#vendor orchestration

[lexiecon-mp4]

some of my favorite details from Superman (2025) - spoilers below! 💙❤️

The opening using the "rule of threes" in a very literal sense through a comic-style opening was so cool

Almost all of Lex's crew being made up of disgraced nerds that he refused to listen to was very fitting

The random middle-aged dude who didn't immediately judge Superman from the "evil alien" headlines and let him watch the news from his phone was sweet :)

The Justice Gang's base being in a half-decorated lobby (likely a building Maxwell bought for them) is perfect

It looked like Lex wanted to name his half of Jarhanpur "Luthorania"??? So stupid and so him 😭

Also while his type isn't "tall, dark and martian" (yeah right) he does seem to be interested in "dumb blondes", which makes it all the funnier that the woman he mistreated helped to orchestrate his downfall; love you Eve <3

The Kents telling Lois how lovely it was to meet her when she arrived on their farm (even with Clark barely conscious) was so cute 🥹

Mister Terrific looked absolutely appalled when the technician asked him if he knew how to stop the rift from opening 😭 like girl do your job???

Lex seemingly showed some genuine care(?) for Angela just before she hit the ground with Supes, yelling at her to disengage since she didn't have any protection. A really small "blink-or-you'll-miss-it" moment of humanity from him.

Maxwell Lord immediately taking advantage of the situation in Jarhanpur, claiming that he's always hated Lex when his corporate superheroes definitely fought against Boravia without his permission

Jimmy smiling after Eve almost tackles him in a hug fully proves why women are so obsessed with him: he's a sweetheart through and through <3

The implication that Perry/Jimmy know Lois is dating Superman but has nothing going on with Clark is hilarious

Malik (falafel vendor) is named as the "Hero of Metropolis" on the front cover of The Daily Planet 🥹 I couldn't tell if Clark was the one who wrote the article, but regardless, it's beautiful that he made sure the man's story was told.

[witherby]

Everyone immediately folding to mouse is adorable

Omg mousey that’s so cute

Ooooo imagine everyone’s reactions if mouse gets bullied when they’re older

-🪼

That's an excellent thought experiment! Let's play around with that scenario!

What would everyone do if you were being bullied at school?

Featuring: a black eye, a concerned/angry Batfamily, a doting Justice League, and a kid who fucked around and is about to find out.

Alfred:

He's the information collector. He's calling the school. He's asking to see the footage from the incident that sent you home with a black eye. He's firing your body guard. He's reigning in your youngest brother so he won't storm the elementary school and start throwing down with every adult in sight. He's fetching the cold compress and extra blankets. He's prepping your favorite snacks. Anything you require, Flittermouse, you just need ask. Grandpa is livid, but he's also keeping everybody's lids from blowing.

Bruce:

He's walking right out of an important meeting (like, multi-billion with a B dollar investment type of meeting) and driving straight home to assess the damage. Daddy's here, let him see, tell him what happened, Mouse. Bruce stays home for the rest of the day with you, honestly kind of overdoing it with the fussing and babying, but his arms are so secure around you and his heartbeat in your ear is so steady, which you love. In the short bursts of time he lets you go, it's to call Commissioner Gordon to pursue charges against the school and the family of the kid that gave you a shiner. He doesn't need Batman for this; Daddy's got it handled.

Dick:

No worries allowed! No tears allowed! Big Bro Dicky is all smiles and distractions. When Bruce gets too suffocating, he's there to take over and take you someplace fun. You wanna hit up the playground? Done and done, hop in his car. You want ice cream from that one vendor downtown? Sure, get the biggest size and as many flavors as your tummy can fit. Bet that nasty bruise doesn't hurt as bad with all these cool distractions, huh? It's mind over matter, Flitty. You'll be okay, pinky promise.

Tim:

Your cool brother Tim's orchestrating the narrative. What do you want, Mouse? You want that kid expelled? He can do it, say the word. You want him just suspended for a couple days? Done. Easy work. Child's play. You want him to systematically ruin his and his parents' social standings among the Gotham Elite until their names are worth little more than the dirt under the boots of this city? Because he can do that, too. If you want. No biggie. Oh, you just want to be cuddled and marathon Bluey for a while? Hell yeah, M, settle in, we're using the theater room for this. He'll whisper cool facts about the show to you in between the credits while you share the popcorn.

Jason:

Your actually cool brother is gonna ruffle your hair and give you a pep talk about bullies, conflict resolution, and the best ways to handle a situation like this if it ever happens again. He's also gonna teach you how to throw the nastiest right hook anybody's ever seen. With the right technique you could fell a grown fuckin' man, Mousey. Just cause that's your nickname doesn't mean you have to have the matching demeanor. You're gonna come back from this with your chin up and, if need be, your fists clenched. You don't have to pick up the vigilante mantle to avoid becoming a victim. Maybe he'll... also buy you a stuffie and teach you how to milk your injury for extra goodies, whatever. All his tips and tricks don't need to be based in violence!

Damian:

Oh man. This boy's got no chill when it comes to you, for real. He's spent so many years being the baby of the family and that was never a title he wanted. Now here comes you, who used to be an actual, literal baby, growing up faster than anybody wants, and you've come home hurt? Give him the name of the pathetic whelp that dared lay a hand against you, Flit. He'll make them pay dearly. He's your big brother. He's your protector. He's come to love you like a blood sibling, and he won't stand for any injustice committed against you. Damian's hands are rated E for Everyone; he'll punch out a child without hesitation and make them wish they'd never even thought about touching you.

Of course, the Justice League is your family, too! They used to look forward to seeing Bruce bring you to the Watchtower in your little car seat and portable playpen. They come to all your birthday parties. They're your aunties and uncles through and through.

Hal:

Uncle Hal (who eventually becomes your step-dad Hal, or Papa) is sympathetic. He used to get into fights at school, too. His more down-to-earth advice for dealing with the problem — ironic, considering his intergalactic occupation — is really helpful. Sometimes you just need a comforting squeeze, a kiss on the forehead, and a classic everything will be A-okay, kiddo. You just gotta take life one step at a time and don't let it keep you down. 10/10 most reasonable and normal reaction to the whole thing, honestly.

Diana:

Y'know I think she's only slightly more chill about it than Damian. She's infuriated that any mere mortal would dare harm your previous head. She's trying to convince Bruce to grant her temporary custody so she can take you to Themyscira for intensive warrior training. She's offering to end the bloodline of the soul that caused you injury. She's commending your fortitude and the fact that a black eye isn't dissuading you from going back to school tomorrow. She will go to battle about it if you just ask.

Clark:

Baffled that children are this cruel. (<- This motherfucker was getting bullied way harder than you did when he was your age, but his invulnerability made it really easy to deal with and he just pretended to be hurt by his aggressors.) He's offering to fly you to the Kent family farm to hang out with the animals for a day in a nice, quiet environment. He's gonna give you a little pep talk like Hal did, but again, he's invulnerable, so it's going to sound disingenuous coming from Uncle Clark. It's the thought that counts, though. Thanks man.

Long story short: you're getting bullied and injured. It's blown just a little out of proportion, but you feel no less loved for it, and you can rest assured that it won't happen again.

[milswrites]

Can I have this dance?

~ Azriel X Fem!Reader

Summary: Lovingly trapped in a moment on a roof in the Rainbow, you and Azriel take advantage of the little time you get alone, enjoying your evening together until dawn makes her appearance.

Warnings: Just cuteness!

Notes: Don’t know why this made me feel homesick for a place that isn’t real. (I definitely didn’t base this off the song from High School Musical 3 👀🫣)

Life couldn’t get any better than this. You had just shared in the most magical evening with Azriel. The delectable meal at his favourite restaurant , secretly hidden down one of the narrow, twisting streets of the illuminated city. The blissful walk along the Sidra, hands entwined and swinging between you as you spoke about everything and nothing all at once. Then finally to end your evening the perfect view of the rainbow, enjoyed only by you and the shadowsinger, hiding away on the roof of Feyre’s studio, not yet wanting the most wonderful of nights to come to an end.

So here you were, sat together on a blanket Azriel had materialised from his shadows, your head resting against his shoulder as you admired the scene. Eyes closed softly as you appreciated the humid kiss of the evening breeze against your cheeks, ears perked as you listened to the bustling streets below. Friends laughing with friends as they crawl out from the rustic bars, ready for an exciting night ahead in the clubs of Velaris. Artists calling out enticingly, attempting to squeeze in a few more sales from the interested public before they packed up for the night. Velaris was a city full of life. The rising of the moon, and the dotting of twinkling stars appearing in the inky sky, called its people from their homes like a sirens song.

You and Azriel had always been wallflowers, preferring to sit back and absorb the moments you were in. So being here, sat only with each other for company on the silent roof, heightened senses taking in the sights, smells and sounds from the streets below, was your idea of heaven. You mainly sat in comforting silence, though Azriel occasionally released a low rumbling laugh from his chest, pointing out a poor fae who had drank a little too much and was struggling as they stumbled wildly down the cobbled streets. Or you would gasp in adoration each time a dog ran by, tongue hanging out as its tail wagged happily. You were watchers and this was the perfect place to observe.

Hypnotised, you were unsure just how long you had been sat there entwined together, the night sky being your only guide as to what the time was, hundreds of stars now shining in the night sky. The vendors had all taken their leave, wheeling their lightened carts away as their places were taken by musicians and performers seeking to make a few coins and share their passion with the keen citizens of Velaris, who were all too willing to stop and watch as if they had all the time in the world.

Which it felt like you did, you and Azriel sat here on the roof trapped in your little moment with no concept of time. It was almost as if you were merely figures in a painting. Too enticed by the transfixing tug of the city that was Velaris. The only thing that could ruin your enjoyment would be the rude interruption of dawn breaking, and so until then you would absorb this picture in its entirety.

The wind carried a melodic tune from the streets which you overlooked. The airy whistling of a flute accompanied by the harmonic pull of a harps strings. It was the type of music you liked to imagine the gods would listen to, the skilled musicians drawing all kinds of emotions from you through their beautiful symphony.

Azriel, who had always been appreciative of good music, softly hummed along to the tune, his voice beautifully harmonising with the notes from the instruments below. Captivated, the song made you sway softly, continuously brushing against the shadowsinger’s shoulder as you did so.

Gleeful giggles joined the orchestration, you could almost feel the vibrations of the joyful sounds as the wind gently blew them towards you. Curious, you moved from your comfortable position to lean over the edge. Still humming contentedly, Azriel absentmindedly shot out a reassuring arm to hold onto your own, ensuring that you wouldn’t topple over the ledge, interrupting the magic that was being produced below.

You peered over, merriness filling your eyes as you watched couples, both young and old, joined together in an enchanting dance. Arms embracing their lovers as they swayed to the mesmerising tune.

You squealed at the sight, hopping excitedly to your feet as you wanted nothing more than to do the same, Azriel lurching forwards in fear at your sudden movement. The male stilled as he saw you were alright, eyes glancing in confusion to the open hand you were holding out for him to take.

You chuckled at his furrowed brows marring his handsome face, his thoughts still lost to hypnotising rhythm of the music. “Dance with me” you grinned, waving your arm about energetically as impatience flooded your system, wanting to start the dance before the melody came to an end.

A matching smile crossed his face as he placed his hand in yours, “I’m not much of a dancer” he nervously mumbled, afraid to disappoint you with his skills, or lack thereof. Mustering all the strength you could you pulled the male up from the floor, “it doesn’t matter Az, all that matters is you, this. Right now.”

You raise your entwined hands just as you saw the elder couples doing below, resting your head on Azriel’s chest as you wrapped your other arm round his muscular back, the male following suit and doing the same to you.

Taking the lead you began to sway in time with the tune, taking small steps which Azriel copied, his eyes locked onto your feet to ensure he didn’t step on them. Briefly, you removed your hand from his back just to take him by the chin and move his face to meet yours before returning it to its original position, his golden-amber eyes which were fogged by lust meeting your own.

Gaining confidence as his eyes bore into yours, Azriel began to guide you, steps widening as the two of you began to move around the roof, spinning together in broad circles, allowing the moment to take over and let your bodies do all the work. He raised your joined hands, allowing you to twirl under his arm, being mindful not to bump into his wings which were slightly curled around you both in your embrace.

You moved fluidly, two shadows dancing together under the moonlight, the powerful music controlling your movement. It was an elegant mess of unplanned yet coordinated spins and dips, Azriel doing whatever felt right at the time, allowing his instincts to work for him. He drew you into a deep dip, your back arching over his supportive arm as he did so before lifting you back up and spinning you in a circle once more, pulling you close to his chest after you were steadied on your feet.

Beginning to run out of moves, both your arms drifted up his body until they locked around his neck, his own hands coming to rest at your waist. You resumed the gentle swaying, head pressed against him feeling the vibrations in his chest as he once again began to hum the melody as you moved.

You continued this dance until the music began to fade, still making the small steps even after the last note rang out through the wind, too enthralled by this perfect little scene shared between you. Enjoying the rare time you get alone when you are both off work and aren’t joined by your family - as much as you loved them.

And so the dance didn’t end with the song. The sound of your steady steps against the roof echoed until dawn finally made its appearance. The two of you still tangled in your enveloping embrace until the sun had long since risen. Allowing your perfect night to carry through into a beautiful new day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: literally had this idea and wrote it in an hour as I was just too excited

[fratboykate]

BGAU - Do they have any the moment that scars or changes them forever? Somethign that's so big they hardly even talk about if ever? Or is that what the day in the trailer with Eli is? You don't have to have something. Just curious.

Listen...LISTEN TO ME...I'm giving you a clear heads up. If you're a baby or sensitive in any way...just don't read this. I've been warning you for two days. If you read it and get all messed up, that's on you. I've told you it's a heavy chapter multiple times now. Proceed at your own risk. Anyway, here's almost 10k of likely the worst day of their lives. If not outright worst, it's definitely at least Top 3 lol.

---

It’s nearing the end of summer. The day starts like any other show day. No one could’ve imagined how the rest of it was going to go.

The air is syrupy and humid even as the sun dips behind the hills.

They’re somewhere in Europe. Kate always loses track of the cities a few weeks into a tour. It's a sprawling outdoor music festival. Farmland turned fever dream. Ten stages. Six beer gardens. Sold out five months ago. Two hundred thousand people scattered throughout the grounds. A ruined castle on the horizon. The scent of grass, sweat, and vape smoke curled into the August heat.

The crowd is electric. The sea of people stretches half a mile in every direction. A hundred thousand packed tight and rolling like thunder. It’s the final night. This is a prime slot. They’re all here for the headliner. And that’s Kate Bishop.

The set she planned for tonight is perfect.

The golden light of the sun bleeds into the violet of her stage design. The band’s behind her. The dancers surround her. Screens lit in deep jewel tones. Kate’s locked in. Mic stand in one hand, the other mid-sweep just as she hits the bridge of the monster single. The one that put this album atop every Billboard chart for fourteen weeks straight. Her voice sails clean. The wind catches the chorus like a spell. Clamorous. Joyful. Unholy. She sings. The crowd chants every lyric like scripture. Thousands of them. One voice.

Heat drips down Kate’s back as she nails every step of the choreography. Hair stuck to her neck. Glitter streaks through her sweat. Bass rattles her ribcage like a second heart.

BOOM!

Muffled. Distant. She doesn’t hear it, not fully. Her in-ears dull the worst of it. It’s probably pyrotechnics from one of the other stages. Or a mistimed cue. Tech error. It’s happened before. But the sound doesn’t crack right. The heat that follows isn’t orchestrated.

Then the ripple. A section of the crowd shifts like birds lifting off wire.

The second blast hits. Closer. A fireball blooms near the vendor stalls. Smoke. Screams. Panic like a tear ripping fabric.

The stage shudders beneath her feet. Sound becomes pressure. Not a noise…an impact. A rupture.

Everything breaks at once.

One second: lights, bass, electricity, camaraderie. Then: Fire. Impact. Mayhem. A mass of people cleaved open.

Her diaphragm locks. Spotlights blind her. She can’t really see past them, just…a flurry of movement. Barricades, exits, figures scattering. No audio. Her earpiece fizzes, dies.

The roar hits next. Screaming, all at once. She sees the crowd fracture. A hundred thousand people becoming panicked animals.

Then the third explosion rips through. The closest one yet.

Kate flinches. Reels. The crack splits the sound system and slams the crowd. Fences buckle. Plastic cups fly. Dividers collapse under the press of bodies. People running, climbing, screaming.

Techs yell into radios. From the tower: “Cut audio! Kill the lights!”

Kate doesn’t move. Not until one thought slices through everything else. Yelena. Then Ellie.

She whips hard. Stage left. That’s where they’d been. Twenty feet. Maybe thirty. Not right at the barrier, but close enough for Ellie to see Mommy when she waved at her. That’s all Kate remembers.

A hand yanks her shoulder. Drags her back.

Security. One of hers. One of Yelena’s. She rips free.

“Where is she?!” she shouts.

No one answers. They’re fully focused on moving her.

Behind the curtain…chaos. Lights strobe. Crew scramble. Lights half-rigged. Carts overturned. A camera on the ground, lens cracked, still recording. A haze in the air, thick with vapor and floodlight dust.

“Where is she?!”

No one even looks her in the eye.

More hands. More arms. Guiding her. Steering her. Pushing her toward protocol, away from risk. Kate shrugs them off. Shoves back. Tries to break their grip. They won’t let her.

“Yelena!”

She claws forward. A sharp elbow. A twist. One of them yanks her again. She whips around, fists clenched.

“Where the fuck is my wife?!”

//

They’re in Spain. Some open-air hullabaloo south of Valencia. Hundreds of thousands. Endless fields. No real perimeter.

Kate’s headlining. Not her event. Just another stop on the tour. But she’s the closer, the marquee name, the act they built the final night around. Her name. Her stage. Her crowd.

Yelena hates the venue. Not because it’s actively dangerous. It’s just…loose. Too many moving parts. A patchwork of third-party contractors, underpaid security, overworked logistics managers. Local enforcement, scattered at best. Her own team woven into larger logistics wherever she could squeeze them, but not enough. Never enough. Not for this size. Not for this layout. Not when she can’t run full control.

The infrastructure’s passable. But passable isn’t good enough for Yelena. Not on foreign soil. Not with her family here.

So she walked it. Twice. Then again. Ground sweeps. Tactical audits. She scouted every entrance, exit, fence, scaffold, staging lane. Logged every choke point. Clocked EMT stations. Noted tower elevations. Confirmed load-bearing tolerances on the ramp Kate would walk. It’s her standard process. But this one took longer. This one had to be cleaner.

Because this time, she wasn’t just protecting Kate.

One year old Ellie was strapped to her chest for half of it. Plump legs swinging. Sunhat drooping sideways. Juice mustache gluey across her upper lip. She waved at every staff member she laid eyes on like it was her job. Yelena moved with twenty-five pounds of fragile, wriggling consequence tethered to her sternum and never once broke stride.

It was supposed to be routine. Exhaustive. Annoying. Not perfect…but secure.

Even Yelena didn’t see it coming.

By showtime, she’s as calm as she ever gets. Earpiece in. Eyes scanning. One hand on the baby wearing noise-cancelling headphones attached to her chest, the other tries to keep the tiny sticky fist tangled in her braid from ripping the whole thing off her scalp. The two blondes are just left of the stage, nestled at the edge of VIP. Exactly thirty seven feet from Kate. Close enough for Ellie to wave, and for her to see Kate wave back.

The one-year-old loves to flap her chubby hands every time the crowd screams. She's used to the sound. The pulse. The vibration of her mama’s voice shaking stadium walls.

Kate’s half an hour into the set. In her element. Hair wild, violet mic like a scepter in her grip. She’s drenched in light and power and sound. And she’s never looked more like a goddamn rockstar.

Then it happens.

First…pressure. A compression. Like the oxygen getting sucked out of their surroundings.

Then the boom.

East side. Food tents. Yelena knows exactly where because she knows the layout by heart. The fence line. Her head jerks toward it. Her body doesn’t jolt…it locks. Muscles tight. That old coil of instinct kicking in. Mind sharper than it’s been in years.

The LED panels behind Kate ripple. The crowd jolts…a visible swell. A beast made of bodies twitching all at once.

The crackle in her ear starts immediately. Static. Then overlapping voices. Too many, all layered. Different accents. Cluttered panic.

Two of her guys sprint toward the blast point. A third meets her eyes from across the tent. Doesn’t speak. Just nods. He felt it too.

Yelena hears the sound a second later. Louder this time. More real. Screams start to layer over the music. The pressure breaks. Intuition floods her.

Chatter keeps clogging the comms. Yelena catches a snippet.

“Confirm blast?”

“Was that pyro?”

“Negative. Not planned. NOT PLANNED.”

Yelena doesn’t think. She doesn’t speak. She runs. Straight for the stage. For Kate.

But mid-stride…she stops. Because Ellie shifts against her. Her weight suddenly heavier. Present. Vulnerable. The baby whimpers.

Yelena looks up. Kate is halfway across the stage. Still caught in the spotlight. Mid-note. Mid-breath. Frozen in the wash of a set that no longer matters.

Then the second blast hits.

Closer. Hot. Loud. A tremor up her legs. Kate disappears behind a plume of dust and debris.

In the space of a heartbeat, Yelena does the math. No path. No cover. No guarantee she can reach Kate without putting Ellie in direct danger. She could die trying. They all could. Kate is exposed. But Ellie is breakable.

Yelena makes the call. She turns. Doesn’t second-guess. She runs. Not to Kate. Not this time. For the first time in her life…she runs away. With her daughter in her arms.

She hits the barricade like a weapon. Barreling through it with her shoulder down. Ellie crushed to her chest. The baby cries out, startled, then louder. Her limbs kick. She writhes in confusion. Yelena adjusts the strap, forcing them closer. Covers her head.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.” Her voice is steel.

She ducks behind scaffolding. Follows the passage she mapped twelve hours ago. Every step pre-loaded. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t turn back.

She’s not just Yelena Belova now. She’s Ellie’s mother. And that changes everything.

Her grip on the baby carrier tightens. One arm cradling Ellie’s back, the other shoving bodies aside. Moving like a freight train. Controlled violence. Targeted speed. No wasted motion.

Crowds flood past her. Stampeding. Hollering. Falling. Rubble rains down from above. Tent poles snap. Plastic panels collapse. A lighting rig crashes behind her.

Yelena doesn’t even blink.

“North gate,” she shouts into her comm. “Pick-up. Move.”

She clips a barrier. Shoves through a gear cart. Vaults a waist-high fence.

Ellie is sobbing now. Loud, desperate. Her fists hammer Yelena’s collarbone. Yelena presses the infant firmly to her chest.

The third explosion hits. Behind her. Too close.

It rocks the scaffolding. Sends a thundercrack through the concrete. The heat punches the back of her legs. She doesn’t slow. A tent collapses behind her. Someone screams for help. A speaker sparks. The crowd ripple turns tidal.

She keeps going. Refuses to look back. Can’t. Because if she does, she might stop. And if she stops, they might die.

//

Three hulking men close in around Kate. Not panicked. Trained. Precise. They form a wall, muscle and momentum, shoving her through narrow back corridors as bodies whizz past them. Their arms lock like titanium on either side of her, absorbing the disarray. Debris clatters past. Hoots pierce the air. Bent metal buckles under pressure.

Kate spins out of their grip.

“No! Yelena!”

She tries to double back. Thrashing. The sound around her has twisted into something monstrous. Sirens layered over shrieks layered over the endless thud of running feet and screaming radios.

And No Ellie. No Yelena.

Kate slips on mud or beer or blood. Her boots skid. Her hands scrape against a folding barricade. She barely registers the sting. Mostly because they keep her moving.

A hand grabs her. Wrenches her toward the access ramp. Kate fights it.

“YELENA!”

“We have to get you out!”

“WE HAVE TO FIND HER!”

Another blast rips through the air. Kate drops. Not from a direct impact…just the force of it. The wave alone is strong enough to knock her off her feet. Her knees slam into concrete. Heat washes over her back. Her vision whites out.

The world goes blurry. Hands drag her up again.

She can’t breathe. Can’t think. Her brain is a reel of carnage, her daughter’s face, and Yelena’s voice tangled in knots. Every new noise triggers a fresh horror she can’t shut off. Every second she doesn’t see them is a second they might be gone.

//

“At transpo in one. It better be there.” Yelena barks into comms.

Her earpiece shrieks, screeches interference. Yelena winces and yanks it out. It falls somewhere behind her. She doesn’t care.

Her world has narrowed to what’s in her arms. Her mission, her reason. Everything else is now outside the parameters of what’s relevant.

Bodies slam into each other around her. Someone gets trampled. Tents collapse. A booth is ablaze. This alley reeks of perspiration, panic, and definitely some vomit. A megaphone blares orders no one hears.

Then another blast. Not huge. But not far.

Yelena picks up speed. She adjusts Ellie with one arm, cuts left at the satellite tower. Vaults a half-fallen service fence. The baby’s hollering rises to a fever pitch. Hot, hysterical, primal.

Yelena forces her breath to stay even. Her grip to remain unshakeable.

Ellie’s cries break into hiccups. She curls into Yelena’s collarbone like she knows, deep in her bones, what matters. Mama will keep me safe.

Yelena barrels through a twisted platform. Boots skid across broken gear. She shoulders a lighting tech clean out of her path. Her thigh slams into a rolling case. Pain doesn’t register. Only velocity.

Checkpoint one: deserted. Checkpoint two: jammed. She scales the gate.

A man blocks her path.

“Back!” She screams in his face. Doesn’t wait. Doesn’t listen. Slams through him like a wrecking ball. He’s still staggering when she’s ten yards away.

One of her men appears near the trailer alley. Reaches for her. Tries to reroute her.

“No! Kate. Get her.” Yelena growls.

“You’re not…”

“GET. HER.”

He vanishes. That’s all she requires.

Ellie is trembling. Soaked. Screaming. But whole.

The third gate holds.

Her people are there. Her best. They recognize her in an instant. The barricade swings open. She tears through.

Ahead: The van. Running. Driver ready. Waiting, just like she ordered. She prepped it herself this morning. Stocked it with extra blankets, juice, backup chargers. Stuffies, diapers, a fresh change of clothes for Ellie. Packed with everything they could possibly need throughout the day. Anything except a single item that could undo this.

Yelena dives in like a warhead.

Hits the floor. Knees first. Breath ragged. But her hands don’t stop moving. One unclips the baby carrier, the other cradles Ellie’s head. Yelena’s lungs burn. Her whole body vibrates like a live wire.

“Drive. Now.”

“But Kate…”

“DRIVE.”

One of her guys jumps into the passenger seat. Locks the doors. The van jerks into motion.

Yelena pulls Ellie into her lap. Snot runs down her chin. Her little fingers latch to Yelena’s vest.

Sirens behind them. Dust in the rearview. Screams cutting through the steam. A thunderous clatter behind them…another detonation, or just something collapsing.

“Anyone have eyes on Kate?”

“Unconfirmed. Half the comms are down.”

Yelena kisses her daughter’s head. Whispers:

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

And under it all, something breaks loose. Not fear. Not wrath. Something bigger. She’s not just the weapon anymore. Not the bodyguard. Not just the soldier or the wife.

She’s this baby’s entire world. And everything else is secondary.

Nothing will ever matter more than this moment. Than this child. Than getting her out. And it means, without even realizing it, she let Kate go.

//

“Where is she? Where the fuck is my wife?!”

No one can answer.

Concrete slaps underfoot. Her boots whack hard. Her vision swims. She’s yelling. She thinks she’s yelling.

She can’t hear over the deafening rumble outside. Metal crashing. People screaming. Someone walks by, dazed, blood down their shirt.

Kate’s mind loops. Rewinds. Replays.

Yelena hated the idea from the start. Not the tour. Not her show. But THIS venue. This setup. The risk. The crowd size. The fragility of the infrastructure.

“Too many people. Too many variables.” Yelena had warned. And she was right.

Yelena said no. HARD NO. A dozen times. No to bringing Ellie. No to trusting the local contractors. No to half a dozen things Kate insisted would be fine.

Kate argued. Pushed. Pleaded. It’s just one more show in one more city. Ellie had been at every other stop, this one should be no different. The largest crowd. The capstone of her biggest tour yet. Ellie’s first full tour…why not this one?

And Yelena, despite every instinct screaming, made it work. She always does. She doubled the detail. Took on ops herself. She built redundancies on top of redundancies. Posted two agents to every side of the stage. Posted more in all four corners of the talent areas. She checked every barricade thrice, then again.

Yelena studied every inch of that venue. But she couldn’t have possibly planned for this.

Last time Kate remembers seeing her was during soundcheck. Ellie strapped to her, as usual. Sunglasses. Earpiece. Leading a security meeting just off the stage. A quiet command in her posture. All while gently caressing Ellie’s toes. Doing four things at once and still catching Kate’s smile across the stage.

Yelena smiled back. Tangible. Enduring. Untouchable.

Things got hectic after that. Press. Glam. Photos and videos for content. People hauling her in a million directions. She didn’t see them again. And now? Now she doesn’t know where they are.

For the first time since she held newborn Ellie thirteen months ago, Kate can’t feel her anywhere. Not a presence. Not a signal. Not a pull in her chest. She doesn't know if they’re gone. And that’s what’s killing her.

//

Yelena’s driver peels off from the artist lot, barreling toward the outer gates. Past the wreckage…splintered barricades, crumpled fencing, smoke rising over the floodlights. Away from the butchery. Away from the roar. Away from the woman Yelena would die for.

Yelena doesn’t look back.

She folds her body over Ellie, seals her in her arms, curls protectively around the carrier as the van hurtles through unpaved roads. The baby is slick with sweat, mouth open in a distraught cry.

Only once they clear the last choke point…three turns out, past the oncoming ambulances, past the barricaded entry, past the smoke still blooming…do Yelena’s hands start to flutter.

Only then does she realize what she’s done. Only then does the weight hit.

She left Kate behind.

She doesn’t know if Kate is alive. Doesn’t know if she’s hit. If the second blast got her. If she made it to cover. If the third was worse. Yelena just left. She picked Ellie. Made her the tactical priority.

She hadn’t hesitated. Not for a second. And now the remorse starts to crawl up her body. The shame. The unspeakable gravity of a decision made without pause. A decision she would make again.

That doesn’t make it easier.

Behind her, a black plume drowns the sky. Behind her, somewhere in the chaos, Kate.

“Exit’s blocked. Crowd’s jamming the east corridor.” The driver declares.

“Redirect. Freight route. Circle behind the staging lot.” Yelena’s voice cuts through. Steady. Cold.

“I don’t think it’s clear…”

“It will be.”

Then the final blast cracks across the sky. Far. But massive enough to rattle the van on its wheels. Ellie shrills, petrified.

Yelena yanks a fleece blanket from the emergency bag and wraps it over them both like armor. Her hand pinches Ellie’s head to her chest.

“Faster,” she orders the driver.

He obeys.

//

Bodies careen past Kate. The tunnels behind the stage are hell. Tech carts overturned. Lighting rigs half-collapsed. Cases shattered open. Makeup kits, cords, bottles skittering across concrete. Her mouth tastes like charred plastic.

Another blast rips through the far side of the venue. Fireballs explode behind scaffolding.

“I need my phone!” Kate’s voice shreds against the noise. “WHO HAS MY FUCKING PHONE?!”

They just keep pulling her. Shoulders. Arms. Waist. She doesn’t know who’s touching her anymore. Doesn’t care. Her legs are jiggling. Her throat stings.

“Where’s Yelena?!”

The tallest of the men plows a gear cart out of their way. Nothing will stop them from getting Kate out.

One of the men grabs a hoodie from a crate and shoves it into Kate’s arms. Could be to protect her. Could be that he simply thinks having anything to hang on to, anything more than skin could be tactically advantageous.

Kate doesn’t remember putting it on. Doesn’t remember zipping it. Her brain is still lit up with the lights. Her brain is still on that stage. Still enveloped in smoke. Still stuck in that half-second when she realized she couldn’t see her love. Or her baby.

She keeps moving anyway. Half-blind. Mouth open. Veins electrified. Because she has to find them.

“GET. ME. TO. HER.”

//

The van isn’t far. A mile. Maybe. The road is bedlam. Festival traffic, talent evacs, emergency convoys streaming in from every direction.

Yelena finally sinks into the seat.

Blanket still wrapped around them. Ellie’s whines haven’t let up. They’ve only changed. Sharper now. Rawer. Those horrid, wet, glottal sobs that twist in your gut. Her whole body is red. Tiny fingers claw at Yelena’s braid.

Yelena cups her cheeks. Presses a kiss to her sweaty temple.

“You’re okay,” she whispers in Russian. “You’re okay.”

Ellie coughs. Gasps. Cries harder.

Yelena rocks her. Tighter. Steadier. She starts to hum. A half-remembered Russian lullaby from a lifetime ago. Her hands don’t stop moving. Stroking Ellie’s back. Brushing hair from her cheeks. Mechanical. Automatic.

Her face doesn’t show panic. But it’s there. Crawling under her skin like a fever.

Once they clear the last checkpoint…once she’s sure they’re outside the blast radius…her mind drifts to Kate.

She sees her. Exactly as she was under the lights. Purple mic in hand. Hair a mess. Skin dewy with sweat and glitter. That smile still half-cocked mid-song. And then…Gone.

Yelena sees the exact second she turned away. The second she made the call. Didn’t run to her. Didn’t shield her. Didn’t scream her name.

Kate’s alive. She has to be.

//

The smoke thins the farther they get. But Kate still can’t breathe.

Her knees won’t stop faltering. Her skin feels wrong on her own body. Her voice is toast. All she can hear is the echo of Ellie’s laugh from earlier that day. Her lullaby toy in the greenroom. Her stuffed flamingo. The way Yelena looked in front of the mirror braiding her hair anew after Ellie had made a mess of it. The way Ellie always curled her fist in it, tight and sure.

Kate can’t stop seeing that. That hand. That face.

They shove her into a waiting SUV. Her assistant’s already inside, curled in the corner, mascara smudged, sobbing into her sleeve.

“Where is she?” Kate croaks. “Where the fuck is she? She has Ellie.”

The assistant shakes her head. Speechless. Can’t form the words.

“My phone. Do you have it?” Kate leans in. Grits her teeth.

A frantic nod. The assistant fumbles. Rifles through her bag. Produces it with quivering fingers.

Kate snatches it. Dials before the screen lights. Nothing.

She texts. Once. Twice. No reply.

She doesn’t know if they’re safe. Doesn’t know anything. Doesn’t know if she’ll ever hear their voices again.

Another bang breaks the silence. Not a bomb. Maybe scaffolding. Something collapsing. Metal. Hefty. Loud enough to send her flinching into the door.

Kate stares out the window. Blue strobes. People running in every direction. Sirens. A child sobbing in his father’s arms as they weave through an alley of toppled speakers. Kate’s chest fissures open.

Her assistant murmurs something about the press. About headlines. “Coordinated attack.” “Contagion of fear.” Twitter’s already losing its mind. Kate doesn’t hear it.

She rips her in-ears from her skull and hurls them into the footwell. Her pulse pounds like war drums.

The driver mutters about roadblocks. The men around her start listing alternate routes. Debating escape plans.

None of it matters. Kate stares at her phone like it owes her an answer.

“Stop worrying”, she’d told Yelena that morning. “It’ll be fine,” she insisted.

Kate wants to scream. She doesn’t. She dry-heaves into her hand instead. Then types.

pls say she’s ok say ur ok

Still. Nothing.

The fields blur outside her window. Fog. Lights. A cacophony of car alarms. The whole world roars past her.

Kate shuts her eyes. Tells herself not to cry. Fails.

//

Yelena looks down.

Ellie’s tiny body wracked with sobs. Snot and tears drench her face. Her little fingers clamp the blanket.

Then something inside Yelena snaps. A wire pulled too tight, finally severing. A guttural panic clawing up her esophagus.

She slams her fist against the back of the driver’s seat. Hard. Once. Twice.

“Stop.”

“Ma’am?”

“STOP THE FUCKING CAR.”

The brakes screech. Tires skid against dirt. The van lurches to a halt so hard Yelena’s shoulder slams the window. Ellie’s wail doesn’t pause.

Yelena yanks the door open. Climbs halfway out before her brain catches up with her body. In the motion, her phone slips out of her back pocket. Hits the floor. She doesn’t notice.

Yelena reaches into the passenger seat. Hands Ellie off to the man sitting there. No vacillation. No explanation.

He freezes, pales. The baby’s still shrieking.

“She’s…”

“Get her out.” Yelena’s voice is a knife.

The man stares at her, disconcerted. The baby kicks. Cries harder. Arms flailing, trying to grab hold of her mother’s braid.

“Mama!”

Yelena bites down on a sob. Presses a kiss to her forehead. Her hands linger on her daughter’s cheeks like a goodbye. Ellie screams. Reaches out for her.

“I’ll see you in a bit, okay?” Her voice almost breaks. Almost. She locks eyes with the driver. “Don’t stop for anything.” She turns to the man trying to keep Ellie in his grasp. “Lock the hotel down.”

Yelena slams the door before she can change her mind. She turns. Doesn’t dare look at the car.

Behind her: the van peels out. Ellie’s screams echo through the windows. Tiny hands banging the glass. Then she’s gone.

Yelena moves. Alone. Back into the fire. Back to the stage. Back to Kate.

//

The city is gridlocked. It smells like burnt plastic and death. Phones are jammed. Every call fails. Every text feels like screaming into a canyon.

It takes Kate over an hour to get to the hotel. She doesn’t wait for the car to stop. She throws the door open before the brake engages, soles hitting pavement like lightning.

Security swarms.

One on the sidewalk. Two in the lobby. Another meets her at the elevator. Ashen, silent. Just taps the keycard and steps aside.

The suite door is already cracked open.

Kate’s voice is deeper. Her throat scratchy. Her hands clammy. Her clothes stink of smoke and dread. Her socks are doused with sweat. Her pulse is a drumbeat she can’t slow down.

She steps inside…and stops breathing.

The room is full. Her people. The inner circle. The ones she built this machine with. Her choreographer. Her stylist. Her makeup artist. Her tour manager. The vocal coach who taught her how to keep singing through bronchitis. Every one of them there. And all of them are gathered around one small figure in the middle of the room.

Ellie.

Wrapped in a clean set of pajamas, damp curls tucked behind her ears. She’s sat on the couch. Face flushed. Hands balled in a stuffie’s fur. Eyes still bloodshot, but not crying anymore. Thanks to these people.

They surround Ellie. Try to distract her. Try to make her laugh.

Kate makes a sound she’s never made in her life. Not on stage. Not on set. Not in labor. A sound that’s closer to agony than breath.

She drops to her knees. Crawls the last two steps. Pulls Ellie into her lap like gravity demands it.

She sobs into her hair. Tears spilling mute and desperate. Kate holds her like she’ll evaporate if she doesn’t squeeze hard enough. Her body convulses. Her hands move like she’s dreaming. She rocks Ellie, clutches her too tight, murmuring nothings into her ear.

It takes several moments before Kate can lift her head. And when she does…she notes it. The glaring absence. The shape in the room that should be filled with a body, a voice, a presence she knows like her own.

Kate’s chest hollows.

“Where’s Yelena?” Silence. Everyone looks at each other. No one speaks. Kate’s voice sharpens. “Where is she?”

It’s her tour manager who finally answers. Quiet. Terrified.

“She’s not here.”

“What?” Kate doesn’t understand.

“She…she got out of the car. She went back. To the venue.”

“No.” Kate’s already standing. Ellie still in her arms. “No, no, no. What the fuck do you mean she went back?!”

“She just…”

“WHO LET HER GO BACK?!”

Her voice cracks the room in half. No one breathes.

“Kate, she…”

“You let her…”

Kate staggers. Knees almost give. Ellie jerks in her arms, startled by the movement. Someone reaches to steady her.

Kate shakes them off. She bends her face to Ellie’s again. Kisses her forehead. Once. Twice. Her fingers constrict the baby’s back.

“Find her.” she lowers her voice to a whisper.

No one says anything. Kate doesn’t repeat herself. She holds her daughter. Arms locked. Face pale. Shoulders shaking.

And she waits. Waits. Waits.

//

Yelena hits the ground running. Literally.

Boots slam into cracked asphalt as the van peels away behind her. The wind tastes like copper and crud. Dust clogs her throat. Sirens shriek in her ears. Her airway strangles. Her daughter’s screams still ring in her bones.

But she doesn’t look back. She moves toward the nightmare with a singular directive pounding in her chest: Get To Kate.

There’s no time to think about the baby she just handed off. No time to picture Ellie weeping the second the door slammed. No time to picture Kate’s face. No time for anything but putting one foot in front of the other.

Every instinct in her shouts to double back, to run after that vehicle, to grab her daughter and never let go. But her brain, what’s left of it, overrides everything. She’s not even sure Kate’s still at the venue. Not sure if she should go back. But she’s not leaving until she has confirmation.

She needs to have certainty that Kate is not back there. That her team got her out. If they made it. For all Yelena knows, every man could be injured. Dead. Maybe Kate’s alone. Maybe unconscious. Maybe fucking gone. She has to be sure.

She sprints all the way to the gated perimeter. Her legs don’t feel like her own. She’s running on instinct. On fury. On fear.

She cuts right across a row of toppled porta-potties. Slips through a shattered gate. Her body’s moving like it was trained to. But this isn’t combat instinct anymore. It’s primordial.

When she ducks under a barricade a white-hot stab of pain flares in her head. She reaches up. Her temple’s bleeding. She doesn’t remember that happening. Something must’ve hit her as she tried to get Ellie out. Unimportant.

Survivors spill out through broken fencing like water from a cracked pipe. The atmosphere reeks of fuel and panic. The smoke is worse now. Acrid and chemical. Her lungs seize on every breath. She powers through. Cuts across another one of the several exit routes she’d mindlessly rough sketched on a napkin.

She sees the blood first. Spreading across the pavement. Wet. Fresh. She follows it with her eyes and sees a man. Mid thirties. Pinned under a stack of sound equipment. Bleeding through torn denim. A woman sits beside him, shakes him, pleads in a language Yelena doesn’t speak.

Yelena keeps moving. One look at him and she knows there’s nothing she can do for him. Nothing anyone can.

Once she breaches the Talent Only zone she starts yelling.

“KATE!…KATE!”

Yelena’s eyes land on the trailer with Kate’s name on it. She dashes over. Bursts inside.

It’s intact. Just as she remembers seeing it last. Kate’s favorite purse. The yellow dinosaur plushie Ellie adores. The comfy outfit Kate had planned to change into post-show still hangs from the hook. It’s all untouched. Kate never made it back here.

Yelena’s stomach drops. Her eyes scan the room. She hastily grabs Kate’s bag, chucks the dinosaur into it, and runs back out.

“KATE!”

Yelena pivots, scanning in all directions. Deciding where to go next.

People cry. Bodies drag. Fire flickers in the distance.

Then…a scream. Puny. Hysterical.

A child. Ten, maybe. Red streaks across her head and face. One arm dangling off, only stuck to her by a few bits of skin. She’s curled into herself, knees tucked to her torso. Alone. She’s wearing Kate’s merch. Now dirty and ripped. But Kate’s name is unmistakeably stamped across her chest nonetheless.

Yelena doesn’t dither. She rushes in, crouches in front of her. Loops the kid’s good arm over her own neck.

“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?”

The girl responds in another language. One Yelena doesn’t recognize. Portuguese, maybe? Just words Yelena doesn’t know. Doesn’t need to. She lifts the child anyway then moves. With urgency. The girl howls when her body shifts. Her shoulder’s wrecked. Yelena’s own shoulder pulls with the weight, but she doesn’t spare the pain a thought.

She double-times to the nearest gate. Medics and ambulances have started to line up just past it. Two paramedics are about to sprint past her. Yelena intercepts them mid-stride, hands the girl off wordlessly. Nods once.

They shout something behind her. Thanks, perhaps. She doesn’t stay to hear it.

Yelena goes back into the wreckage. Toward the stage. That’s where she last saw Kate.

She maneuvers around busted vendor carts, smashed bottles, and crushed signage. Cups, cans, and bags crunch underfoot.

The haze thickens, pickles her eyes. Visibility drops. Her eardrums continue to buzz from the blasts.

She hops over a torn fence and slips when she lands on the other side. Her boots slide in mud and something else. A red river cuts through the dirt, a liquid her brain refuses to name. Something inside her cracks. She shoves it down. Not now.

Yelena claws past collapsed fencing and stumbles straight into hell.

Bodies everywhere. Some running. Some falling. Some still pushing with shock-wired panic. But too many not moving at all. Motionless. Limbs bent unnaturally. Eyes wide. Lungs emptied in the middle of a scream that never finished.

It’s a dream gone rancid. The festival was frozen mid-beat and stripped of its color.

They came here for music. For elation. For communion. One second, they were alive…sweaty and sun-drenched, drunk on song. The next, they were scattered chunks on a field.

The closer she gets to the stage, the worse it is.

Yelena has seen carnage. She's seen war. Crossfire. Blood in snow. In sand. In grass. In water. But every corpse she'd ever stepped over wore a uniform. Every person she watched die had accepted risk. Had chosen it. No one here signed up for this.

None of them were supposed to end up here. This way. Their only mission was a good time. Some pictures for their social media. A beat that reverberated in their bones. That’s all they wanted. And now they’ll never want a thing again.

Yelena moves through the stillness like a specter. She’s not alone. There are people everywhere. Moaning. Bleeding. Wailing. But somehow, the silence is louder.

The smoke parts…and she’s suddenly there. Right in front of the stage. Ground zero. Metal is mangled. The floor is a minefield of overturned trash cans, blown cables, and leaking glowsticks. Steam curls off near every surface. There’s a crater to the left, and fire further back.

And there…beneath a twisted section of lighting rig…long, dark hair. Attached to a head, half-buried beneath a tangle of debris. Covered in blood.

The face is turned away…but Yelena knows that hair. That exact shade. That texture. She's seen it wet from the shower, tangled in her fingers, fanned out over a pillow in the early hours of morning, haloed in stage lights and washed in moonlight. She’s kissed the crown of that head a thousand times. She knows the weight of it against her chest.

No. No no no…

She launches forward. Every atom in her body revolting. Denying. Screaming.

She vaults over a fallen speaker. Drops to her knees. Hauls bodies aside. One. Then another. Rips a collapsed banner out of the way. Her shoulder smashes into concrete. She doesn’t feel it. Her voice tears out of her throat before she can stop it…a sound that isn’t words, only agony.

She reaches for the woman. Her skin is starting to lose heat. It feels foreign under Yelena’s touch. Fingers brush blood-soaked fabric. A hand is still gripping a phone, screen now cracked.

Yelena turns the head.

It’s not Kate.

It’s not Kate.

It’s not Kate.

But it could’ve been.

The girl’s young. Pale. Her face slack. A smear of soot across her jaw. Hair now soaked and matted. It’s parted the same way Kate’s is. The same freckle on her jaw. Her shirt's torn, and there’s a gash across her ribs that’ll never scab over.

Yelena rocks back like she’s been shot. She presses her palm to her chest…like maybe that’ll keep her ribs from splitting apart.

She doesn’t cry. There’s no time. But she feels it. The collapse.

For a moment…just one, wretched instant…she thought that was it. That this field of misery and heat and crimson was where she’d feel that type of loss again. That she’d find the woman she loves face-down. Alone. Dead. A second time.

Yelena bites it back. Swallows the scream.

It’s not Kate. It’s not her Kate. But it’s someone’s. And that’s almost worse.

Someone out there is going to get a call. Or…they won’t. Not for hours. Not until the chaos calms and the lists get made. Someone’s going to sit clutching a phone that never rings. Someone’s going to scream into a hallway when they see a police badge. Someone’s going to ask if their girl was out there all alone.

And they won’t know she wasn’t.

Yelena crouches beside the body for a single breath. Just one. Her hand quivers as she brushes the girl’s hair back from her face. It’s a reflex. Gentle.

“I’m sorry.”

Then Yelena exhales. Stands. And keeps going. Keeps moving down the edge of the stage.

“KATE!”

A deafening pocket of silence. No one around her answers. No one asks for help. No one needs it.

Yelena makes it another twenty feet before she hears anything besides distant sirens and first responders shouting.

A young man. Early twenties, maybe younger. Hard to tell through the abrasions on his face. His leg is pinned under a steel divider. Shrapnel jutting from his thigh. His whole lower body is pulp, bone showing. A friend kneels beside him, just as young, sobbing in Spanish. Yelena’s brain auto-translates.

Please. The boy cries over and over.

Yelena hesitates. Looks toward the stage. Almost leaves. Almost keeps searching.

Fuck.

She darts over, drops to her knees, and slips both hands beneath the metal edge. She grits her teeth. Lifts. Her back strains. Her knuckles split open. But she doesn’t stop.

Once the scrawny friend helps her lift with his one good arm, the metal shifts. She yanks the boy free. The dark stain on his jeans instantly explodes in size.

Yelena slaps both palms to the artery in his thigh. Direct pressure. The boy screams. The friend panics, grabs her arm.

“Help me or move,” she snaps.

He helps.

Yelena directs her gaze to the friend’s belt, points to it with her head. The friend understands. He rips it off. Yelena cinches it around the upper thigh. The torniquet slows the bleeding. Barely. She grabs a splinter of scaffold, slides it through a discarded jacket sleeve, and makes a splint. Crude, but enough.

She reaches into her back pocket. For the phone that’s supposed to be there. It’s empty. SHIT. Yelena looks around. She has no idea where it could’ve fallen out.

She assesses. Looks at the boy. At the friend.

“He can’t stay here.”

The friend says something in Spanish. Yelena has no clue what it is but one look at him, at his own bleeding arm, she knows that kid is not taking this boy anywhere.

She hoists him herself. One arm under knees, one behind his shoulders. He’s much taller. Bigger in every way. The adrenaline coursing through her compensates for the difference. Her leg seizes. She’s aware every inch of her body is going to hurt for days. Right now, that feels irrelevant.

She carries him past blazing tents, past downed lights, and a burning merch booth to a makeshift triage zone taking shape. EMTs try to stabilize the injured on plastic tables. Yelena hands him off. She’s moving again before they can thank her.

She scans every stretcher. Every body. Every white brunette being hauled into a transport. Hope flares every time. Dies each time.

Still no Kate.

Yelena doubles back toward the stage. If Kate’s going to be anywhere it’ll be there.

While scanning the rest of the stage area she doesn’t find Kate…but she finds one of her own. One she’d assigned to stage right. His arm…his entire right side blown off. He’s slumped. Still. Already gone.

Yelena kneels. Quiet. Takes a moment to pay her respects. After a beat of silence she speaks.

“Thank you for your service, Captain.”

She stands. Salutes at him. Keeps moving.

“KATE!” She screams while climbing the scaffolding of a dead camera tower. Half-burnt. Rattling in the wind. “KATE!”

Yelena sees everything from up here. The carnage. The stage. The exits. Nothing.

No Kate in the trailers. Not in triage. Not out here. She would’ve found her.

They got her out. Her team did their job. She’s not here.

Yelena sags against the rail, chokes on air. A whimper rips from her chest. Half sob, half war cry. The kind of release that never really lands. At that point, the adrenaline starts to ebb.

Yelena takes a moment to decide what to do next. No phone. Her wallet’s in her bag. Her bag is…somewhere here. She looks down at Kate’s purse. Now smeared with blood. Digs through it. No phone. And Kate keeps all her cards in her phone case.

No phone. No wallet. No money.

Walk back it is.

And so the walk begins.

The farther she gets from the stage, the fewer people there are. The deeper the silence becomes. The crowd thins. The chaos dulls. The debris shifts. Less blood now. More trash. Empty water bottles. Shattered phones. A single sneaker. Nothing moves.

The walk is long. Longer than she realized. And dead fucking quiet.

All she hears is her breath. Her boots. Her body coming undone by degrees.

The smoke drowns the vivid sunset. The sky, once violet and gold, is now just bruise-colored haze. Her tongue tastes like metal and ash. Her shirt’s soaked through. Sweat clings to her spine. Blood crusts her palms. Her socks are damp. Nails split. A raw line of someone else’s blood has dried in the crook of her arm. Her head is still bleeding. She can feel it now…warm, slow.

Her skin crawls. Her chest cracks. Her body aches everywhere, in ways she hasn’t catalogued yet. But none of it really lands. The pain hasn’t found her nerves. Not yet. Not while she’s still moving. Because if she stops, she’ll fall. And if she falls, she might not get back up.

It takes over twenty minutes just to get out of the festival grounds. Just to reach the access road. Twenty minutes of broken soil and scorched earth and oxygen too thick to breathe. She hadn’t realized how far she’d run…how far the stage was from the van where she left her daughter…until the adrenaline drained out of her bloodstream.

Her gait’s uneven now. She’s limping. Her ankle’s screaming. Probably sprained. Definitely at least tweaked it. But the pain’s not real yet. The rhythm’s all that matters. One step. Then another. Then another.

The walk is the only thing keeping her upright. The forward motion. The sheer fucking refusal to go down. No crying. No thinking. Just steps.

Cars fly past. Sirens howl. Blue light. Red light. No one stops.

She keeps going. One foot. Then the next. Until a pair of headlights slice across her path. Brakes lock. Gravel crunches. A battered hatchback skids to a stop. Reverses. Stickers litter the bumper. Dust clouds in its wake. The passenger window rolls down.

“Yelena?!”

The voice is young, tentative. Accented. Stunned. A guy, twenties at most. Festival bracelet still on. Kate’s face across his chest. White-knuckled hands locked at ten and two.

Yelena stops. Doesn’t even turn her head fully.

“Holy shit. Are you okay? Do you…do you need a ride?” His English is clean enough but his voice keeps splintering. She doesn’t answer. “We’ll take you anywhere.”

“Please,” the girl in the passenger seat says, softer. She’s got glitter lined across her cheeks and a hand-painted, bedazzled shirt that reads: ‘Can Yelena Fight?’.

Under any other circumstance, Yelena might’ve cracked a smile. Right now? She’s too wrecked to feel anything at all.

Yelena doesn’t remember nodding. But she must’ve. Because the kid flings open the back door, dives forward to clear a space…to move papers, clothes, crushed Red Bulls out of her way. He barely looks at her as she slides in to a car that smells like spilled soda.

She says nothing. Just stares out the window.

The guy offers a water bottle. She doesn’t even glance at it.

The fans try not to stare. They fail. Their eyes dart to her and back again. Stunned into reverence.

Outside, the city pulses by in streaks of light. Horns. Press vans. Somewhere, a helicopter hovers. It would seem like the whole world is on fire.

Yelena stares at her hands. Raw. Split. Swollen. Her knuckles already darkening. A line of dried blood runs from the heel of her palm to her wrist. Not hers.

They hit the outer checkpoint. And the police barricade parts. Like someone inside already knew she was coming.

The drive back should’ve been forty minutes. It takes over an hour. By the time the hotel emerges…glass and stone, lit up like a fortress…Yelena’s vibrating with exhaustion. Her body trembles in deep, unsteady waves.

The driver slows. Pulls into the rotunda. Doesn’t speak. Yelena doesn’t thank them. She simply nods and gets out.

A couple of her men are at the door in plain clothes. One glance is all it takes. She knows. Kate’s here. She made it back. Yelena doesn’t know what state she’s in…physically, emotionally…but she’s here. And that’s enough.

One of the men opens the main door. She walks through it.

More of her people in plain clothes line the lobby. Embedded. Inconspicuous. Ready. This building might be the safest place in Spain right now, and still, it doesn’t feel like enough.

She approaches the closest one.

“Simmons.” Her voice is sandpaper. She shakes her head. Enough said. “Stage right. Get him. Deliver the news in person. Tell the family we’ll take care of everything.” She turns, then pauses. Her voice cuts sharper. Lower. “Make sure everyone else is accounted for. All of them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He nods and keys his mic. Two other agents rise from the bar in unison. Speedwalk to the exit.

Yelena makes for the private elevator that leads to the penthouse suite.

The guards stationed there don’t ask for her name. Don’t ask for a keycard. They see her face…blood-streaked, ash-dusted, cut and clenching…and they move.

One swipes her in. Another radios the top floor: incoming.

Yelena steps inside. And the doors close.

//

Three hours.

Kate’s been trapped in the suite like a caged animal for three fucking hours. Pacing. Spiraling. Unraveling one atom at a time.

She kicked everyone out about an hour after she got back. They were hovering. Whispering. Getting on her nerves. The one person she needed wasn’t there…so she didn’t want anyone.

Ellie is asleep in her arms now. Finally.

Exhausted from screaming herself hoarse. Her tiny fingers are knotted in the fur of her stuffed fox, the other dig into Kate so tight it leaves deep crescent-shaped dents in her skin. Her breaths are uneven. Hiccuped. Even asleep, she’s tense.

Kate hasn’t set her down. Not once. Not for a moment. Her arms are numb. Her legs ache. Her neck burns from holding this much tension. But she keeps moving and singing to her. Because this baby in her arms is the only thing keeping her from halving open.

She paces the suite in slow, broken loops. Barefoot. Tangled hair. Smoke still in her lungs. Her spine is a live wire. Her hands are wobbly. She can’t stop grinding her teeth.

Under the panic? There’s just…void. That quiet, breathless kind of hollow. A kind that that scrapes at her ribs and keeps whispering: you don’t know if she’s alive.

Security has blanketed the entire floor. Yelena’s people tripled the hotel team within the first hour. They pulled from every client they had in Europe. No one protested. Wouldn’t have mattered if they had. Every agent in that company knows the truth: Yelena’s family is the priority. Kate is the reason the whole operation exists. Any other client is merely background noise.

A blacked-out car waits outside the lobby at all times. Engine running. Driver ready.

Inside, the building is a fortress.

Eight men on the perimeter. Four guards posted on each corner of the floor. Two flank the suite door. Two at the elevator. Another in the stairwell. The rest scattered in a protective orbit.

Every single person who comes within ten feet of Kate and Ellie has been handpicked by Yelena. Vetted. Trained. Hardened by years of service and loyalty. And right now? Every one of them is useless. Because the one person they answer to…the one person who built this entire wall of protection…hasn’t come home yet.

None of them are her. So none of them matter to Kate.

Kate’s phone won’t stop vibrating.

Melina. Her agent. Her publicist. The label. Crisis managers. Everyone wants a statement. Everyone wants to manage the narrative.

But Kate? She just wants one message.

One call. One word. From her. Still nothing.

Until…the lock clicks.

Kate whips around. And the world fucking stops. There she is.

Yelena stands in the doorway.

Blood crusted on her knuckles. Grime smeared on her cheekbones. Shirt torn. Forehead bleeding. More redness streaked up her sleeves, crusted at her collar…some hers, most not. Her braid half-undone. Eyes wide. Stunned. Alive. Mostly.

Yelena doesn’t say a word. She just stands there. Chest heaving. One fist still firmly holding the now bloodstained straps of Kate’s favorite Birkin.

Kate doesn’t move. Not at first. And then the dam breaks. Something in both of them snaps at once.

Kate crosses the room in five desperate steps. Yelena meets her halfway. They collide. Hard.

Kate slams into her chest. One arm around her neck, the other still clutching Ellie…now squished between them. The force of Kate’s impact knocks them both into the wall. It’s not graceful. It’s not cinematic. It’s raw. Messy. Real.

Neither of them let go.

Kate buries her face in Yelena’s nape and sobs. Broken. Guttural. A sound torn from someplace deep. Her mouth finds Yelena’s temple. Her shoulder. Her jaw. She kisses anywhere she can reach. By now, Kate’s shaking so hard she nearly drops to her knees.

“You left.”

“I had to.”

“I thought you…”

“I couldn’t…”

They talk over each other. Words ragged. Desperate. Smashed together in panic and relief and need.

“She was strapped to me. I had to get her out.” Yelena manages to gasp out.

“I know,” Kate chokes. “I know, I just…”

Her fingers claw at the back of Yelena’s shirt. Like anchoring herself there might keep the rest of her from disintegrating.

“I went back,” Yelena voice breaks. “I went back to find you.”

That’s it. That’s all Kate needed to hear. She yanks her closer. Their foreheads press. They stay like that…wrapped around each other, their breaths tangled.

Until Ellie squirms, protesting being sandwiched with such force. Now awake, she lets out a low whimper. Her little arms reach out instinctively. Needy.

Kate shifts her weight. Readjusts her in the space between them. All three of them locked together. Their baby. Their blood. The only thing that matters.

Yelena presses a kiss to the crown of Ellie’s head. Then Kate’s arm. Her lips linger longer on Kate’s skin. Still trembling. Still buzzing with unprocessed grief.

Yelena sets the purse down on the desk by the door. Forces a smile.

“It’s…a little banged up, but…”

She tries levity. It doesn’t land. Her voice cracks. She wraps her arms around herself, like she’s trying to stop her insides from busting at the seams.

Kate takes her in. Can read her without Yelena saying a word.

“You did the right thing.”

Yelena doesn’t respond.

Kate steps closer, reaches out. Fingers ghost over the frayed braid. Smoothing it. Then she touches Yelena’s cheek.

“It was the right thing,” Kate says again. Quiet now. “You made the right call. I would’ve made the same one.”

That’s what undoes Yelena. Not the guilt. Not the blood. Not even the fear.

The forgiveness. The grace. The understanding. Yelena deflates. Like something just gave out. Her whole body jerks. Her shoulders crumple. And then she finally lets herself cry.

“I left you. I’m sorry. I left.” she whispers

Kate cups her jaw. Her touch never wavers. Soothing. Anchoring. Gentle.

“You were supposed to. She was with you.”

“I didn’t know if you…if you were…”

“I know, baby” Kate reassures her. “I know.” And she does.

Yelena’s knees buckle. Her hands jitter. She clutches at Kate like she’ll vanish.

Kate kisses her. Everywhere. Her cheek. Her forehead. Her lips. Every inch she can reach.

“You got her out,” Kate whispers into her hair. “You did your job. You kept her safe… Thank you.”

Yelena doesn’t say you’re welcome. She only sobs. Into Kate’s arms. On the hotel floor.

Ellie curled between them like a tether.

They’re alive. They’re together. But nothing about this will ever leave them. Not entirely.

[mariacallous]

Elon Musk’s so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) has plans to stage a “hackathon” next week in Washington, DC. The goal is to create a single “mega API”—a bridge that lets software systems talk to one another—for accessing IRS data, sources tell WIRED. The agency is expected to partner with a third-party vendor to manage certain aspects of the data project. Palantir, a software company cofounded by billionaire and Musk associate Peter Thiel, has been brought up consistently by DOGE representatives as a possible candidate, sources tell WIRED.

Two top DOGE operatives at the IRS, Sam Corcos and Gavin Kliger, are helping to orchestrate the hackathon, sources tell WIRED. Corcos is a health-tech CEO with ties to Musk’s SpaceX. Kliger attended UC Berkeley until 2020 and worked at the AI company Databricks before joining DOGE as a special adviser to the director at the Office of Personnel Management (OPM). Corcos is also a special adviser to Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent.

Since joining Musk’s DOGE, Corcos has told IRS workers that he wants to pause all engineering work and cancel current attempts to modernize the agency’s systems, according to sources with direct knowledge who spoke with WIRED. He has also spoken about some aspects of these cuts publicly: "We've so far stopped work and cut about $1.5 billion from the modernization budget. Mostly projects that were going to continue to put us down the death spiral of complexity in our code base," Corcos told Laura Ingraham on Fox News in March.

Corcos has discussed plans for DOGE to build “one new API to rule them all,” making IRS data more easily accessible for cloud platforms, sources say. APIs, or application programming interfaces, enable different applications to exchange data, and could be used to move IRS data into the cloud. The cloud platform could become the “read center of all IRS systems,” a source with direct knowledge tells WIRED, meaning anyone with access could view and possibly manipulate all IRS data in one place.

Over the last few weeks, DOGE has requested the names of the IRS’s best engineers from agency staffers. Next week, DOGE and IRS leadership are expected to host dozens of engineers in DC so they can begin “ripping up the old systems” and building the API, an IRS engineering source tells WIRED. The goal is to have this task completed within 30 days. Sources say there have been multiple discussions about involving third-party cloud and software providers like Palantir in the implementation.

Corcos and DOGE indicated to IRS employees that they intended to first apply the API to the agency’s mainframes and then move on to every other internal system. Initiating a plan like this would likely touch all data within the IRS, including taxpayer names, addresses, social security numbers, as well as tax return and employment data. Currently, the IRS runs on dozens of disparate systems housed in on-premises data centers and in the cloud that are purposefully compartmentalized. Accessing these systems requires special permissions and workers are typically only granted access on a need-to-know basis.

A “mega API” could potentially allow someone with access to export all IRS data to the systems of their choosing, including private entities. If that person also had access to other interoperable datasets at separate government agencies, they could compare them against IRS data for their own purposes.

“Schematizing this data and understanding it would take years,” an IRS source tells WIRED. “Just even thinking through the data would take a long time, because these people have no experience, not only in government, but in the IRS or with taxes or anything else.” (“There is a lot of stuff that I don't know that I am learning now,” Corcos tells Ingraham in the Fox interview. “I know a lot about software systems, that's why I was brought in.")

These systems have all gone through a tedious approval process to ensure the security of taxpayer data. Whatever may replace them would likely still need to be properly vetted, sources tell WIRED.

"It's basically an open door controlled by Musk for all American's most sensitive information with none of the rules that normally secure that data," an IRS worker alleges to WIRED.

The data consolidation effort aligns with President Donald Trump’s executive order from March 20, which directed agencies to eliminate information silos. While the order was purportedly aimed at fighting fraud and waste, it also could threaten privacy by consolidating personal data housed on different systems into a central repository, WIRED previously reported.

In a statement provided to WIRED on Saturday, a Treasury spokesperson said the department “is pleased to have gathered a team of long-time IRS engineers who have been identified as the most talented technical personnel. Through this coalition, they will streamline IRS systems to create the most efficient service for the American taxpayer. This week the team will be participating in the IRS Roadmapping Kickoff, a seminar of various strategy sessions, as they work diligently to create efficient systems. This new leadership and direction will maximize their capabilities and serve as the tech-enabled force multiplier that the IRS has needed for decades.”

Palantir, Sam Corcos, and Gavin Kliger did not immediately respond to requests for comment.

In February, a memo was drafted to provide Kliger with access to personal taxpayer data at the IRS, The Washington Post reported. Kliger was ultimately provided read-only access to anonymized tax data, similar to what academics use for research. Weeks later, Corcos arrived, demanding detailed taxpayer and vendor information as a means of combating fraud, according to the Post.

“The IRS has some pretty legacy infrastructure. It's actually very similar to what banks have been using. It's old mainframes running COBOL and Assembly and the challenge has been, how do we migrate that to a modern system?” Corcos told Ingraham in the same Fox News interview. Corcos said he plans to continue his work at IRS for a total of six months.

DOGE has already slashed and burned modernization projects at other agencies, replacing them with smaller teams and tighter timelines. At the Social Security Administration, DOGE representatives are planning to move all of the agency’s data off of legacy programming languages like COBOL and into something like Java, WIRED reported last week.

Last Friday, DOGE suddenly placed around 50 IRS technologists on administrative leave. On Thursday, even more technologists were cut, including the director of cybersecurity architecture and implementation, deputy chief information security officer, and acting director of security risk management. IRS’s chief technology officer, Kaschit Pandya, is one of the few technology officials left at the agency, sources say.

DOGE originally expected the API project to take a year, multiple IRS sources say, but that timeline has shortened dramatically down to a few weeks. “That is not only not technically possible, that's also not a reasonable idea, that will cripple the IRS,” an IRS employee source tells WIRED. “It will also potentially endanger filing season next year, because obviously all these other systems they’re pulling people away from are important.”

(Corcos also made it clear to IRS employees that he wanted to kill the agency’s Direct File program, the IRS’s recently released free tax-filing service.)

DOGE’s focus on obtaining and moving sensitive IRS data to a central viewing platform has spooked privacy and civil liberties experts.

“It’s hard to imagine more sensitive data than the financial information the IRS holds,” Evan Greer, director of Fight for the Future, a digital civil rights organization, tells WIRED.

Palantir received the highest FedRAMP approval this past December for its entire product suite, including Palantir Federal Cloud Service (PFCS) which provides a cloud environment for federal agencies to implement the company’s software platforms, like Gotham and Foundry. FedRAMP stands for Federal Risk and Authorization Management Program and assesses cloud products for security risks before governmental use.

“We love disruption and whatever is good for America will be good for Americans and very good for Palantir,” Palantir CEO Alex Karp said in a February earnings call. “Disruption at the end of the day exposes things that aren't working. There will be ups and downs. This is a revolution, some people are going to get their heads cut off.”

[strawberrytoki]

Wedding season

(Spencer Reid x reader)

Summary: You and Spencer get invited to a friend's wedding who happens to have a secret agenda: getting Spencer to confess his love for you.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Warnings: none!

Word count: 1,990

a/n: I love this song so much y'all, highly recommend listening while reading.

Perfectly assembled bouquets of carnations, baby's breath, and most notably, white tulips, elegantly wrapped with dainty threads of sage green ribbons adorned the carefully set tables, on which sat calligraphed name cards placed on lace table runners.

It went without saying that your friend Lily, the bride, gave the best wedding planner money could buy a run for their money. She was nothing short of a visionary, and the picturesque venue she orchestrated proved just that. It was nestled in the heart of a serene garden and every avid pinterest enthusiast mom within a 5 mile radius would drool at the sight.

The two of you always talked down on white-themed weddings because of how overdone they were, but as the years went by, you both started to incrementally understand the appeal, they were flexible, and easily customizable. She was able to add her own personal flair by adding in a little splash of sage green. That splash, excluding the ribbons, was your attire. All the bridesmaids were dressed in sage dresses, and the groomsmen with ties to match.

Everybody and their mother was rushing to get married, considering wedding season was about the wrap up. It made sense, the weather wasn't as hot and there was a wider variety of vendors to choose from, so you should be surprised Lily was able to pull this off with the traffic but she was a very plan-oriented person and she expected you to mirror that. Hence, you knew exactly what to expect out of this day, down to the seating chart. What you weren't expecting, though, was seeing Spencer Reid there. The two of you had been coworkers for a while now, and found yourselves becoming close friends over time. You enjoyed his company, and loved how the eccentric ramblings he'd go on seemed to have no end.

The gears in your head started turning, trying to find an explanation as to why he was here, you didn't mind of course, you just found it odd how you weren't aware he was coming, especially considering how the guest list was practically printed on the back of your eyelids. Spencer was also more your friend than he was Lily's, they were acquainted, but not to the extent where he would show up to her wedding unannounced. Besides, it wasn't something he would do anyway. The most logical explanation was that he was a last minute addition so he wasn't accounted for, it still didn't make sense considering Lily's nature, but that's what you decided to chalk it up to for the time being.

He was clad in a well-fitted suit and had his hair styled in groomed chocolate waves that complimented his features. You noticed that he didn't forgo his staple converse shoes and mismatched socks, which amplified his endearing, awkward appeal. You weren't blind, Spencer was undeniably charming, and there was just something about him in a suit that had you weak in the knees. You developed a small, benign crush on him over the period of time you'd known each other, but you didn't want to jeopardize the friendship the two of you had.

"Hey, Spence." You walked up to him from behind, nudging him on the shoulder. He swiftly turned around, greeting you with a wide smile, a smile you didn't see yourself getting tired of in the foreseeable future. "Y/N!" Spencer embraced you in a warm hug, you never got over how healing his hugs were. "You look beautiful, by the way." You smoothed out your dress and smiled at him, "Thanks Spence, you clean up well yourself." A downward smile took over his face, indicating that he appreciated the compliment. "Lily really knows what she's doing, this place looks like it was cut out of a Pierre-Auguste Renoir painting." Spencer mused.

"Uh huh" you slowly nodded, pretending you had the slightest clue what he was talking about. You appreciated the obscure references he always made, and found yourself learning a thing or two every time he opened his mouth. You also loved how he was never condescending whenever he shared what he knew with others.

The two of you started taking a stroll around the garden, watching the guests slowly pour in, and stare in awe at the venue. Although it wasn't your wedding, you felt a sense of warmth inside, knowing the blood, sweat, and tears your friend poured into making it all happen and witnessing her efforts finally come to fruition.

The ceremony was about to commence, and you took your place near Lily, and gazed at your friend, who made the most radiant bride. Tear-provoking vows along with promises of unconditional love and commitment were made. Despite the immersive exchange of love and feelings, your mind couldn't help but selfishly drift to your own. You caught yourself staring longingly at Spencer. You were always realistic when it came to your feelings and never allowed your mind to wander, but this wedding seemed to put things into perspective, and for a fleeting moment, you cut yourself some slack and allowed yourself the luxury. It felt like a juvenile playground crush and you liked the giddy, fuzzy feeling it gave you, so you let it diffuse.

Telling yourself you didn't want to confess your feelings for Spencer because your friendship was at stake seemed to be the pseudo-truth you liked to tell yourself to sleep better at night, but you had more self-awareness than that. Deep down, in a cold chamber was the unvarnished reality, uninviting and chill, that you resisted accepting. You were worried Spencer didn't feel the same way you did about him. The idea of laying out all your cards on the table and coming clean was horrifying, and getting rejected by someone you deeply cared for was sure to leave a gash you knew would never heal.

Ironically, the often anxiety-inducing uncertainty offered you a warm embrace you didn't want to leave. Every now and then, though, you had the slightest temptation to leave that embrace, and wondered what it would be like to take the chance. High risk, high reward right?

The crowd of guests started making their way to the reception venue to get seated, and you followed suit. While making your way to your table, you noticed Spencer sitting next right next to your seat, which, again, caused you to raise an eyebrow. If you remembered correctly, you were supposed to be seated next to Elle, who was all the way in the back.

Not thinking much of it, you decided to take your seat next to him anyway, and the two of you began chatting away. Shortly after, your conversation was cut short by the newlyweds' toast announcement, and Lily was going first.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, I'd like to thank all of you for celebrating this incredibly intimate, special day with Tony and I." She looked down at her now-husband with a vibrant glint of adoration in her eyes, and he looked up, mirroring the same glint.

"To all our loved ones who have made an, I'm sure, arduous commute to get here, I cannot put into words how grateful I am to you. I'd also like to express my love and appreciation to my ever so dependable A team, my lovely bridesmaids." Lily then shifted her eyes to your direction, and she didn't need to verbally announce her gratitude, as her glistening and smiling eyes did the work for her. Spencer looked at you and smiled as well.

"-so I can only pray that everyone here gets to experience the overwhelming love and devotion I'm feeling right now." She looked over at you again, this time with a mischievous grin on her face, and spared Spencer a glance as well. "-and in that spirit, I'd like to make a toast." She raised her glass, and continued. " Here's to hoping the celebration of our union can lead to the conception of new ones- maybe even between some of our own guests here tonight." She made sure to look directly at you and Spencer for what felt like an hour to really cement her message, and several of the guests turned their attention to the two of you. Spencer was no idiot, he probably caught on to what she was implying. He didn't seem as flustered as you were, though.

Subtle.

You felt like your skin was too hot to contain your insides, like there were a million fire ants crawling all over your body. To add fuel to fire, you also felt Spencer's gaze on you, you weren't directly looking at him, but through your peripheral view, you noticed that he looked worried, like you were going to detonate at any second.

Abruptly, you got off of your seat and sprinted without a destination. After any sense of motor control you had was yielded, your legs were in autopilot mode and you allowed them to take you anywhere that wasn't here. Lily was going to cut her announcement short and chase after you, realizing that maybe her method was too overstimulating for you. She then noticed Spencer scrambling off his seat to go after you, so she let the two of you be.

Your feet finally halted at the secluded but well-kept greenhouse overlooking the venue from faraway. You still felt like a fool but your skin did start cooling down a little bit after isolating yourself. You just needed to sort your thoughts out because they were going at about a thousand miles a minute. You realized you weren't going to be doing much of that though, since a part of the reason for this debacle followed you here, and was out of breath.

"Y/N." He choked out, in multiple syllables between pants of short breath.

You slowly brought yourself to face him, but still couldn't look him in the eye. "I don't know what that was that Lily just pulled but-"

"No, Y/N wait." Spencer cut you off, he then inched closer and tilted your chin to face him. "I'm sorry you were put on the spot like that- I wasn't aware that was how this was going to go down."

"This?" You questioned, and he looked hesitant to come clean. He then looked down in what resembled defeat. "Lily invited me here but didn't tell you, I guess she wanted this to be a surprise. The plan was for this to be...seamless, but I suppose we took a little detour?"

You still looked very confused, as the spiel he just went on didn't answer any of your questions.

"Y/N, I'm deeply and agonizingly in love with you, and I suppose Lily discerned that, and offered me an opportunity to tell you how I feel. Of course, I jumped at the chance without realizing that I wasn't aware of the mechanics or how we were going to go about it and for that I am so sorr-"

You were in immense shock, to the point where you almost felt like he was going to change his mind so in an attempt to preserve this moment, you quickly wrapped your hands around his neck and pressed a kiss to his lips. It took him a moment, but he gently held your waist and kissed you back with just as much fervor.

The two of you finally separated, each of you holding on to the other as if they were going to slip away.

"I'm in love with you too, Spencer." The adorable flustered flush that painted his face made this entire shitshow worth it. You figured you eventually had to make your way back to the reception, since you felt like you owed Lily an apology (and an expression of your gratitude). A part of you felt bad for fleeing the scene back at her toast, yet a part of you was grateful for her often blunt approach to things.

[cast-you-dxwn]

You’ve talked about how the third(?) legion are spies, how deeply tapped into Hell are they?

Way more deeply than you think, way more deeply than even the Council is aware of.

The Third Legion are spies, infiltrators, saboteurs, and assassins by specialty. Once upon a time they were bog standard Legionnaires like members of the First, but the events of The Fall changed them deeply.

All Legionnaires are capable of shape shifting, but the agents of the Third have honed the skill to a bleeding edge, and have cultivated the arts of psychology, manipulation, mimicry, and stealth to a point beyond mastery. Angels are beings of light, but the Third Legion has wrapped themselves so thoroughly in shadow that they are indistinguishable from it.

One could return home to their own parents, unknowing that they had been replaced by agents of the Third, and never be able to tell something is amiss.

Agents of the Third throughout the years have taken up positions as street vendors in the rings, Sinners, Overlords, members of the Ars Goetia, and trusted members of the Sins courts. The one place they cannot reliably tread is Lucifer’s own Palace. That isn’t to say it hasn’t been done, just not reliably.

I once joked that the whole thing between Stolas and Blitzø was actually a deeply orchestrated operation by the Third Legion to sow political discord in Hell, and while that was a joke, it is the kind of thing they do, and how deeply they have their ears pressed to Hells nervous system.

I’m sure there are people who know that Hells political systems have been infiltrated, Paimon is certainly no fool and would reasonably expect espionage to be occurring for example. The issue is proving it.

[swcrdsqndperfumc]

Enrique Mieux stood by the tall, arched window of the antechamber, his gaze sweeping over the bustling palace grounds below. The morning sun, still weak and hesitant, cast long, distorted shadows across the manicured lawns and the intricate patterns of the cobblestone paths. The clamor of carriages, their wheels rattling against the stones, the distant laughter of courtiers drifting from the inner halls, and the sharp, almost desperate cries of vendors in the market square beyond the palace walls – it all merged into a dull, persistent hum, a symphony of orchestrated chaos that had long ceased to truly register with him. He ran a gloved hand, the leather soft and worn from countless hours of service, over the cool, smooth stone of the sill, a faint, almost imperceptible frown creasing his brow.

"Another day," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly undertone, barely louder than the rustle of his own finely tailored coat. It wasn't a question, nor was it directed at anyone in particular, merely a weary, almost cynical observation. "Another carefully choreographed charade." He wasn't speaking to an audience, but rather voicing an internal monologue, a quiet, weary assessment of the world unfolding before him, a world he was inextricably a part of, yet felt increasingly detached from. The air in the antechamber, thick with the cloying scent of expensive perfumes, the faint metallic tang of ambition, and the unspoken weight of countless secrets, seemed to press in on him, a familiar, suffocating weight. He found himself inhaling deeply, as if to dispel the oppressive atmosphere, but it clung to him, a second skin.

He sighed, a barely audible expulsion of breath that seemed to carry the burden of years of silent vigilance. The grand affairs of state, the whispered intrigues, the endless pursuit of power and prestige – they all felt like a grand, repetitive play, and he, Enrique, was merely a silent, unacknowledged prop. He turned from the window, his posture still ramrod straight, but a subtle weariness in the set of his shoulders. His eyes, usually sharp and observant, now scanned the opulent room, lingering on the gilded cornices, the heavy tapestries depicting forgotten battles, the polished surfaces reflecting the muted light. He seemed to be searching for something, a detail out of place, a hidden meaning, or perhaps, nothing at all, merely allowing his gaze to drift, a reflection of his own drifting thoughts.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Sara Boboltz and Ryan Grenoble at HuffPost:

Michael Cohen, former personal attorney to Donald Trump, testified against the ex-president on Monday in his New York criminal hush money trial, corroborating claims of an extraordinary effort to silence stories that could be damaging to Trump in the days before the 2016 presidential election.

While Cohen has been cooperating with government prosecutors for several years, his appearance on the witness stand is an extraordinary moment in his long relationship with Trump — a man for whom Cohen once said he would “take a bullet.” Under questioning from prosecutor Susan Hoffinger, Cohen described how he cajoled, aggressively bullied and outright lied to do whatever Trump asked of him. “The only thing that was on my mind was to accomplish the task, to make him happy,” he said. “I did... what was needed in order to accomplish the task.” When Trump first hired him, Cohen earned $525,000 a year doing things like calling vendors and renegotiating bills to a fraction of their original cost, or threatening media outlets over negative stories about his boss. But as the 2016 election cycle progressed, Cohen’s role shifted. He started negotiating with National Enquirer executives, including publisher David Pecker, to conjure positive coverage for his boss.

At the same time, and with Trump’s explicit approval, Cohen bought the rights to negative stories through the Enquirer’s parent company, American Media Inc. The stories were then locked away in a scheme known as “catch and kill.” Cohen said he was closely involved with hush money payments that prosecutors say were made during Trump’s 2016 campaign, including a $150,000 sum to former Playboy model Karen McDougal, who says she had a yearlong affair with Trump in the mid-2000s. When he first heard about McDougal’s story, Cohen said he immediately went to Trump in person to warn him about the damage it could cause. “His response to me was, ‘She’s really beautiful,’” he recalled. “I said, ‘OK, but there’s a story that’s right now being shopped.’” Cohen said Trump told him to “make sure it doesn’t get released.”

The two bought the rights to McDougal’s life story for $150,000, prompting a scramble to repay Pecker. As Trump delayed furnishing the funds, Cohen recalled having lunch with a “very” upset Pecker, who told him the sum was “too much to hide” from his parent company. [...] Cohen also spoke at length about how he orchestrated a hush money payment to adult film actor Stormy Daniels, who maintains that she had an affair with Trump in 2006. Daniels’ desire to make her allegation public knowledge during Trump’s 2016 campaign for the presidency set into motion the chain of events that led New York prosecutors to charge Trump with 34 counts of falsifying business records. “Trump told me that he was playing golf with ‘Big Ben’ Roethlisberger... and they had met Stormy Daniels and others there,” Cohen recalled, adding that Trump expressed the sentiment “that women prefer Trump even over someone like Big Ben.” (Multiple women have accused Roethlisberger of sexual assault.)

Michael Cohen's testimony in the People of New York v. Trump trial could be a fatal blow for Donald Trump. #TrumpTrial

[solastia]

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Y/N (OFC)

Warnings: None Currently. Will be smut later on. Perhaps a small warning for the overuse of musical symbolism, because I'm cheesy like that. Also trying out a different POV for reader view.

Summary: Y/N and Yoongi embark on a whimsical journey of love, laughter, and cat-induced chaos. Their romance has led to a shared living space, and now they navigate the highs and lows of cohabitating bliss. AKA: A series of slice-of-life drabbles to help me get in a writing mood when I'm having trouble, and to help me grow with my writing. And it's about Yoongi, surprise!

PART ONE

*      *      *

Y/N's fingers tightened around the handle of the carrier, her knuckles white against the black mesh. Shadow, a ball of fluff and attitude, pawed at the confines of his temporary prison with a soft, persistent thud. The building loomed overhead, a modern monolith of glass and steel that caught the dying rays of sunlight.

"Big day, huh, furball?" she muttered to Shadow, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest. The cat replied with an indignant meow, as if to chastise her for the understatement.

She let out a huff of laughter, the sound lost amidst the honking taxis and chatter of pedestrians. The city was alive, its pulse quickening her own. She swallowed, the anticipation tangling with nerves like headphone wires in a pocket.

"Hope you don't get vertigo," Y/N said, squinting up at the top floors where Yoongi's apartment nestled in the sky.

With one last reassuring pat on the carrier, Y/N sucked in a breath, tasting the autumn air—crisp and laced with the scent of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor. Shadow, ever the opportunist, chose that moment to launch another assault on the carrier door, shaking it with tiny, fierce jabs.

"Easy, Shadow. Save the drama for inside, okay?" she chided, her lips twitching into a smile despite the jittery dance of her heart.

"Yoongi's going to love this," she whispered more to herself than to the cat, imagining the quiet idol’s face lighting up at their arrival. It'd be a scene right out of a movie—except for the part where Shadow would likely attempt to scale Yoongi's curtains at the first opportunity.

"Here goes nothing." Taking a step forward, Y/N squared her shoulders, ready to turn the page to their next chapter.

Y/N's sneakers squeaked against the marble floor of the lobby, echoing off the high ceilings. The doorman tipped his hat with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. She gave him a nod, her grip on Shadow's carrier tightening as she crossed the threshold, the glass doors whispering shut behind her.

The elevator dinged its arrival, and she stepped inside, thumb jabbing the button for Yoongi's floor. The numbers climbed, and with each passing floor, her heart did a corresponding tap dance. By the top floor, it was a full-blown salsa routine.

"Should've brought a paper bag," Y/N quipped as the doors slid open, though her voice wobbled.

She stepped into the hall, plush carpet swallowing the sound of her footsteps. Apartment numbers glided by, a silent countdown to the moment of truth. Her hand hovered over the doorbell but then balled into a fist. No turning back now. Three sharp knocks rapped against the wood.

"This will be fine. It's totally a great idea," she whispered. "You love him. Nothing will go wrong."

Shadow chose that second to renew his protest, pawing frantically at the carrier door. The clatter was a mini drumroll, underscoring her quickened pulse.

"Traitor," Y/N accused playfully, shaking her head. "You just had to add your two cents, didn't you?"

As she straightened up, the cat settled down, as if pleased with his contribution to the orchestration of their grand entrance. Y/N smirked, rolling her eyes at the tiny tyrant.

"Let's hope he's ready for us."

The door creaked on its hinges, a sliver of the polished interior teasing her eyes before Yoongi's figure filled the frame. His grin was lopsided, devilish—a silent welcome that sent a shockwave through Y/N's nerves, disarming them one by one.

"Hey," he said, voice a low melody that seemed to vibrate straight to her bones.

"Hi." Her own word was barely a whisper, a stark contrast to the cacophony inside her head just moments ago.

With a fluid motion, as if they had rehearsed it a thousand times, Yoongi's arms wrapped around her. The city's noise fell away, leaving only the thud of her heart and the warmth of his embrace.

"Missed me?" His breath fanned her ear, teasing.

"Maybe," she countered, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "Just a smidge."

"Good." And then his lips were on hers, a kiss that sparked and sizzled, igniting something wild and fervent between them. It was a deep dive into uncharted waters, yet somehow exactly where she wanted to be.

The heat of Yoongi's lips melded with Y/N's, a silent promise woven through each caress. His murmurs vibrated against her mouth, a husky timbre that quickened her pulse.

"Yoongi," she breathed out, laughter dancing in her voice. "You're making Shadow jealous."

From the depths of his carrier, Shadow voiced his indignation, a plaintive meow cutting through their bubble. The cat shifted, the carrier swinging slightly as if to punctuate his displeasure.

"Sorry, buddy," Yoongi chuckled, not breaking the kiss, his words a warm whisper on her lips. "Guess we're both getting lucky tonight."

"Hope you don't mean with the cat," Y/N quipped, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Very funny," he retorted, his grin tangible even in their embrace.

With a strength that belied his quiet nature, Yoongi took the carrier from her and hoisted it securely into one arm, the other still cradling Y/N close. He stepped backward, guiding them over the threshold.

"Welcome home," he murmured as the door clicked shut behind them, a definitive sound that marked the start of something new. Something theirs.

"Feels like the start of a sitcom," Y/N mused, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smile. "‘Two lovers and a moody cat.'"

"Bestseller for sure," Yoongi said, his eyes lighting up with shared amusement. "As long as I'm not the moody cat."

"Jury's still out on that one," she teased, reaching up to flick his nose gently.

"Ouch," Yoongi feigned hurt, but there was no hiding the contentment in his gaze, the softness that came from being utterly at ease.

"Come on," he said, nudging her forward with a nudge of his head. "Let's explore our love nest."

"Lead the way, landlord," Y/N replied, excitement bubbling within her. They were home, truly home, and nothing could diminish the simple joy of that fact—not even Shadow's disapproving soundtrack.

Stepping into the living room, Y/N's gaze swept across the expanse of Yoongi's apartment. Plush designer couches whispered invitations for lazy afternoons, while a sleek entertainment system promised nights saturated in sound and cinema.

"Did you rob a furniture store or what?" Y/N asked, her fingers trailing over the velvety armrest of a chair. "It's only been a couple days since I was here last, and half of this is new."

"Only the best for us," Yoongi replied with a pride that was endearing rather than boastful.

"Us," she echoed, testing the word like it was new, exciting—because it was. No longer just Yoongi's space, the rooms around them were a blank canvas for their joint story. A place not just to house his grand piano but also her collection of quirky mugs. Their domain, where music notes would mix with soft whispers and shared secrets.

"Will your equipment survive the invasion of my scented candles?" she joked, half-wondering if he'd realized the full extent of her home fragrance obsession.

"Let’s hope they’re fireproof," he quipped back, eyeing the carrier where Shadow had begun a low-grade growl of impatience.

"Careful," Y/N warned with a mock sternness, "Shadow's got a thing against sarcasm."

"Does he now?" Yoongi chuckled, kneeling to let the disgruntled cat out. "We'll have to work on that."

"Good luck," she said, watching as Shadow sniffed suspiciously at the foreign environment. "He's more stubborn than a melody in a minor key."

"Guess we're all gonna have to learn some new tunes," Yoongi mused, standing up to wrap an arm around her shoulders.

"Guess so." Y/N leaned into him, her heart keeping time with the possibility thrumming through the room. This was theirs, a symphony waiting to be composed, note by loving note.

[gingervitus]

WIP Word Game

thanks for driving me to wrack my dumb brain for words @thedissonantverses and @mythals-whore. I haven't ever really been tasked with this kind of challenge, so here goes nothing. We've got Kaleidoscope, wasteland, and reconcile (I decided to do an extra because I have so many partially written things).

A lot of this is from the next chapter of Beneath the Stone Fruit Trees and then there are also tidbits from a little two parter I have planned called Quédate (Stay).

Someday I'll go through all the things Rookanis related that I've written and translate the Spanish or Italian in them. I promise.

Knuckles going white around the rim of the vase, the contents of her stomach empty into the soil of the unsuspecting plant.

Akin to the patterns of constellations, the patio reminded her of nights spent laying out in the grass as the sea air from the other side of Rialto Bay washed over her.

"Lucanis, you cannot keep taking these contracts. What will the other Talons think?”

Even Spite is lazing about somewhere in the back of his mind, a cat napping in a warm patch of sunlight.

Illario scoffed, “Cousin, he has been this way his entire life.”

"Don’t,” she whispers, the tips of her fingers pressed against his lips to keep those words from being uttered.

Of lightning bugs rising from their beds of grass to float into the depths of a hot humid night.

Stringed instruments plucked out tunes unfamiliar to her ears, but her body and Lucanis found a shockingly familiar rhythm that they are easily able to sync with their movements.

"C’mon, Lace,” Taash groans, guiding a cackling Harding out of the dining hall. “Before they start doing it right in front of my leftovers.”

On any other occasion, he would have easily done away with the clasp, but he knows even waking the next day that his hands had been shaking, thoroughly overwhelmed and enveloped by everything about her.

"Please, Ella–” his words were exasperated, exhausted in a way they had not been in quite some time, “–just… try to understand.”

Eyes never left the stars on those nights, transfixed by the sheer volume of the universe.

-

White is drawn out with a venom laced with disgust Neve normally saves to spit at those who stand against her.

"Andraste's left tit, why are you awake?” she gasps.

Spring had been ushered in slowly this year, still cool and sharp with winter's sting.

The way her eyes watched him half-lidded and hazy with something he still can't quite name.

"Enough to understand when someone is plotting against me,” she muses, taking a sip of her freshly brewed tea before continuing with a smirk on her lips, “or when someone’s trying their best to flatter me.”

"Laidir,” she answers with as much confidence in as quiet of a tone as she can muster.

A kiss is pressed against the center of her chest with a reverence which had her mind filled with stars and static.

Not only does she not practice the Andrastian faith, but she truly believes that she would sooner cut off her right hand than allow the Chantry to officiate her wedding.

Doubtful, she decided and perished the thought of landing anywhere else.

-

Realizing the timing of it all has the same bubbling sensation that preceded her earlier retching even if there was nothing for her to vomit back up.

Eager fingers fumble with the golden clasp of the top Taash keeps harping on her for wasting money on, claiming the vendor moves subpar product.

Crawling into bed, she pulls the sheets and blankets up over her shoulders to prepare for another night alone and finally, finally lets the tears fall from her eyes.

Only then, as she is wrapped up in their arms, do her shoulders sag, a relief from the horrendous day that refuses to end.

"Not only am I not your granddaughter, I'm certainly not a pawn in whatever political nightmare you’re orchestrating!”

Caterina frowns, though this look is twisted with something greater than her usual disdain.

"I think you're both underestimating how easy it would be for me to chuck you both right off the edge here and into the Fade,” she snaps as she steadies her grounding and shifts her shoulder to aid in hoisting Davrin up the stairs.

Lights were strung high above them, glittering in contrast with the darkness of the night.

Excitement and cracked pepper! Spite gleefully spouts off as he hovers over Rook, who is still as unkempt as when he had left her in the pantry.

I'm bad at interreacting with things and people, so I've only recently started acquiring mutuals, friends, so I don't know that I have any words to add or anyone to tag in this.

BUT I APPRECIATE THE TAG AND THIS WAS VERY DIFFICULT/REQUIRED ME TO ACTUALLY KEEP WRITING.

[harper-sherman]

In honor of Robert Fuller's 90th (!!!) birthday today (July 29, 2023), I'm posting about meeting him last month at the MidSouth Nostalgia Festival. @sportstudfan put me up to this, lol. Hope y'all enjoy it!

The MidSouth Nostalgia Festival was held on June 8-10 in Olive Branch, Mississippi. That's just south of Memphis, Tennessee for anyone like me who had never heard of the place. The festival brought together a bunch of classic actors (and one or two contemporary), who mainly appeared in Westerns but from some other genres as well.

The first morning we were there, we got right in line to schedule a time to see Robert, or Bob as his fans call him. Most guests had tables that you could walk right up to, but such is his popularity that his fan club orchestrates time slots to make sure everyone who attends has time to speak with him and get autographs and photos. It was a pretty good system, I believe we waited less than 2 hours. We were able to get into his first group of the day. When Bob showed up, he walked right by the line and greeted everyone very enthusiastically and gave out hugs to some of the more eager fans. I could only smile as he went by because I was honestly starstruck by this point.

Once our turn came up, we probably got a good five minutes talking to him. I got the impression he would've allowed us to stay even longer, but we tried to be sensitive to the others waiting to see him. We discussed some of his stunts, such as jumping onto Hoot (his horse) in Duel at Alta Mesa. He confirmed that yes, that was actually him and not a stunt actor. He also told us about breaking his leg on Wagon Train. There was a stunt involving a breakaway chair and he wanted to re-shoot it, but he neglected to check the chair beforehand. It had been replaced with an actual chair! We also talked about his quick draw abilities, and he informed us he had been clocked at 28/100ths of a second. Talk about fast! Before we left his table, we got his autograph on a photo from his Emergency! days. If I ever get to meet Randy Mantooth, I plan to point out that Bob's signature went over his forehead, so he can give him Hell about it.

Something that really amused me watching Bob interact with his fans is how much attention he gives everyone. He was more than happy to hand out hugs and kissed many of the women in attendance. He even autographed a woman's chest (upper sternum, lol) so she could get it tattooed. Keep in mind most of the fans were middle-aged or elderly women, who had fallen in love with him during their youth. The guy's still got it!

We also attended a few panels. The photo below is from one of them; from left to right we have Tony Cameron (son of Rod Cameron, one of my favorite Laramie guest actors), Patrick Wayne (2nd son of John Wayne), the panel interviewer, and Bob. All of the guys were really enjoyable to listen to. Tony is dedicated to keeping his dad's legacy alive and is just a lovely person in his own right. Patrick was very funny and used his some of his time on the panel to advocate for the John Wayne Cancer Foundation.

There was also a panel with Bob and his wife Jennifer Savidge that I unfortunately did not take pictures of. Those two are great together, they had everyone laughing and you could really tell how much they love one another. Jennifer is also incredibly gracious about the attention Bob gets from his fans. She's a wonderful actress in her own right, having been on her own medical series St. Elsewhere, JAG, and much more.

The MSNF also had vendor tables where you could purchase comic books, memorabilia, or even original art. One woman rented a vendor table so she could share her miniature Sherman Ranch! She removed the roofs so we could see inside the ranch house and barn. She also told us she has swappable backgrounds for different times of year. We were really impressed with the detail and talent that went into her creation.

On the last day of the festival, we had a photo taken with Bob and Jennifer. We dressed up as Slim and Jess. The first thing Bob said to us was "Wow!", so I think he liked the outfits. ;) On the way out, a few other fans in line stopped us to tell us how much they liked our costumes, which felt really great.

And that was pretty much it! It was honestly one of the more laid-back conventions I've been to. I wasn't used to having a bunch of downtime between the things I wanted to do. It was also a little weird being one of the younger fans there, but everyone was pretty nice and we were all there for the same reason: to meet Bob!

Bonus pic: while in Memphis we visited the largest Bass Pro Shop I've ever seen, known as The Pyramid. The inside looks like outdoors (as is normal with every Bass Pro), but it was lit like nighttime with string lights and stuff. Along with the usual fish tanks, there was a pond with ducks. I unfortunately did not pay to ride the elevator to the observation deck.

[allycat75]

Look what I found in my feed today...

Of the title track...

While my favorite song of all time is “Doctor, My Eyes,” I will always contend that “The Pretender” is Jackson Browne’s greatest work, rivaling “Fountain of Sorrow” and “The Road” but ultimately surpassing them both. It’s an ineffable, romantic ode to surrender in both the veil of a freeway’s shade and the cresting nightfall of Los Angeles. “I’m going to find myself a girl who can show me what laughter means, and we’ll fill in the missing colors in each other’s paint-by-number dreams” is a sentence-long poem. The music winks like a hallelujah before sweeping into an orchestral awakening. The piano lines give way to vibrating strings, as David Crosby and Graham Nash’s harmonies soothe and Browne cherishes the “laughter of lovers as they run through the night.” In the catchy, unmistakable pre-chorus, he sings about the tug of war between finding love and being broke, segueing right into his best lyrical sequence: “When the sirens sing and the church bells ring—and the junk man pounds his fender, where the veterans dream of the fight fast asleep at the traffic light, and the children solemnly wait for the ice cream vendor—out into the cool of the evening strolls the Pretender. He knows that all his hopes and dreams begin and end there.”

Of the album itself...

Full of grief, cynicism, and love both found and lost, The Pretender is certainly a product of its era, released into a skeptical, post-Vietnam, post-Watergate America. But the surrounding world’s identity crisis never undercuts Browne’s poems about suburban monotony, border-crossing rendezvous, and raising a son with the presence his own father lacked. The music remains sincerely in-style—wonderfully made by a happy idiot for the happy idiot.

[ellagrace20]

Cloud Migration and Integration A Strategic Shift Toward Scalable Infrastructure

In today’s digital-first business environment, cloud computing is no longer just a technology trend—it’s a foundational element of enterprise strategy. As organizations seek greater agility, scalability, and cost-efficiency, cloud migration and integration have emerged as critical initiatives. However, transitioning to the cloud is far from a lift-and-shift process; it requires thoughtful planning, seamless integration, and a clear understanding of long-term business objectives.

What is Cloud Migration and Why Does It Matter

Cloud migration involves moving data, applications, and IT processes from on-premises infrastructure or legacy systems to cloud-based environments. These environments can be public, private, or hybrid, depending on the organization’s needs. While the move offers benefits such as cost reduction, improved performance, and on-demand scalability, the true value lies in enabling innovation through flexible technology infrastructure.

But migration is only the first step. Cloud integration—the process of configuring applications and systems to work cohesively within the cloud—is equally essential. Without integration, businesses may face operational silos, inconsistent data flows, and reduced productivity, undermining the very purpose of migration.

Key Considerations in Cloud Migration

A successful cloud migration depends on more than just transferring workloads. It involves analyzing current infrastructure, defining the desired end state, and selecting the right cloud model and service providers. Critical factors include:

Application suitability: Not all applications are cloud-ready. Some legacy systems may need reengineering or replacement.

Data governance: Moving sensitive data to the cloud demands a strong focus on compliance, encryption, and access controls.

Downtime management: Minimizing disruption during the migration process is essential for business continuity.

Security architecture: Ensuring that cloud environments are resilient against threats is a non-negotiable part of migration planning.

Integration for a Unified Ecosystem

Once in the cloud, seamless integration becomes the linchpin for realizing operational efficiency. Organizations must ensure that their applications, databases, and platforms communicate efficiently in real time. This includes integrating APIs, aligning with enterprise resource planning (ERP) systems, and enabling data exchange across multiple cloud platforms.

Hybrid and Multi-Cloud Strategies

Cloud strategies have evolved beyond single-provider solutions. Many organizations now adopt hybrid (combining on-premise and cloud infrastructure) or multi-cloud (using services from multiple cloud providers) approaches. While this enhances flexibility and avoids vendor lock-in, it adds complexity to integration and governance.

To address this, organizations need a unified approach to infrastructure orchestration, monitoring, and automation. Strong integration frameworks and middleware platforms become essential in stitching together a cohesive IT ecosystem.

Long-Term Value of Cloud Transformation

Cloud migration and integration are not one-time projects—they are ongoing transformations. As business needs evolve, cloud infrastructure must adapt through continuous optimization, cost management, and performance tuning.

Moreover, integrated cloud environments serve as the foundation for emerging technologies like artificial intelligence, data analytics, and Internet of Things (IoT), enabling businesses to innovate faster and more efficiently.

By treating cloud migration and integration as strategic investments rather than tactical moves, organizations position themselves to stay competitive, agile, and future-ready.

[movedto-mrs-bluemarine]

Jupiter lore dump!!!

She's originally from a different kingdom. I'm thinking her and her mother fled from the Spade Kingdom before all the Bad Shit happened. Like it was already very corrupt, but something really bad ended up happening and that's why they left (and if this ends up not following with canon take me out back and put me down)

They laid low in a small village for a long time as gardeners and plants vendors, but their old kingdom found them somehow and tried to ransack their home (that's where she meets the Black Bulls!!)

She decided to become a magic knight in order to protect innocent's as well as her family. She visits often with Gordon's help and about half of her earnings goes out to them

She's her father's only child, but has three half siblings. She loves her step dad dearly, but kept the last name "Wheatley" because it's the last thing she has of her blood father

Her and her siblings all specialize in one of the four basic elements (Jup wind, sister earth, the twins ect).

One of the twins uses very explosive fire magic and because of this she ended up with partial hearing loss. She can read lips very well and that's how she always knows what Donny is saying!!

BONUS UM. Ladros OC.

Diamond King's only(?) daughter. His pride and joy. She ended up following the shining generals to the witch's forest to test her strength and help her father.

Ladros has this thing where he believes he totally deserves to have her hand in marriage but she's just like "??? The hell is wrong with you". Kicks his ass because he DESERVES IT but he's into it. Unfortunately.

I wanted something like Musical Magic for her but like it'd probably make sense if she had Diamond magic :(

Shining Orchestral Magic???

I don't believe the diamond king has a canonical appearance SOOOOO YAYYY ANOTHER WHITE HAIRED-BLUE EYED OC‼️ gets thrown out of a window. Okay MAYBE silver hair. Or periwinkle blue oooo

Maybe platonic Mars relationship. I kind of like him