skip on the chilis. wierdo. I could use a good burn.”

---------------------------

Calling Tasheem's a 'rough patch' was the greatest proof that Fong still had either healthy optimism about Seattle, or a truly sick sense of humor. The place smelled like a mixture of a landfill, a barbecue restaurant, and an engine shop. The lean, cranky old cuss at the door glared over at Jeeves, and the stout, dour orc woman behind him.

If Jeeves was too clean and sharp and symmetrical and corporate, the Orc girl behind him was anything but. Her jacket seemed to be slapped together from a few dozen types of holographic projection suits and flex-screen systems, all alternating between desktop backgrounds and seemingly random advertisements. The colors kept alternating, making her large duster look like a robe of mutating stained glass, with a tank top that had the face of Marlon Brando made entirely out of mathematical symbols on under it. The irregular polygons of her jacket flickered as she produced an e-cig from her glowing jacket of obnoxious logos, which was at least marginally better than a trench-coat of dark obnoxious pathos. Her pants were simple fatigue cut, a sort of strange, shimmering metallic blue tint, almost glittery. She had something not entirely resembling a bird or a small squirrel on her shoulder. Her hair looked like a mix of dreadlocks and fiber optic cables, her eyes the sort of fake green color you expect to see on soda cans that keep you awake for twelve hours. Her tusks were both sharp and meticulously clean, given her smoking. The digital cigarette glowed briefly, and the orc exhaled a cloud of orange smoke, which smelled not entirely unlike undercooked tea and slightly aged tangerine zest.

Jeeves blinked, fidgeting with his cuff links. “We're here to see...” he said, attempting to be cordial, “Cloudy Fong.” he continued.

The cranky old  biker with a chromed out arm and a bad attitude looked them over and nodded. “Don't cause trouble. We're over due for a shoot-out this week,” he muttered as he opened the door to the crappy faux-retro gas station.

The duo entered the den of random iniquity, the smell of beer, wings, and the occasional heavy cloud of drug smoke wafted through the air. The place seemed fairly quiet, save for a very, very drunk troll with an indeterminately European accent and a leather bustier singing....some ballad. It too drunk, too sluggish, and not in a language known to either of them.

Mr. Fong waved at the two of them, smiling. “Jeeves, Hel! How are you. Come over! I got us some fallout wings, and a few fried edamame poppers with mega-mozza sauce.” He munched on a popper and smirked.

Jeeves sat uncomfortably, and “Hel” sat on a barstool, staring down the white-haired man. “How the hell did you know it was us, Fong? I don't remember sending you any damn vacation photos,” she said bluntly.

Mr. Fong chuckled. “Because Jeeves moves almost as stiff as he chats on the phone. The only people wearing suits like his in this neighborhood are runners and slumming schmucks who are about to get mugged. Have a hot popper, they’re great. Fried smoke pepper stuff and other stuff, battered in cheese and beer and stuff. Totally good soy junk! And please, it’s Mr. Fong.” He said with a smirk.

Hel plucked an appetizer, and continued staring into Mr. Fong as she ate it. “So, you're the mage? No offense, chummer, but you don't look like a shaman. You look like some wage-slave with a bad golf swing.”

Mr. Fong shrugged. “I'm a mystical kung-fu master—and my swing is great, if you ask my exes. The illustrious Mr. Fong, at your service. Now, let's enjoy the show.” Mr. Fong smiled as he watched the woman at microphone, humming along to the tune of the music, muttering the lyrics that were clearly not being sung by the woman, or otherwise visible.

“How can you understand her singing?”

“I can't,” Mr. Fong  out, tapping the side of his head, “but I can see her emotions. I assense the performer, and read what the song means to her as she sings it. It's good practice. Plus, Karaoke isn't about what you sound like, it's about your heart.” He nibbled on a “chicken fallout” wing.

The troll concluded her solo, and Mr. Fong smiled and wiped his eye. “Wow. She really loved the one she was singing about. How sweet,” he said with a smile. “Okay, so let's talk about your package.”

Hel choked on the wing she was eating. “Damn, and we haven't even ordered a entree yet. You always this flirty, skinny?”

Jeeves grunted. “Please try to keep it together. Is this location...secure?”

Mr. Fong shook his head. “Better, it's full of angry drunk go-gangers who don't care about anything unless I'm buying. Anyhow, your box” The orc snickered again-- “is the container of some very primo merch. An album,” he said with a smirk. “The only one of its kind. 'Once upon a time in Shaolin.' Originally made by the Wu-Tang clan.”

“Some sort of magic cult?” Jeeves asked, a blond eyebrow arching in a rare moment of facial expression for the taciturn drone.

“A rap group, around in the early 1990′s and late 2000′s,” he said with a slight wave of his hands. “It was printed as a one-time exclusive, then sold to the highest bidder, who leaked the tracks publicly, destroying the supposed rarity of the album. Millions of dollars, spent on a folly,” he clasped his hands together as if to demonstrate a hammer hitting nothing of importance.

“Why does this matter?” Jeeves inquired. “It's an interesting piece of music history. Why would we need an adept to find it? Why would we need magic?”

Fong grinned. “The Wu-tang were obsessed with kung-fu and eastern mysticism. Their name is based on the traditions of Wu-Tang and Shaolin kung-fu story gimmicks. And Rumor is, they weren't making all of it up. There's some folks out there who believe that not every track was released, and the physical copy has hidden connections to sixth-world knowledge. I'd bet some good nuyen that our collector believes there's some mojo involved as well,” he said.

Jeeves seemed unimpressed by the revelation. “So, our client believes that Horizon has an actual magic album form before the start of the sixth world, and that we can acquire it? How could there have even been mages before the awakening?”

The orc with a not-parrot on her shoulder shook her head as her coast turned slightly more violet. “Orcs and trolls didn't appear all at once with friggin' fanfare, it was over the course of a few years. Why wouldn't magic do that, too? A dribble before the gods-damned monsoon of insanity?”

Fong nodded. “Or, ancient rituals which were of no value then, but now, are far greater. If the album has hidden data or tracks, it could lead to something major. Or a wild goose-chase.”

Jeeves stared at Fong as if an explanation was forthcoming.

Fong smiled warmly. “I understand your skepticism,” he said as he ate another wing. “However, the true power of wisdom comes from knowing all possible truths, so we are not trapped in denial when the right one presents itself,” he said, doing his best to sound sagely. After all, Martial Mystique was always in demand. “The main reason these rumors are given such weight is that of the leaked tracks, there are a total of twenty-six tracks. However, most stories have thirty-five, or thirty-six, chambers of Shaolin. In addition, the guy who leaked them, a Pharmaceutical bigwig, was known for leading people on, being a smug little ass, and price-fixing critical medications. A real piece of work. So, it's fully possible there was another disc, with ten tracks, that nobody acknowledged, and he lied about the existence of to be a jack-ass.”

Fong stroked his beard, attempting to look thoughtful. “The reason your buyer believes such things, is that he may be of a sect tat teaches of the way of Wu Tang, or Wudang. Focus on a form of Tai Chi and pray to spirits of wealth and criminal debauchery—religion for and by runners, based in New York. And if our buyer is right, the relic matters. If our buyer is wrong, than it's a truly expensive paperweight. However, now you why I'm considered necessary.”

Jeeves nodded.

Hel took a puff of her electronic smoke and sighed. “New question: You didn't learn all this shit yesterday on a vision quest. Why the hell do you know so much about it?”

Fong smiled. “I'm well-read on weird martial traditions, even the ones I've never dealt with. Never know how's gonna be chasing me with a scimitar, Best to plan for it, though.”

Hel stared. “You normally got a drekking lie that ahlf-assed in your pocket, or is it a fire sale on bullshit today?”

Mr. Fong shrugged. “Yeah, I've dealt with the Wu before. If our buyer's with them, than it's a big deal. They talk about recovering it all the time.”

“Dealt with how?” Jeeves said, his tone pointed for the first time in this casual dining environment.

“Not important. That having been said, I'm not meeting your Johnson. I'm helping you get the goods, legit or not. If you want to use this info to up your price, that's on you. Personally, though, I want them to have it. If it's the real deal...well, that'll be far from dull, to say the least,” the elf mused, suddenly wincing.

Hel blinked. “You okay? Having a hard time keeping your weirdness down, Fong?”

“Nuclear fallout sauce...from wings...in eye...bathroom!” Mr. Fong bolted with the kind of speed usually reserved for mutant cyber-ninjas in bad Wuxia trideo releases. For a brief moment, he was like the wind. Then he was gone. Then a series of expletives in Mandarin were bellowed from the bathroom.

Jeeves nodded to Hel, opening a silent comm channel.

Your thoughts?

He's slick, but he wasn't lying, the Orc contributed. We keep him in. For now, at least.And if he screws us, we ventilate him.

Understood. Jeeves always was one for brevity. Polite, brief, clean—more like a surgeon than a runner.

The elf walked back, face slightly wetter, smiling warmly, his eyes closed. “Okay, so I'm sure you guys finished talking about me while I wasn't here. What's the verdict? Slot, Marry or Kill?”

Hel snickered again. “Hire. For now. And if you screw up, you have  to deal with whatever consequences happen.”

Mr. Fong grinned. “Threats and bribes, all at once? Be still my beating heart. Anyway, thanks for sticking around for the time being. Next time, we'll meet at a place of your convenience. How soon do we want to make our move on this?”

Jeeves nodded. Finally, business. “Tomorrow night.”

Mr. Fong nodded. “Good. Enough time to say my prayers and focus my chakras. Give me a tiem to met you tomorrow, and we'll run this little party. Until then, I've got a date with the moon,” Fong let out with a shrug. “Also, if we do any victory celebrations, you guys will buy. I'm not gonna have much until we get paid. Last couple of nu-yen went to my appetizer platter here.”

“How dire of straits were you in, Fong?” Jeeves seemed rather blunt. “Seems odd to gamble your last bit of cred on a job interview.”

Mr. Fong shrugged. “When you're as awesome as I am, you learn to throw all your chips on the table when it counts. And if you dislike that lie, I have others,” he said as he slowly rose from the table, folding his hands into his sleeves dramatically. “See you tomorrow. If you'll excuse me, I need to prepare to aid you.”

Hel shook her head, still smiling. “I can't tell if you're a fucking idiot or a damn genius, elf boy.”

Fong cocked his head to the side, the picture of innocence. “I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. But please, stick to Mr. Fong. Elf-boy sounds like some sort of jab at my metatype, when so many other things exist to be criticized,” he said with a wink. “Like my fashion sense, or inability to remember who I'm supposed to be flirting with,” he said with a laugh. “Okay, going for real now. See you tomorrow, bring your best weapons and schemes.”

Hel shrugged. “Does anything bother that guy? Buddha on a god-damned stick.”

Jeeves shook his head. “Maybe you should wait until we work with him a few times before you decide to use your winning personality, Hel.”

Hel shook her head. “And you'd know, Mr. walking stiff? Neither of us are people...people,” she said with a grunt. “Pretty-boy is, though. Might be nice to have someone working with us on the regular who's that friggin' chill under fire, if he isn't a total drekhead.”

Jeeves chuckled. “You almost sound like you like toying with him. Still, our operation could use a few more hands. We'll treat this as an audition, then,” the blonde man sighed, adjusting his glasses. “Even if he is just a fool, he might be useful.”

Outside, Mr. Fong kept walking. This could work. And if that box was actually holding the lost manual of the Wu-tang, then...well, that'd be worth exploring after they got their hands on it. Still, letting the Nu Wu get the manual would tips the scales in Manhattan, and that'd be a hell of a thing. But hey, the Wu weren't the worst people to take over the New York underworld, by any stretch. Hell, The Rotten Apple was so corporate, odds are the album would end up starting a whole new shadow-war over there. Mr. Fong smirked, looking up at the moon. “Huh. I think they actually liked me. That's nice. A new crew....would be nice.”

For now, it was time to rest, and prepare. Tomorrow night, would be a hell of a ride.