#wait and see-I’ll be the bad guy for enforcing a boundary

[thebibliosphere]

If there’s one thing that drives me insane it’s learned helplessness. And I know, I know it’s a stress response to trauma and a lot of people aren’t even aware they’re doing it, but unfortunately my childhood trauma is having to be the person who did everything because none of the adults had a handle on their shit, so unfortunately I have a short fuse when it comes to the kind of people who need a longer fuse and, well. You can see the conundrum this puts us in.

[skullsandwineglasses]

Life Lessons

The things you thought you wanted when you were 18 are very different from the things that you realize are important when you’re 24. 

1. Meet cutes

You fantasize about running into a stranger at a coffee shop, a book store, a library aisle, a grocery store lineup, etc and that you’ll click with them right away. You think “the one” is out there somewhere. But Ashley from bestdressed put it best: do you really think that out of the 7 or 8 billion or so people on the planet, you were born down the street or a city away from your soulmate? How is life going to be that convenient?

I thought college would be my Debut(TM), especially after a comfortable but uneventful time in high school. But college was quite anticlimactic. I was even less social if that was even possible. It’s hard to make friends when you’re not forced to sit next to the same people everyday. You instead meet people from afar who seem to be living, breathing real-life protagonists: beautiful, smart, witty, stylish, artsy, outspoken. I found myself trying to emulate them. I felt like I was falling behind in terms of who I should be in life. 

I tried to take control. If you don’t put yourself out there, how would meet cutes ever happen? So,

I go to coffee shops: but everyone’s too busy to look up from the work on their laptop screens to pay any attention to anyone else. 

I go to bookstores: but everyone’s too busy scanning the titles on the shelves to pay any attention to anyone else. 

I go to the library: see coffee shop.

I’m in the grocery store and someone asks me about the best coconut milk to use for curry: they get their answer and leave. 

I go to a jazz bar: again, everyone’s too busy listening to the band to pay any attention to anyone else.

I go to a swing dance social night: but everyone’s too busy trying to dance with as many different partners as possible in order to diversify their skills to linger any attention on anyone

You can’t say I didn’t try. 

Bonus:

Imagine you’re feeling bummed that you got assigned an aisle seat on the plane, only to approach your seat and see that a cute guy is sitting in the window seat next to yours. Could this be the meet cute you’ve been waiting for? You sit down. He says hi. You return the greeting a little too excitedly. You move to the fasten your seat belt. He speaks again: “So, my girlfriend has a window seat a couple rows back. I was wondering if you...”

Stunned, you pull the seat belt back and get up, gathering your stuff. “Oh yea, for sure, no bother at all. I wanted a window seat anyway.”

I kid you not. Cringe writes itself. It was like the opening of a bad romcom where the side character has one romantic failure after another. 

-> Moral of the story: Don’t expect to arrive at a place hoping that you’ll lock eyes with someone across the room. People go to places for the services that the place provides, and so they’ll be focused on their purpose for having gone to said place. Taylor Swift songs and YA novels did a wonderful job of misinforming me of how indifferent the social environment is like in public spaces. 

2. Exchanging phone numbers

So, maybe someone finally asks for your number. You part ways at the subway station. He promises to talk to you soon. But after 3 days, you wonder why he hasn’t texted you yet. You get a text from him Sunday morning asking you to meet for coffee that evening. You’re outside the cafe at 7:15, waiting. He texts you apologizing for being late because he was jogging around the lake and lost track of time. He says he’s on his way. You never hear from him again. 

-> Moral of the story: Even if you do ending up having a cute first encounter with someone at a subway station, it doesn’t mean things will work out. I’ve been ghosted like this 3 times. It’s gets harder trying to give men the benefit of the doubt each time.

I had thought that my self worth depended on how many strangers would approach me for my number. I thought that being liked was the only way to be validated. And while being asked for your number is flattering the first time, the illusion quickly shatters when you learn that the success of a relationship hinges on more than just the circumstance of the first meeting. 

3. Reading signs

You’re in line at the airport after returning from a conference trip, waiting to get through customs. You finally reach the customs officer who asks about the reason for your trip. 

“A conference,” you say.

“For?”

“Narrative. You know, like storytelling”

He hands you back your passport. “So are you an author?”

“Oh no, I just study the psychology of storytelling”

His face lights up. “Wow yes, storytelling is so important. It’s the foundation of civilization. That’s great”

“I’m glad you’re able to appreciate it. Not many people do when I tell them.”

“Well that’s because they don’t understand how important storytelling is to the basis of civilization. And for me too as someone who works in law enforcement.”

“Yes, for sure,” you say nodding. You look at the line behind you and start to move to leave.

“Well, it’s too bad we can’t talk more. Have a great day, miss”.

You walk towards the exit where the baggage claim is, and your head’s a blur. Was he...flirting? You’ve never met a stranger who was that interested in your research before, much less a border officer who was willing to stall the line just to ask you more about what you do. 

You begin to wonder if you should have left a card or a number so that you could talk later. You know, for research purposes. It’s always nice to make a friend outside your field who shares the same interests as you. But none of that matters now anyway because #ACAB. What’s done is done. But you still wonder about what his intentions were when he started that conversation. It’s too bad we can’t talk more. Yeah. A shame.

-> Moral of the story: Be more assertive. Offer a way to connect if you’re interested. Why do we keep reinforcing the idea that women can only be acted on and can’t act themselves?

4. To love or be loved

Like many young adults, I often question if my mother really understands what it means to be in love. She seems to like the idea of love, the idea of the perfect fateful meeting, but proudly says that she never fully gave her heart to anyone. She’s always warning that it’s better to receive love than to give it. That you end up at a disadvantage if you love first and love more. 

But I think I’d rather have the agency to make that choice than to be chosen. All throughout high school and in the media, we seem to glorify having someone choose us and love us unconditionally. But that’s unrealistic. There’s no such thing as unconditional, but I do hope to get as a close as possible to it. I want to love someone even if they might not love me back. I want to know how it feels like to put someone else first. Maybe this is just another teenage fantasy that has re-manifested itself in adulthood, but I want the freedom of stretching my feelings out than to feel the weight of that of someone else’s whom I can’t reciprocate. 

It also has to do with how much the alpha male is romanticized in our culture. I realize that I don’t want a domineering male version of my mother, who herself is controlling, obsessive, and possessive. I want a friend, not someone who thinks that I constantly need to be coddled and protected for my own good. 

It’s also a stupid expectation to have of real life men. If the men in my life are any indication, then they have goals and ambitions that they want to pursue. Everyone does. A relationship is a mutual support system. It’s not about how much as can take from someone. 

5. Choices

Some people say that you can fall in love with a city by falling in love in that city. 

TW: Sketchy interactions in ubers/taxis

I was grabbing coffee with a guy that I just met in a foreign city that I was visiting. It was approaching 9pm and he said that he had work the next morning, so we decided to call it a day. I was heading towards the subway station when he said that he called an uber and could drop me off at my hotel. Obviously, warning bells went off, but I was so worried about disappointing him, even though I knew that I wouldn’t see him again anyway after that evening. I just didn’t know how to say no. I reluctantly got in the car with him and instantly regretted it. He moved closer, but when he saw that I was uncomfortable, he moved away. Thankfully. We had an awkward conversation, and the driver dropped me off at my hotel after 10 minutes. I was lucky. I knew it. But looking back at the encounter now, I do wonder what would have happened if I had reciprocated the interest. I mean, I was definitely was curious at the time, but mostly because I was inexperienced and a little desperate to be completely honest. But, I knew that I didn’t want my first kiss or first whatever to be with a stranger who I knew I would never see again since I was leaving the next day. I knew about the emotional confusion that it would cause. I also wasn’t prepared to go as far as I thought he wanted to go, so I didn’t want to give him any wrong impressions and assumed that it was just easier to not show any interest at all. From time to time I still wonder about him and how he’s doing and whether I’ll ever run into him again if I’m back in the city. 

-> Moral of the story: Learn to say no and to stop worrying about whether you’ll offend someone because you want to keep yourself safe. I should have never gotten into that car, and my friends always remind me of that every time I tell them that story. I also acknowledge that some people might not always have that choice, and we should never victim blame. 

For me in that situation, I had a mix of different emotions. Curiosity, attraction, anxiety. My friend told me that I should have told him what I felt at the time and what my boundaries were instead of shutting off. But at the same time, he should have been vocal to me too and voiced what he was thinking, instead of just moving closer in the closed space of an uber. Sketchy af. 

6. Fate (is a lie)

I like to believe in the idea of fate and soulmates. My mother always tells me how I was the product of fate and so a part of me feels entitled to a little bit of that magic too. 

But I got my wake-up call when I walked into a dive bar one Friday night and could have sworn that I saw my first crush from middle school sitting at a table in the centre of the room with a group of his friends. 

We made eye contact, but it was too dark to know for sure. I walked past the table to the bar and asked for a table for one. I sat in the corner and watched him and his friends, curiously.

No one just walks into a dive bar and suddenly decides that the first person you see when you walk through the door is someone you once knew from middle school. I was almost sure that it was him. Was he? 

I was in a city an hour away from where we went to middle school. What are the odds. Was it fate? Was it a coincidence? After 12 years of having never seen this kid, I run into him in a dive bar I’ve never been to before in a city I only go visit maybe once every 2 months. 

Out of all the kids I went to middle school with, I had to run into my first crush? Seems like a joke. What kind of message was the universe trying to send?

In the end, I finished my sangria, and left. He never took one look back at me. And I walked out knowing that I’d never see him again. What seemed like an impossible coincidence just ended up mounting to nothing. 

That’s when I learned that coincidences are just coincidences. There’s nothing more to them unless you decide to make something out of them. 

Concluding remarks:

Maybe y’all are smarter and more perceptive than I am and already knew about these things when you turned 18. But these are lessons that took me 6 years to learn and then some. And even at 24 and having a couple of serendipitous experiences under my belt, I’m still no closer to being the confident, mature, and level-headed adult that I think I should be. I still feel 18 with the unrealistic expectations and mentality embodied by someone that age. Hell, to be honest I’m not entirely sure I remember when it feels like to be an 18 year old anymore. I just feel like an inadequate 24 year old. I shouldn’t be insulting 18 year olds like this. 

[violetsmoak]

The Specter at the Feast [1/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556579/chapters/59300599

Summary: A tragic incident as a child left Tim Drake with the ability to commune with the dead. It’s a skill he’s used to close some of the most confounding cases to come across his desk at Gotham City’s Major Crimes Unit. But when he learns of an apparent murder-suicide that could link to a very personal case he’s been working for ten years, he might need more than a connection to the afterlife to solve it. Especially when Detective Jason Todd, a man in denial about his own psychic abilities, is assigned lead on the same case.

Sparks immediately fly between the two detectives—and not necessarily in a good way—as they are forced to work together to take down a macabre serial killer before it’s too late.

Disclaimer: This story uses characters, situations and premises that are copyright DC Comics, Inc. No infringement pertaining to graphic novels, television series or films is intended by violetsmoak in any way, shape or form. This fan-oriented story is written solely for the author’s own amusement and the entertainment of the readers. It is not for profit. Any resemblance to real organizations, institutions, products or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Author’s Note: Here’s one of the stories I’ve been working on for JayTimWeek. As I mentioned on tumblr, I got hit by a big blast of inspiration for one of my original stories and have kind of been working on that like mad for the past three weeks, so unfortunately I didn’t have time to dedicate to the prompt fills for JTW as I wanted to. As soon as I run out of steam for that, I’ll get back to filling the prompts. So, bad news I probably won’t post anything else during the event, but eventually my prompts will all crop up once I recapture my attention span :P Huge thank you to strawberyjei for taking the time to beta-read this chapter!

_______________________________________________________________

“That stuff will kill you one day.”

Tim Drake frowns and glances to his right, noticing the half-amused and half-exasperated smile playing on his best friend’s face.

“Will not,” he retorts with the instantaneity of an oft-repeated argument and leans more securely against sun-warmed stone. He takes a defiant sip from his jumbo travel mug, enjoying the bitterness of his favorite morning indulgence—slow-brewed light roast with three shots of espresso. “Besides, how else do you expect me to be awake enough to drive out here at this hour?”

He doesn’t have to see Kon to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“You don’t actually have to—you’re the one who keeps showing up; I just wait here.”

There’s something buried in the joking tone, and Tim shifts in discomfort as he detects the unspoken scolding. Choosing to ignore it, he swallows another mouthful of coffee and stares past the well-kept shrubbery, observing the gentle waves on the river.

From a distance, Gotham’s elegance is deceptive. By daylight, the riot of architectural styles jutting into the horizon appear whimsical instead of grotesque, and the layers of filth and decay suggest character as opposed to rampant corruption. Even on a Sunday, it teems with energy.

I guess that’s what still convinces people to move to the crime capital of America.

Tim knows from experience that the city’s grandeur is not as noticeable when combing her streets for the criminal element.

That knowledge doesn’t stop him from digging out his cellphone and snapping a few lazy photos. The quality won’t compare to shots taken with the Nikon he has at home, but it’s rare to perceive the city of his birth as something other than sinister; he won’t squander the opportunity.

“Maybe it’s the other way around,” Tim suggests in a light tone. “I could just be out here, minding my business, taking in the scenery—”

“Hah!”

“—and you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking’s your thing.”

“Is it really stalking if you get paid for it?”

“Whatever you say, detective,” Kon sneers without true malice and crosses his arms across his chest. Despite the chilly early spring air, he’s wearing only a black t-shirt with a red Superman symbol. Tim gave it to him for his birthday a few years ago, but the sight of it these days still elicits a nostalgia-induced lump in his throat. “Either way, you’re the chump who showed up here on his first day off in forever. Sunday, remember? You’re supposed to be spending the day lounging at your fancy estate, getting ready to gorge yourself on Alfred-made dinner, not bumming around with me.”

“That’s not for hours,” Tim dismisses, “and to be honest, I’d rather skip it.”

Kon glances sideways at him. “Haven’t you missed it all month?”

“I was working the entire time. Everyone in the family has to do the occasional weekend rotation, Alfred knows that. Besides, I see them all at some point or another every week.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Kon taunts. “I thought we agreed you needed to stop isolating yourself?”

The furrow in his brow is one that Tim recognizes as a prelude to concern, though, and he suspects he won’t be able to deter his friend.

“I’m not isolating myself.”

“That so? When was your last date?”

And there it is.

“I left myself wide open for that one,” Tim sighs.

“You know I’m right.”

“Here it comes…”

“I’m serious—you can’t still be carrying a torch for your ex—”

“There are no torches.”

“—hoping it’ll work out—”

“I’m not!”

“—because that ship has sailed,” Kon concludes. “She’s dating your sister for God’s sake.”

“I’m aware.”

“And it’s been two years.”

“I’ve been on dates in the last two years,” Tim protests.

“Cassie doesn’t count,” Kon replies. 

That earns a wince. “We agreed never to speak about that.”

“And I told you I was fine with it, man, it’s not like I was there.”

There’s a heavy sensation in Tim’s chest at that reminder, and he scowls at Kon for bringing it up. That usually earns a shrug or palms-up gesture of surrender, but today Kon squares his shoulders and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“I already told you it meant nothing. We were both hurting and just…needed someone,” Tim insists.

Kon ignores him. “Which I’m okay with—relieved, even. I know you guys wouldn’t have looked at each other if circumstances were different. Which brings me back to Cassie, not counting.”

“She was there for me as much as I was there for her—can we please talk about something else?”

“Depends—do you have a better example than my last girlfriend?”

“Hey, I’ve been with other people! Remember Tam?”

“Yeah, your dad’s former business manager’s daughter,” Kon deadpans, “who you only started dating because everyone thought it was convenient. And she left you because you weren’t interested enough in the relationship.”

“What are you talking about? I was interested!”

“You didn’t even get to second base with her, man.”

“Are you seriously using the baseball metaphor?”

“Then there’s Bernard Whatshisname for the occasional booty call.”

“I regret ever telling you about that.”

“And don’t even get me started on that cop from Hong Kong that you hooked up with last month.”

“Okay, that one was a mistake,” Tim admits.

“But none of those were actual relationships. You haven’t had one of those since Steph.”

“I don’t recall you being this judgy before.”

“You’re one of my only sources of entertainment,” Kon deflects. “It’s like binge-watching Netflix and yelling at the idiot hero to stop screwing up his life. Except in this case, the idiot hero can actually hear me and have to listen.”

“‘Have to’ is debatable…”

Kon pushes off the stone they are both leaning against and turns to face him. It always annoys Tim when he pulls this, given he’s three inches taller and has twice the upper body strength.

“This is what you do, Tim. You keep people at a distance and on the rare occasion where they disappoint you or hurt you, you close yourself off,” Kon sighs. “You need to relax, man.”

Tim’s phone rings, granting him a welcome distraction.

“The last time I relaxed, I got stabbed,” he reminds Kon as he glances at the device. He blinks in surprise when he recognizes his brother’s scowling face and phone number flashing up at him. “Speak of the devil.” He swipes at the screen and answers, making a face at his best friend. “Gremlin.”

“Timothy,” is the terse answer, and Tim can almost hear the scowl in the younger man’s voice.

Huh. First name today. Either something bad happened, or he wants something.

Tim ignores the tiny edge of worry blossoming at the thought; if it were a family emergency, Alfred or Dick would call him, not Damian.

It must be the second thing.

“What do you want?”

“Where are you this morning?” the younger man asks, ignoring the question.

“It’s Sunday, where do you think I am?” he shoots back, deciding two can play ‘answer-with-a-question.’

Except Damian seems to have no intention of following the usual script.

“Of course,” he says instead, sounding distracted. “Then you should be close enough.”

“…For what?”

There’s a beat of hesitation, and then Damian says, “I may have stumbled upon something you’d find…interesting.”

Because that doesn’t sound ominous…

“Define ‘interesting’.”

“I’m at work,” Damian says. “Securing a crime scene.”

That moves Tim along the spectrum from wary to defensive at once. He goes to substantial lengths to avoid working with any of his siblings in a professional capacity. It’s a necessity in a family where law enforcement is all but synonymous with the name Wayne. Even if their older brother Dick hadn’t started the tradition of downplaying that link in the professional sphere, Tim has always been diligent in establishing professional boundaries. So far, his family has respected them. Damian, in particular, has always been gleeful—almost militant—in keeping to that maxim; for him to break it, something must have upset him. 

And for him to reach out to me instead of Dick is…I don’t think it’s ever happened.

“Are you sure you should have called me then?” Tim queries in a careful tone, wanting to make sure he’s not misreading the situation. “Dick might be a better option.”

“Richard wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t view it the same way.”

“The same way,” Tim repeats, the words sparking something—a flicker of suspicion begins to take shape.

“I shouldn’t even be telling you this,” Damian continues, “so you’d better be appreciative—”

“Spit it out, Damian.” Tim doesn’t have the patience for the adult version of ‘I-know-something-you-don’t-know’.

“Murder-suicide. Apparently. The bodies were posed,” Damian says, voice low as if he doesn’t want someone to overhear him, “And all the victims are holding hands.”

Tim’s mouth goes dry and his entire body tenses. “All?”

“Five,” Damian tells him shortly.

That makes Tim close his eyes in dismay. “Other than the number it’s the same MO as the others?”

“The crime itself, yes. Don’t your files say the last one was five years ago?”

Tim knows it should irritate him that Damian’s been poking around his casefiles—he always considered office protocol as more guidelines than law. But the infraction pales next to the knowledge blossoming into being.

It’s happening again.

“If you want to see for yourself, get here before whoever they assign as the lead detective does,” Damian is saying.

Torn, Tim’s eyes flick to Kon, who clearly knows what is being said and whose expression is all-too knowing for Tim’s liking.

“Where is it?” Tim asks at last.

“Diamond District. Gotham Tower Apartments.”

“That’s unusual,” Tim grunts, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. Only one of the earlier cases took place in what either of them would consider an upper-class neighborhood. “Also, outside of my jurisdiction.”

“That wouldn’t stop me if I were in your position.”

There’s a click and then a dial tone.

Tim gives a slow exhale, closing his eyes.

He and Damian were never the closest, but once the early friction between them eased, they developed their own dynamic. And one specific shared understanding that they bonded over in secret, away from the prying and often unintentionally judging eyes of family.

“How is he a jerk even when he’s trying to be helpful?” Tim mutters more to himself than Kon. He’s already calculating how long it will take him to get across the bridge from Metropolis.

Half an hour, with no traffic.

It will be cutting it close, assuming Damian holds off giving his own precinct the details until the last second.

He must be serious about this if he’ll risk being called up on discipline for not following protocol.

Tim turns to Kon. “Sorry, but I need to head out.”

“Like I won’t see you again next week,” Kon dismisses with a grim smile. “After all, you’re always here.”

“You say that like you don’t want me to be,” Tim replies, suspicious.

“Don’t put words in my mouth. You’re my best friend, I obviously want you to visit. But you need more in your life than work, checking in with me and—I dunno—chasing some white whale.”

“Really?” Tim deadpans. “You, of all people? You want me to give up trying to get justice—”

“Not what I’m saying,” Kon interrupts. “I’m just trying to tell you there’s more out there and you deserve to find it.” He pauses. “And   agrees with me.”

Tim cuts off a curse with a hiss. “That is a low blow, you two ganging up on me.”

“What can I say? You’d better listen, or he’ll do something impulsive, if he hasn’t already.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim grumbles, keying the coordinates of the crime scene into his phone’s GPS.

“Remember,” Kon calls after him, “ ”

“Always do,” Tim replies. As he heads for the gates of the cemetery, brushing his fingers against the headstone that reads: Connor Kent, Beloved Son, Brother, Friend—Brave Fireman of the Metropolis Fire Department.

⁂

“Six days,” Jason Todd fumes, glaring down at the muddle of papers and file folders in front of him. “I’m gone for six days, and you jerks decide to turn my desk into an episode of Hoarders.”

“Relax, Todd, it’s just paper, not toxic waste,” Detective Adams drawls as she passes by, unapologetically grabbing a few of the offending folders on her way.

“This? This is not just paper, it’s a potential biohazard.”

His desk, usually the immaculate outlier in the chaotic, open concept dumping ground of the 12th Precinct, is now covered in empty coffee cups, old take-out cartons, and other detritus.

“Says the man who filled my desk drawer with a cubic foot of golf balls the last time I was on leave.”

“None of which were covered in saliva—I mean, come on!” He holds up several crumpled napkins. “It’s just common fucking courtesy!”

“Take it up with Rayner.”

“Of course it was him. Guy has it out for me…”

“You did shoot him.”

“One time! And it was a shoulder wound! If I hadn’t, both our covers would have been blown and we’d both be dead.”

“Cry me a river, Todd,” Adams snorts. “I’ve got a lead on the Kirano case and don’t have time to wipe away your tears of manly angst.”

She stalks away, totally missing how he flips her the bird. Not that his heart is in it; he’s actually fond of Onyx and would even work with her if she could stand him. But the one time they were partnered together, it ended with them running away from an exploding truck and a two-inch-thick shard of metal through her shoulder.

Still trying to figure out how I got the blame for that one…

It’s not like he goes into a situation intending to get the people next to him injured. For some reason, he just happens to be better at intuiting incoming threats, whether it be a perp taking a swing with a knife or stopping just short of being shot.

It happens, sometimes, this inexplicable intuition. Roy always called it a sixth sense, but Jason takes issue with any of that hokey paranormal crap. He gets hunches—gut feelings that have served him extremely well in his career and helped him rise quickly through the ranks.

But he doesn’t like to think of himself as psychic.

He likes thinking of the possible reason for his “hunches” even less.

Finally getting the worst of the garbage into the trashcan beneath his desk, Jason starts on the wayward papers, pleased that most of it can be shredded and won’t require a trip to the file room. There’s one folder, however, that doesn’t fit anywhere: some arson report that has nothing to do with any of his ongoing cases.

He skims through the particulars of the folder and notes the name on the CSI report—B. Allen—which suggests it isn’t even recent. He’s been friends with the new ME, Stephanie Brown, for two years now, and never met the guy that was here before her.

Maybe someone’s trying to find a pattern or something.

Jason decides to bring it to the captain; if anyone’s missing a file related to their case, she’ll have a better idea.

He skirts around uniformed officers moving to and fro, some leading handcuffed offenders to the holding cells at the back of the building, others talking over their cases with each other or on the phone. He passes the office corkboard, filled with everything from sketches of perps at large (it seems Dr. Pamela Isley is up to her usual eco-terrorism) to reminders about the Gotham General Blood Drive (anyone who donates in uniform gets the rest of the day off, as well as the next one).

By the time he reaches the captain’s office, he’s sweating. It might be crisp outside, but inside there are so many bodies moving around that it might as well be the hottest day of summer.

Raising his hand to knock, he’s surprised when the door opens inward and the captain steps out.

“Todd,” she says with a blink, then nods to herself. “Right. You’re back today. That works. Get in here—I’ve got a case for you.”

He’s too used to Artemis’ brusque manner to be bemused; instead, he ducks into her office and closes the door behind him.

“It’s not another missing kid, is it?” he asks apprehensively; the last case involved a fourteen-year-old girl. “No promises I won’t break some scumbag’s teeth again if that’s the case.”

“You’d better not break anyone’s teeth,” Artemis chides him, a warning glint in her eyes. “Especially since you just got off suspension.”

And that for using “unnecessary force” in apprehending a drug dealer selling his shit to a bunch of kids.

“But no,” she continues, sitting behind her desk and reaching for a file, “it’s not. The officers on the scene are reporting it as an apparent murder-suicide.”

“And you thought that’s how I wanted to spend my first day back at work? I’m touched. Whatever made you think of me?”

“The fact that you were conveniently in front of me when I opened the door.”

“Aw, here I was expectin’ you to say something like, ‘well, you’re a constant pain in my ass, but you’ve also got the best record for closin’ cases in this department’.”

“You don’t need the ego boost. Now either take it and be grateful, or I’m giving it to Adams as I planned—”

“Gimme,” Jason interrupts, snatching the file folder from her.

“That’s what I thought.”

He settles into one of the chairs in front of the captain’s desk and opens the folder.

“I want this one looked into and closed as soon as possible,” Artemis goes on.

“Why?”

“Because of who the victim is.”

Jason frowns, scans through the preliminary report to see that the victim—victims—have, in fact, been identified. His eyebrows shoot upward.

“J. Devlin Davenport.” He looks up at Artemis, askance. “The investment guy? The one being investigated for embezzlement?”

“Fraud Squad’s been building a case against him for six months now,” Artemis confirms. “The guy set up a fake company and defrauded his investors out of 200 million. They’re still trying to track the stuff he funneled through the Bahamas.” 

“If they find it, send it my way,” Jason says, still skimming through the papers.

“Could you sound any more cliché?”

“If I tried, maybe,” he replies, distracted as he slides the folder he brought to one side of her desk. 

“What’s that?” Artemis asks.

“Dunno. File was on my desk. Arson, I think. Figured someone left it there.”

“We don’t have any arson cases ongoing at the moment, but I’ll ask around. Maybe someone’s doing case research.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason murmurs. He taps the paper in front of him. “Listen, if they’re saying this is a murder-suicide, that’s probably what it is.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Look at the transcript from when it was called in.”

“‘Bodies of the deceased were…arranged around the dinner table’,” Jason reads. “What the… ‘lack of struggle might suggest sedation before they were removed to the dining room and posed’—posed? Like a photographer does?” He makes a face. “Kind of a lot of effort for someone who just committed suicide right after…”

“If I’m not mistaken, that would be the thing that needs investigating.”

Jason ignores the sarcasm, checking to see who called this in.

Al-Ghul. Huh. Well, at least he’ll keep the place from being overrun. Kid’s scary good at keeping the rubberneckers away.

And pissing off the MEs by lurking around while they work.

Jason knows the new officer just wants to learn, but he also tends to be a bit of an entitled know-it-all like most of his generation. It’s a trait he’ll lose the longer he walks a beat and works up through the ranks, but right now it makes most people want to punch him.

Jason might be one of those people if it weren’t for the fact Al-Ghul is meticulous about taking statements, prompt in securing crime scenes, and entirely willing to go the extra mile to help a detective close a case even when he’s off the clock. He recognizes the ambition and the need to prove himself from his own first years as a cop.

If he adjusts that attitude a bit, I might even put in a recommendation to put him on detective track…

Jason closes the folder and grins at Artemis.

“So, who’s the unlucky bastard you’re pairing me with today?”

He doesn’t work well with a partner, given his tendency to ignore rules in favor of his gut instincts. Especially since it’s never steered him wrong. Most other detectives can’t stand that, with the exception of his last partner, Roy Harper, who transferred to Star City six months ago to be closer to his daughter. Then again, Roy always considered rules arbitrary anyhow.

Since then, Jason’s been cycled through almost all the detectives at the 9th Precinct, all without finding a decent fit.

Pretty sure it’s Artemis’ way of torturing me since plenty of other guys work their cases solo.

It’s a blatant implication that he needs a babysitter.

“Rayner wrapped up most of his cases last week,” Artemis replies without even checking the duty roster on her desk.

“Hell no.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I giving you the impression you have a choice?”

“Unless you want me back on suspension, you’re not putting me with that asshole.”

“Well, Jason,” she says, finally looking up at him with an expression that suggests she’s fully ready to call his bluff, “you have this tendency to either piss off or sleep with whoever gets assigned to you. At least if you’re working with someone that pisses you off, I’m less likely to need to fill out the paperwork to reassign them afterward.”

“And if they happen to fall into both categories?” he leers at her in an exaggerated manner. She was one of his partners once, both on the job and briefly outside of it. He prods at the plaque on her desk that reads Captain A. Bana-Migdhall. In retaliation, she reaches over and raps him on the knuckles with it. “Ow!”

“You’re not helping your case right now.”

“You know, it’s not my fault Eddie decided he’d rather play Bond Babe for the scary CIA chick with the one eye. And Miguel’s the one who couldn’t keep his hands off me, so…”

“Just…go find Rayner,” Artemis sighs, waving her hand in dismissal. “I need that crime scene checked over and wrapped up quickly. The Mayor’s office wants an answer on this pronto.”

Jason sneers at that. “Of course they do. Because the Waynes and Davenports are old country club buddies, right?”

“Maybe fifty years ago. But Bruce Wayne spent more time as a cop than some rich college co-ed. He got elected based on his tough-on-crime stance, so it’s more likely he just wants to make sure the high-profile target of a class-action suit hasn’t been the victim of foul play.” Artemis pauses. “Especially since, having met the man, I’m pretty sure Wayne would have liked to beat the truth out of Davenport personally.”

“Now there’s a reality show I’d watch.”

“On your own time. Now go do your job.”

“Or Rayner.”

Artemis drops her pen and stares. “What?”

“Well, from what you said before, I figure if I fuck Rayner, it means you won’t ever make me work with him again, so—”

“Get the hell out of my office!” Artemis barks, throwing her tissue box at his head. Jason ducks and slips out of her office with a grin on his face.

There are a few good-natured laughs from his coworkers—“In trouble again, Todd?”—and he heads across the room to Kyle Rayner’s desk.

“What do you want?” the other detective demands, nose wrinkling at Jason like he’s just smelled something rank. It’s his default expression whenever they cross paths.

It’s also the expression that drives Jason to mess with him whenever he can.

Time for a bit of payback for the desk thing.

“Not me,” he says, affecting a nonchalant shrug. “Captain wanted to know if you could head down to the 7th.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Apparently her opposite number there has something she needs to be sent over and doesn’t want to wait on official channels to slow everything down.”

“What do I look like, a courier?” Rayner growls, but Jason can see from the way he smooths a hand through his hair that he’s got him.

It’s not exactly a secret that Jason’s workplace nemesis has a thing for Precinct 7’s Captain Troy, or that he’ll take any excuse to go flirt with her.

It’s unrequited, of course, and Jason’s bound to get an earful from Donna the next time they run into each other, but worth it to get Rayner out of his way.

“Whatever, man, I just work here,” he says, only half-pretending irritation. “You want to tell Captain ‘no’, it’s your balls in a vice, not mine.”

“Yeah, that’d be a switch, wouldn’t it?”

But the other man pushes back his chair and grabs his jacket.

Jason smirks at his retreating back and spins on his heel, returning to his own desk to grab his car keys.

Maybe the day’s looking up a bit.

⁂

There’s a gaggle of reporters already on the scene when Tim arrives, and he wonders not for the first time just how many of them have their own inside sources in the various police precincts of Gotham. There are also two ambulances on the scene, but thankfully someone had the foresight to park them in a way that shields the entrance of the high-rise apartment.

Officer Kelley, Damian’s partner of six months, is walking back and forth along the police tape to ensure none of the intrepid rubberneckers can get through. Head down and dark glasses firmly in place, Tim hurries past the press before they can recognize him (it thankfully doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it’s a pain in the ass) and approaches Kelly. Though they’ve met before, he flashes his badge and identifies himself. 

All of Tim’s official identification name him as Timothy Drake-Wayne and have since he was about seventeen, but he only uses the latter name if he absolutely must. With regards to work, he’s only ever used it during official meetings with the Commissioner or during obligatory police ceremonies.

Or when Bruce makes up some official sounding excuse to check up on me when he feels he hasn’t heard from me in a while.

He's endured at least one of those this past month.

Kelley barely raises an eyebrow, suggesting Damian must have warned her who he was calling and waves him through. It speaks to how much they trust each other as partners that she’s going along with what’s clearly a personal issue. Most other cops would question the need for two law enforcement officers from the same family needing to be at the same crime scene.

There are two elevators in the lobby, one of which is already open with a sign posted to warn residents from using it. Another officer Tim doesn’t recognize is waiting beside it, and Tim once again flashes his badge before heading up.

He’s subjected to a brief interlude of elevator muzak, before the doors open to the foyer outside of what has to be the victims’ apartment. Two ambulance techs are just exiting, carrying with them tools that are clearly useless here. He waits for them to pass and slips inside, taking in the stylish décor of the hall and nearby living room. Inside the latter, there’s a small woman speaking to another EMT, a blanket over her shoulders as she tries to speak through sobs.

Damian is watching the scene from across the room, mouth pulled into his habitual frown; this deepens when he sees Tim. Undeterred, Tim strides over—he was invited, after all.

“So, are you going to tell me why I’m risking Cassie’s wrath this morning?” he asks as he joins the younger man. Tim's friend might not be the type of captain to fire him for the flagrant conduct unbecoming, but she can make his life miserable for the foreseeable future.

“The bodies were found this morning by the cleaning lady,” Damian says, also not bothering with such trite pleasantries as a greeting. “No signs of break-in or struggle.”

“Cleaning lady? This early on a Sunday? They must have been paying her overtime.”

Damian raises an eyebrow. “Pennyworth works Sundays.”

“Only because it would take the same amount of phenobarbital to stun a moose as it would to make Alfred take a day of rest.” They exchange a wry look of agreement, and Tim returns to the subject at hand. “So, she identified the bodies?”

“Yes. Joseph Devlin Davenport, his wife Lina, and the three teenaged offspring—Neil, Irene, and Roderick.”

Tim’s eyes go wide; he’s met every one of them before. “Shit.”

“Indeed.” Damian flips through his notepad, though they both know it’s for show. “All the victims were executed by two gunshots to the head, except Davenport himself; the medical examiner was here, and her preliminary findings suggest the husband shot his wife and children first, then turned the gun on himself. There are no signs of struggle, no bruising, or markings on the bodies…”

“None of that’s particularly extraordinary though.”

“And then there’s their hands.”

They share a look.

“Did you mention that when you called it in to your superiors?”

“No, when I called it in I gave them the basics. Since then I’ve noticed a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact a firearm was discharged several times in a residential complex and no one heard anything,” Damian says. “Yet I didn’t find a suppressor anywhere on the scene; just the weapon itself.”

“Is the penthouse soundproofed?” Tim asks.

“No. When I spoke to the downstairs residents, they told me they had even made several noise complaints to the building management in the past. Nothing ever came from it, of course—money talks—but someone should have heard something.”

“Assuming they recognized the sound of gunfire. This isn’t exactly Burnley. Which…could be a good thing. Buildings like this tend to have good security systems.”

“Obviously that was my next thought,” Damian drawls. “While Kelley was calming down the help, I went to speak with the security guards in case the camera system caught sight of anyone suspicious.”

"And did they?"

“No. They apparently had to run a routine update on their software, which knocked out the feed between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m.”

“And you think this is when the shooting took place.”

“I imagine Brown will find the time of death to be around that point,” Damian agrees with a smug upward quirk of his lips. “For Davenport to decide to kill himself at the exact time when the security feeds go offline is rather coincidental.”

Tim shakes his head. “Maybe, maybe not. Anything else?”

“What about the fact Davenport was left-handed but shot himself with his right hand?”

Tim blinks. “And how do you figure he was left-handed?”

“Please,” Damian dismisses with a snort, “I’ve been forced to attend enough fundraisers with Father in the past, and Davenport was often present. Even you would remember that ham-fisted troglodyte trying to sip from a champagne flute had you ever deigned to attend.”

Tim tilts his head in acknowledgment of both the barb and the observation. “Fair. Though so far all of this sounds pretty circumstantial—nothing really screams 'second shooter' here. And other than the hand thing—”  

“Go see for yourself. The bodies are in the dining room. I imagine your specific talents will confirm my suspicions.” Tim starts into the apartment. “By the way, if you’re still here when the lead detective gets here, I’ll deny knowing you.”

Tim snorts. “As expected.”

“And you are not to tell Richard I was involved in this. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Tim has to hold back a chuckle at that; Damian is even more acquainted with Dick’s mollycoddling than he is.

“Noted. Let Alfred know I might be a bit late for dinner tonight.”

“It’s not Alfred you have to worry about.”

Tim heads down the hall, accepting a pair of plastic gloves from one of the passing investigators. As he pulls them on, he takes note of the doors to the bedrooms that remain open, and the photographs and paintings hanging on the walls. Nothing is disturbed, no signs of a struggle like there would be if the victims had been dragged from their beds, and there’s no sign of blood on the floors leading from the rooms or even the hallway itself.

That means the victims either walked voluntarily—which is unlikely—or sedated and carried.

It’s looking like Damian’s instincts might be on-point here, but it’s not until Tim steps foot in the dining room that he realizes just how much that’s the case.

He freezes in place, hit with a familiar jarring of his senses at something not meant to be perceived.

Davenport was a man in his mid-forties, tall and with the look of a skinny person that’s suddenly gained a whole lot of weight, and not in a healthy manner. Tim remembers meeting him at some dinner with his parents when he was younger, and his mother disparaging the man behind his back as a social-climbing schemer.

And that was before the Ponzi scheme.

The man’s blond hair implants are now plastered with blood and brain matter that oozes down the left side of his head. His eyes roll in wild fear, tears and snot running down his face, which is immobilized in a stiff smile from regular Botox injections. That mouth is now twisted in a grotesque scream that makes Tim wince even in its silence, the unsettling sensation of nails on a chalkboard traveling up through his nervous system.

Tim is careful not to draw the attention to himself, not just because of the crime scene team still milling about the scene, but because the last thing he needs right now is a panicked ghost latching on to him. Davenport’s spirit is still in too much shock for rationality and may fixate on Tim if he discovers he can see him. Which he knows from experience is not fun.

The newly dead are like drowning victims—if they catch hold of you, they’ll drag you under with them. Best case scenario, Tim experiences a few seconds of possession and a week of dissociative identity issues; worst-case scenario, he could die from the same trauma.

Unfortunately, given the lack of control newly dead spirits have, the latter is most likely.

The ghost is luckily far enough from the dining room table that Tim can edge past him without ostensibly acknowledging its presence; instead, he studies the actual bodies and tries not to regret his coffee that morning.

The five victims have not yet been moved, but the placement of tarps over them suggests the crime scene photographers have already been by. Going from one body to the next, Tim lifts the sheets carefully, trying not to disturb anything too much in his investigation. The victims are all dressed in their nightclothes, seated around the table on wooden, cloth-back chairs. 

Damian wasn’t lying; all of them holding hands.

The dining room table is fully laden with dishes and cutlery, glasses filled with orange juice and bowls with the soggy remnants of cereal and milk. Other than the angry red entrance wounds on their foreheads—two shots each—there are no other visible injuries. Only the body of the presumed shooter, based on the position of the gun and his hand, is splayed out unnaturally across the table, ostensibly from the force of the gunshot.

Otherwise, it looks like they were all just sitting down to breakfast at the time of death.

His stomach roils a bit at the notion, not only because of the clearly depraved mind behind arranging the tableau but because the scene is familiar to him in a way he wishes it wasn’t.

Teeth clenched, Tim digs out his phone and starts to take his own pictures, not wanting to have to contact the lead detective and beg for copies. In the periphery, Davenport’s ghost continues to spasm and flail, making it hard for Tim to concentrate.

His eyes rest on the spot where the murder weapon fell and is struck by a sudden idea. Hoping he’s right, he takes a quick tour of the rest of the apartment but makes deliberate stops in the bedroom and the home office.

It’s another fifteen minutes of taking pictures and lightly rummaging through the belongings of the dead before he finds something. Striding out of the office and back toward the scene of the murder, Tim shoots a text message off to his friend Victor at the ATF.

Running gun serial numbers might be a little more complicated than on TV, but the guy owes me a favor. And if I’m right—

His thoughts cut off as he notices movement out of the corner of his eye, a movement that belongs to someone living this time.

There’s a newcomer on the scene, and from the way he flashes the badge, Tim would guess it’s the detective who’s actually supposed to be here. He’s redheaded, wearing a leather jacket and a loose tie that looks like he threw it on in a hurry. Even from this distance, Tim can make out a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin and the edge to his mouth that’s inherently challenging. The man’s whole esthetic reads scrapper, but his posture and carriage inarguably declare cop. Tim would know, his family is made up almost entirely of them.

Pretending like he hasn’t noticed the stranger, Tim shifts to face the scene once again, continuing to study him under his lashes as the man exchanges words with Damian.

He blames Kon entirely for the way his attention rests on the man’s muscular thighs, before the man turns toward Tim and starts forward, conversation with Damian clearly over.

Well shit…

⁂

Jason has an uneasy feeling in his stomach even before he even arrives at the Davenports’ penthouse apartment.

It’s not an anticipatory reaction to seeing the aftermath of a murder—he’s worked homicide long enough to have developed a means of distancing himself from the crimes he investigates. The feeling is more like expectation, a nagging sense that something huge is about to happen.

Never a good sign in my experience.

“Detective Todd?”

Jason pauses as he finishes putting on a pair of plastic gloves and glances up at the speaker.

“Officer Al-Ghul,” he replies, more formal than usual as he tries to shove the weird feeling to the back of his mind. “What’ve we got?”

The kid excuses himself from the small, tearful woman he’s speaking to and strides over.

“It seems to be a murder-suicide,” he says and launches into a report that’s almost word-for-word the transcript of what he called into the precinct, with a few extra additions. Jason lets the words wash over him, keeping an ear out for anything that deviates too much from what he already knows while casting his eyes about the apartment.

Geeze, you could fit three Crime Alley families in the living room alone. Who the fuck needs all this space?

His eyes fall upon someone across the room that he doesn’t recognize.

Young—maybe a bit younger than Jason—with an athletic build and good looks that, despite being clean-cut, give no clue as to whether they’re male or female. Whoever it is, they’re not dressed as a CSI or in an officer’s uniform, but they’re studying the crime scene with the eye of someone in the business. When the stranger notices Jason, he or she turns around, apparently fascinated by the photographs on the living room wall.

“Who’s that?” Jason interrupts Al-Ghul. “New CSI?”

Al-Ghul scowls in annoyance, either at the interruption or at the subject of the question, Jason isn’t sure.

“Major Crimes,” he says after a beat. 

That immediately puts Jason’s back up. “What the hell is MCU doing here?”

Al-Ghul shrugs, as if to say, ‘that’s your problem, not mine’, and returns his attention to the woman from before. Deciding this is a welcome distraction from his own unease, Jason stalks toward the stranger, ready to rip them a new one.

“Hey, buddy—wanna tell me what you think you’re doing at my crime scene?”

“Just taking a look around,” the detective replies, not turning around immediately.

Jason’s eyes flick to the photos on the wall, wondering what seems so captivating.

Most of them are glamor shots, professionally done, but some are clearly personal photos. Davenport and his wife on a golf course, the teenagers lounging around against a tropical beach backdrop, and another of Davenport sitting in a bed surrounded by his kids. Though his surroundings seem comfortable, he’s hooked up to some kind of IV stand, and despite the smile on everyone’s faces, there’s a haunted edge to it.

Oh yeah, now I remember.

A while back there was something in the news about him undergoing treatment for some kind of blood cancer. He actually tried to use that to discourage his case from being investigated. Just proves what kind of scumbag Davenport is.

Was.

Which brings him back to the present.

“I’m gonna need a bit more than that unless you want me making a call to the brass up at MCU,” Jason warns.

The detective turns to offer Jason what is clearly intended to be a disarming smile. “No need for that, I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

Jason prides himself on not being susceptible to that sort of thing, but—

Holy shit, he’s hot up close.

And yes, that’s definitely a male face studying him with an air of appraisal, in spite of the deceptively delicate features. The guy is mostly clean-shaven and wearing a smart-looking peacoat that offers a compliment to his eyes, which are very blue. It’s the intense color you don’t see very often outside of newborn babies, but with a pronounced gleam of intelligence that feels almost penetrating.

There’s also a confident set to his shoulders and a stubborn bend to his lips that instantly puts Jason’s mind on the defensive (and other parts at attention).

“Detective Drake,” the guy goes on, offering a hand to Jason. His voice is warm and smooth, the kind that’s more suited for phone sex than reciting Miranda rights. “Major Crimes, as you already seem to be aware.”

Jason refrains from taking the hand. “Detective Todd. 12th Precinct. Homicide. There a reason you guys are sticking your noses into a murder-suicide?”

“There’s reason to believe this may actually be the work of a serial murderer,” Drake replies, looking unbothered by the rebuff.

“Really,” Jason says flatly. “And what are you basing that on? Because the report I got is leanin’ pretty hard on this guy killing his wife and kids, then himself. That’s probably how the city’s going to record it. This isn’t a scene that needs in-depth investigating and there’s no need for one lead detective here, let alone two—especially not a guy who’s clearly out of his jurisdiction.”

‘Detective Drake’ doesn’t appear to notice the clear marking of territory.

“Have you been in there yet?” he asks instead.

“No, because I’m wasting my time explainin’ protocol to a smart-ass out of his jurisdiction.”

Drake smirks at that, sharp and unwavering. “Well, when you get around to it, you’ll probably cotton on to the fact the murder weapon was a .32 automatic with the serial filed off.”

“So?”

“So, first of all, the neighbors would have heard the discharge if it was fired without a decent suppressor, but there’s no evidence of one at the scene of the crime.”

Which, Jason can admit, is out of the ordinary. Most people committing suicide don’t care about how loud the shot will be that takes them out, but if they did use one, it would still be attached to the gun.

“Second, Davenport was an ardent supporter of gun rights. I remember seeing a clip of him on the news, going at it with the Mayor over his proposed gun-control laws.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Your point being?”

“My point is that generally, gun rights activists own guns. Which Davenport did—you’ll find them in his closet and his study, next to all the relevant paperwork: 9mm Glocks. And they have serial numbers.” Drake levels a challenging stare at Jason. “What’s the point of procuring an unregistered weapon when you have your own within easy reach? And why chisel the number off if you’re just going to commit suicide? It’s not like you need to care about it being traced once you’re dead.”

“The guy was rich—rich people do weird things. Probably some convoluted insurance thing,” he suggests.

“Or it wasn’t his.”

“So maybe he was holdin’ it for a friend. It happens. Still doesn’t change the fact this tool offed his own family.”

“And what about the fact that the same model gun has been found at the scene of at least fourteen other murder-suicides in this city in the past ten years?”

“It’s Gotham. Play the probabilities game long enough, you’ll get a bunch of seemingly random crimes that resemble each other.”

“Maybe. But in the ninety-something years before that—in fact, as long as the city’s kept records on this sort of thing—there have been only two murder-suicides that could fit that pattern, and those had enough additional evidence to solve immediately. But in the past decade, we've got two particular years where a series of murder-suicides were committed using an unregistered .32, where neighbors didn’t hear any of the gunshots and yet there was no sign of a suppressor. Five years ago, and ten years ago,” Drake tells him grimly. “Both those years there were exactly seven incidents, and then they stopped. None of those have been solved.”

“That says more about the investigating cops than the crimes themselves. You don’t solve a murder-suicide—the evidence is right there,” Jason insists, though what Drake has to say is uncomfortably close to what his own gut was telling him when he walked into the apartment.

“And the fact that in each situation, the victims are found holding hands?” Drake challenges, with the air of someone presenting a winning argument.

And, yeah, that’s a bit of a weird coincidence, but still not an argument for a major investigation.

“If that’s an actual detail in all these supposed cases of yours, it would have been noted.”

“Not if no one thought it was worth noting,” Drake retorts. “Not if whoever made those reports just thought it was some kind of death pact or…cult related suicide. They weren’t looking for it.”

“But you are.”

“Clearly.”

Jason peers at him another beat and then shakes his head. “Look, I have about seven other cases of actual homicide that need my attention, so if you could just—"

“Seriously?” Drake demands, losing some of his smooth calm at last. “You don’t find any of that compelling enough to—”

“To what? Start imagining serial killers where there are none? No, I don’t,” Jason snaps. “All I see so far is some rich bastard got caught running a Ponzi scheme, so he decided to take the easy way out and dragged his poor family with him. It’s what rich people do when things get hard; because if they can’t have it, no one can.”

That earns him a cold look. “Out of the other fourteen cases, only one of them involved a couple who could be considered rich.”

“Fourteen other cases where only you seem to notice the pattern. I dunno what you want me to say, buddy. Clearly, you got an ax to grind, so do me a favor and grind it away from my scene.”

Despite his words, it’s not a suggestion, and Drake recognizes it.

Scowling at Jason in something like disgust, he straightens up. “Fine. I’m going. But when another family is slaughtered by this nutjob—and it will happen—you’ll remember this discussion. Hopefully, before you have to answer another six homicide calls.”

Drake spares Jason one final judgmental look and heads for the front door.

Jason watches him, briefly admiring the man’s ass as he walks away, and then puts the encounter out of his mind. He’s got a job to do, and Artemis said she wanted this sorted out today.

Squaring his shoulders and preparing himself for another grim sight—he hates crime scenes that involve kids—he heads out of the living room toward the back of the apartment and the scene of the crime.

Crossing the threshold to the dining room, Jason’s earlier disquiet morphs, evolving from nervous apprehension to a full-blown dip towards dread. He barely catches a glimpse of the tarps draped over the bodies, when his stomach pulls tight, shoulders tensing as if waiting for a blow from the right, but there’s no one there. Something far too close to fear chokes at his throat, forcing him to pause in the doorway and put a steadying hand on the doorframe.

Spots appear across his vision, a chill winding up his spine, and—

—sobbing, hysterical tears, please don’t do this, please just let them go, heart racing, blood thundering, please no, I’ll give you anything, someone help, click, bang, agony, nothing—

Jason shudders as he comes back to himself, reeling back a step.

The sensations ebb a little but don’t completely vanish, and he has to take a few breaths to regain his control. Now that he expects it, it won’t be too hard entering the room, but the fact it hit him like that...

Jason glances back to the entrance of the apartment, mouth setting into a grimace. He’s cleaned up plenty of suicides, and they never hit him with that degree of dread before.

 He has a bad feeling that Detective Drake might have been right—whatever happened in the apartment, it wasn’t as simple as it's meant to look.

________________________________________________________________

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn't something you're comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel! ❤️️ = I love this story!

😳 = this was hot!

💐 = thank you for sharing this

🍵 = tea spilled

🍬 = so sweet and fluffy!

🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good!

😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER

😢 = you got me right in the feels

🤯mind blown

🤬god damn cliffhanger

😫 whyyyyyyy?!?!? 

[allthethingamabobs]

family sticks together, bruh

Notes: I was re-watching the Bay-verse movies and suddenly got irritated at the no last name thing at the end of the second one. April O'Neil was right there. Their ride-or-die, their badass older sister, their hogosha. So here's my first contribution to the TMNT fandom. I literally wrote this in half a day, so if you see any writing errors all I gotta say is...my bad. Enjoy the found family fluff!

Rating: G

Also on AO3.

April figured it all started with a package hastily stuffed in her mailbox. It was barely small enough to fit, wrapped in that tough paper-cardboard material, and took a few careful pulls to get out. She couldn’t recall ordering anything recently, so the least she could do was try not to destroy what was most likely her neighbor’s mail. But when she flipped it over for the addressee, she was surprised to see “Mikey O’Neil” on it.

April and her “childhood pets” had been reunited four months back now, and it continued to throw her life upside down. A happy upside down, though. Those two names together were doing a number on the loner habits she’d built up since her father’s death. Apparently, all it took was four mutant teenagers and their father to start breaking down those walls.

She snapped a photo of the package and sent it to Mikey as she walked up to her apartment. Her phone lit up with a video chat request seconds later. The boys were just like any other teens when there weren’t bad guys to fight—they loved texting (on their one-of-a-kind turtle phones), sending her snaps, and video chatting whenever they could. April supposed that 15 years alone in a sewer could make one a little starved for new attention, and she was always happy to talk.

One of Mikey’s eyes filled the screen first, and then his grinning face when he pulled back. “You got it!” he hollered.

There was a thump from somewhere behind him, and Leo yelled something about peace and quiet when meditating. Then all she could see was a blurry carapace as Mikey quickly escaped to some other part of the lair. “You got it!” he cheered again, down to a whisper-yell.

“Sure did,” she answered with a smile, while making sure her apartment door locked behind her. “A little heads up would be nice, though. People do steal packages.”

“Man, that would’ve been no bueno. It has my name on it and everything.”

She shrugged—it was New York, what could she say. “About that… Mikey O’Neil, huh?”

He brightened. “Yeah! Makes sense, right? You’ve always been family even if we got separated for like, way too long, and who wouldn’t want to be a badass O’Neil?”

“Hm.” Her smile was fond even as she bit her lip to keep herself from doing something dramatic like tearing up. “You make some excellent points.”

Mikey nodded, seemingly proud of his reasoning. “You get me, April. So when are you gonna come hang out?”

“Not until tomorrow at least.” She set the phone on the counter as she turned to mess with the oven dials. “I’ve got to eat, and then a grimy bathroom and donation boxes are calling my name.”

Two weeks ago, a great aunt she hadn’t talked to since her father’s funeral had passed away and apparently left her succession rights to a New York miracle: a rent-controlled apartment above a quiet antique store. It was a dated unit and still smelled a bit like old people, but she was making it work.

A whine came from her phone. “Aw, shell… Oh, hey! We could help! Four mutants and a human are better than one!”

“That’s sweet, Mikey, but I’ve got this.” Plus, she was starting to pick up the brother’s dynamics. That visit would devolve into complete chaos in no time, given the cluttered mess. There were a lot of breakable objects she was still in the process of either packing up or donating.

“Your loss, Ape. Guess we’ll see you tomorrow.” He got up close to the camera again and whispered dramatically, “You’ll bring the package, right?”

She snorted and leaned over so he could see her face. “Pinky swear.”

“I don’t have a pinky, so I’ll have to believe you. Bye, April!”

The screen went blank, and April had a glimpse of herself in the reflection. She had to admit… her smile looked a lot more genuine these days.

In work news, however, life had been a lot of sucking up to Bernadette and the team after getting her job back, so she didn’t get down to the lair until late in the evening. Entering through the water system wasn’t exactly ideal, so they’d built a biometric, heavily enforced door as an alternative. Leo spotted her first as she shoved her way in and waved from where he was cleaning his katanas.

The new lair seemed to change every time she visited—more light-up signs or beat-up furniture appearing—and she still felt a little guilty for being the reason behind the move. The guys had assured her that they didn’t blame her, and they were having fun with the tall ceilings and tunnels in the new space. Splinter had even claimed one to start a bonsai garden.

“Hey, April! How was your day?” Leo called, carefully setting his weapons aside to get up.

“Not too bad, mostly research on some detox craze—”

“April!?” There was a crash from the back where they had set up a gym area in an upper opening. Mikey came tumbling out, almost right on top of where Raph was exiting the lower tunnel, and he gracefully avoided retaliation. “You got the goods?”

Leo shot her a confused frown, and she answered with a fond “don’t ask” look before rummaging in her bag to pull it out. “Yes, Mikey, I have the goods.”

Mikey bounced over and pulled her into a quick, bone-crushing hug before taking the package out of her hands. He ripped into it and pulled out a gaudy gold chain that looked like it once belonged in a 2000’s music video.

“Bling, bling!” he crowed and threw the shell necklace off to be replaced.

“Wait a minute, is that what was so important you had to order it?” Donnie said as he and Raph joined the group. “That’s such a waste of money!”

“Some ninja you are,” Raph snorted. “You can see that ugly-ass chain from a mile away.”

Leo hummed at that and then frowned. “Mikey, did you even ask April if you could send that to her place before you ordered it?”

Said turtle shrugged. “I knew she wouldn’t mind.”

The others seemed to erupt at once.

“Except it’s an unknown package being sent to her place, especially with the Foot Clan knowing her association with us—”

“Even worse, it’s inconsiderate to just assume—”

“Even worse, Leo? What kind of bullshit is that—”

April was an only child (well, not so much anymore), so she wasn’t used to how quickly one small thing could turn into a full blown argument. If pushing got involved, then 6-foot mutant turtles or not, she would break up that fight—yup, there’s the shoving.

“Guys, GUYS!” April moved forward and intercepted the beginning of whatever as they all avoided bumping into her. “It’s fine. You can have stuff sent to my place, I don’t care. As long as I can get it down here.”

It took a little more convincing to assure them that no, they were not imposing on her, and then they seemed excited about this new opportunity. Apparently, they’d had to scout out addresses before and sneak the package away before the occupants realized. Obviously, this was much more convenient.

Steadily, they all started to order stuff online (with what money or credit card she had no idea) and have it sent to her place. Parts for Donnie, books for Leo, and though she only felt it through the packaging, yarn for Raph. At first, Mikey was the only one who used O’Neil for the address. Then something changed, and they all started to use it too. A package of tea addressed to Splinter O’Neil gave her a small laugh one day. Raph had been the last to address himself as O’Neil, always so stubborn, and seemed almost shy when she delivered it.

April knew she was very biased on this, having seen them as teeny-tiny babies, but her little-big brothers could be pretty adorable sometimes.

---

The last name thing had come up with Splinter one day as they sat in his quiet bonsai garden, enjoying some tea while the boys burned off energy around the rest of the lair.

“I don’t want to overstep any boundaries or anything, but I’ll admit it’s… nice. My dad was really all I had for family, so it was just us and then me for so long. It’s almost like this has all… I don’t know, come full-circle? If that makes sense?”

Splinter smiled and reached out to lay his hand on hers.

“I was not lying when I said I modeled my parenting after your father. One way or another, you both cared for this family, and you know we consider you a part of it.” April nodded, a little choked up, and grasped his hand. He’d said it himself, but she wasn’t ready to fully relive how Splinter felt so familiar, so comforting.

“Besides,” he continued with a chuckle. “Michelangelo has quite enjoyed having a last name, and I think the others were a bit hesitant before they saw that you didn’t mind.”

“Of course not, I’m all for it,” April laughed, wiping under her eyes. “Now there’s more than just me to make the O’Neil name proud.”

---

One other thing she had discovered about being a big sister to four trouble-prone teens: full names were extremely effective.

“Donatello O’Neil!” she shouted the second she stepped into the lair, and all movement ceased. Leo balanced on one foot, mid-throw, Raph was mid-swing across the lair, and Mikey had an orange soda titled towards his face, where it slowly dripped down his front.

A weak “Oh, shell” came from the direction of the lab, and she stormed over. A taunt from Mikey followed but was quickly cut off with a grunt. Donnie was hunched over his desk, head turned slightly to look up at April’s furious approach.

“Why the hell did I just find a tracker in not one but all of my jackets?” She reached into her pocket, grasped the tiny devices, and tossed them on the desk. “I almost had a panic attack thinking I was being tracked by someone else. You know that’s been one of my worst fears ever since the Shredder, and we’ve talked about privacy and emergency plans, Donnie. I have a panic button on my phone, and I gave you permission to track it when absolutely necessary.” She let out a frustrated huff, pointing at the trackers. “What. Are. These?”

He’d sputtered a bit and avoided her eyes as she spoke, but he finally looked up when she stood silent, waiting for an answer. His shoulders drooped, and he wheeled back from his desk to face her. Even sitting, Donnie was only slightly shorter than her.

“Contingency plan,” he finally bit out. “Phones are most likely the first thing a kidnapper would get rid of to avoid tracking.”

“Wh— kidnapper?” That caught her off guard, and the tension in her shoulders released a little. Was there a new danger she didn’t know about? “But who… Oh.”

Movement on his tablet drew her eye, and the footage there followed a shady van that looked very familiar.

The Foot Clan—because an organization that big could still survive with their leader in jail for a year now—had disabled her turtle-approved security system and ransacked her apartment a couple of weeks ago. The cameras from across the street told them that and how the intruders had missed April coming home by a mere 12 minutes. They had obviously been searching for something specific, and she eventually realized it must have been the box of notes from Project Renaissance. Luckily, they had been stored in the lair for safe keeping.

After coming home to that mess, April called Donnie right away and started packing up her necessities. All four of the turtles had met her at her usual sewer entrance, and they formed a tense detail on the trip back. She worked out-of-office that week as she laid low in the lair and waited for the all-clear while they doubled up her apartment’s security. Splinter and the boys were good about giving her space when she was working, but she could still feel the hovering and worry. The guys had been in and out more often, Splinter always had some tea ready for her, and she just knew there had been many hushed conversations out of earshot.

Sure, deadly henchmen being in her apartment had freaked her out, but it had really freaked out her new family. April held her own against all of the weird shit they got dragged into, but there were always reminders that she did not have a shell or ninja training; a sprained ankle, one small concussion, too many bruises to remember, and even a few less inches of hair when it got singed in an explosion.

She looked between the tablet and Donnie, but now he held his gaze steady. “The Foot know where you live, and you refuse to move. This was the best way for us to always be there when you need us.” His voice was even, calculated, but his hands were clasped tightly and one foot tapped insistently.

Oh, her sweet, overprotective boys. Under all that bullet-proof shell, they were all just teenagers who had five people in the world to call family, and they did not take that for granted.

April sighed and turned to sit against the desk, holding out one hand. Donnie took it and held on, grip tight. “It comes from a good place, Donnie, but you have to tell me about these things. Trust goes both ways, okay?”

Leo, Raph, and Mikey were hovering around the entrance to the lab, and she gave them all a stern look to reiterate her point. “I know I don’t have a shell, but I am scrappy, stubborn, and awesome at running in heels.”

“Way better than the Jurassic World chick,” Mikey piped up, and Raph lightly punched his arm.

“You’re damn right,” April answered, smiling at his effort to lighten the mood. “So I appreciate the worry, guys, but you need to talk to me. I worry, too. You might forget, but you’re not invincible.”

“Better off than you,” Raph grunted. This time Mikey punched him, not as lightly. “What, it’s true!”

April sighed. “Come on, Raph, you know muscle isn’t everything.”

“No,” he grumbled, “but you got us. Whether or not you like it, we can take the hard hits.”

“What he means to say,” Leo said, shoving Raph back with his shoulder, “is that we were worried, and we didn’t think you were taking the threat seriously enough.” Donnie’s hand gripped hers a little harder, and she looked back to see him nod in agreement. “We are sorry about the secrecy, though.”

April sighed. “Fair point. You know I love you guys,” they perked up at that, “but having back-up is kind of a new thing for me. It’s habit to go solo, and it’s habit for you four to be a team.”

She held out her other hand. Leo was closest, and he took it with some hesitation. “Still a learning process all around.”

Mikey eagerly grasped Leo’s other hand and then Raph’s, refusing to let go even as Raph gave a shake, so they were all joined. “Family sticks together, bruh.”

---

The O’Neils had been a thing for awhile now, but writing it down was very different to actually saying it outloud. Mikey had no trouble claiming his new last name, and had even dubbed some pizza monstrosity he concocted from as many toppings he could get as the “O’Neil Special.” For the others, it took some time to say it—at least when she was around to hear.

Eight months. Donnie had been talking a mile a minute about a phone meeting set up with an award-winning engineer currently teaching at NYU. He’d been given 30 minutes to ask her all the questions he wanted. April had kind of bullied Vern into setting it up with his new connections, and Donnie had asked her to be there for moral support. She assured him it was all going to go great and to just make the call already. His shoulders went rigid under her hands when the call connected. “Hi! Hello, uh, this is Donatello O’Neil, I got your number from Vern? The Falcon?” She squeezed his shoulders in comfort, grinning proudly for many reasons.

One year and 2 months. Raph had been playing a one-on-one basketball game with Donnie while April refereed. Even as the self-proclaimed muscles, Raph was agile, and he did a quick maneuver around Donnie to score a perfect 3-pointer. “And Raph O’Neil makes the shot!” he whooped, doing a quick victory dance. He didn’t seem to realize it, but April certainly did. She felt warm and fuzzy after that, so she let him get away with traveling a couple minutes later.

For Leo, it just hadn’t come up yet. Although, one day she’d been stress cleaning their mess of a kitchen, and opened one beat-up book in curiosity to see “Leonardo O’Neil” neatly written on the cover page. That was enough for her.

Then her amazing family had finally gotten the acknowledgement they so rightly deserved.

“To you, brothers. Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo.” Chief Vincent paused. “Last name?”

The guys all glanced her way, and April didn’t care if her eyes were a little watery at Leo’s answer. “O’Neil.”

[leafallsonelines]

Bizarre Love Triangle

I'm not sure what this could mean I don't think you're what you seem I do admit to myself, that if I hurt someone else Then I'll never see just what we're meant to be  -New Order

I didn't want to get into a relationship.

He wore me down and soon enough I was the one crazy about him. I always answer to the undefinably strong pull toward a certain person. I was soul weary and needed a break from emotional turmoil. When you meet somebody else, they're the main character of their own love story (just like I am in mine; as it should be). I'm privy to fact that we all have a history, especially when dating in your late 20's and 30's. I wasn't ready for our stories to collide.

I desperately wanted to avoid cluttering my life with someone else's relationship baggage when I haven't even taken care of mine. He campaigned hard for the relationship. I went for it.

Despite my better judgment I always cave—give in to that desire — anticipate and absorb the pain that inevitably follows.

I told you that story to tell you this one.

Back in 2014 the term Cool Girl ™ was coined to describe women who change their personality for male approval. (The shtick is contrived and annoying once you spot it.) She doesn't have a solid sense of self and basks in attention to fill. That void; hoards men like Thanksgiving hams and gets territorial when she's not The Girl. She gets kicks from seeing how uncomfortable she can make other girls by openly flirting with their boyfriends just to watch them squirm. This act is so played out most people have an eye roll ready for anyone flying the “I'm not like other girls” banner. (Gen Z now calls them Pick-Me-Girls ™.)

I crossed paths with one in 2018 — my boyfriend's best friend of sixteen years. A self-indulgent, selfish friendship. I wasn't initially jealous, didn't interrupt, and it came back to bite me; it was hideously unfair.

For storytelling purposes let's call her “Kate Luu.” Kate, an incestuous tigermom who gets jealous of any girl her son gets with, a petulant toddler that would rather break a toy than let someone else play with it. Probably has BPD. Definitely needs a good therapist.

Like a lot of dewy eyed girls newly in love I conveniently dismissed the red flags around my boyfriend and Kate. I had empathy for them because of my past platonic friendships with flirty undertones. Guys would respectfully fall back when they got into relationships or if I Was in one. I struggled with the slow withdrawal of warmth, missed the emotional intimacy, but recognized it as the right call and moved on. A lot of young adults exploring their sexuality go through this. As I got older I favored female friendships for being uncomplicated, preferring to avoid unwanted sexual tension.

Empathy without boundaries is self-destruction.

A couple weeks after celebrating our one year anniversary Kate texts me, “We need to talk.” Alarms immediately go off in my head. The last few months I had started bringing attention to the bad vibe I was getting and the inappropriate nature of the relationship. I got tired of biting my tongue. He didn't know how to process it or correct it. His lingering infatuation with her made it impossible for him to distance himself or enforce new boundaries. He started hiding it instead. I caught him being intentionally ambiguous about his plans when going to see her. He fumbled himself into an emotional affair.

Princess Diana famously described her marriage to Charles as “crowded.” It was an unmistakable reference to his affair with Camilla. Looking back the (justifiable) anxiety I had was from being crowded. Intuition is not insecurity.

I met Kate for coffee and she read aloud a pathetic five page letter telling me I'm a bad girlfriend and “full of shit.” She was intervening on his behalf as the person who knows what's best for my boyfriend.

“It's none of your business.”

But no, she has the authority to interfere as his best friend of  sixteen years  and I was a  one year  nothing. She brought up the fact he was attracted to her first, told me I'm spineless and ruining their friendship with my insecurity. (She _really _ran with the words spineless and insecure.)

Accusations are confessions when they come from a manipulative person. Textbook projection. She was mad her narcissistic supply was tapering off. (Gaslighting Pro-tip: Label rightful jealousy as insecurity.)

My boyfriend gave her personal, intimate details of my life during their oversharings and she used that information to bully me. Nothing was off the table, including my sexual history. I can see how she manipulated him, but it was inexcusable. People who enable They leave the door open for endless rows of inappropriate behavior. All of this was happening behind my back for a year. That kind of intimate toxicity are suckers for ego massages.

Don't you just love a story where the villain puts all the evidence of her misdeeds in one letter and unravels into epic, illogical rage all in one afternoon, in the space of two hours?

How did Kate have time to write five pages of false narratives designed to destroy a relationship she was jealous of? She doesn't have a job. She's a pampered dog mom living in her rich fiancé's house for free. A busybody performatively taking care of other people to avoid a mountain of personal issues. (An unevolved Virgo.)

Don't worry about what I'm doing. Worry about why you're worried about what I'm doing.

Kate has many noticeable traits as an obnoxious, self-important person — an absolute fake. She calls herself a _philanthropist _without having done anything philanthropic or even knowing how to use the word; she literally saw a big SAT word that means good person and attached Herself to it. (A word assigned to big charitable donors like Bill Gates, not bloggers). She has the same relationship with the word “unconventional” and thinks using a bigger word for unique or quirky makes her even more unique and quirky. Nope, still basic.) In place of possessing any actual humor she repeats memorized dad jokes and leans into corny, forced puns. If this isn't annoying enough she then insists she's funny. (Funny people just make you laugh. They never have to tell people they're funny. Barfs in, “I speak fluent sarcasm.”)

If I poked a finger through her shallow veneer I'd find loose dirt and dog shit.

And you know what? I'm not even against intense friend love. I get it. I groove to “One Love.” Emotional freedom is important. Expressions of love are multitudinous. It should transform to fit the situation. She didn't respect basic boundaries to make room for all of us to be comfortable. She was just mad she got demoted and tried to burn the whole thing down.

Kate wanted to be the main character in my boyfriend's love story without ever actually dating him. Oh yes, I know — the audacity, the toxic lack of boundaries, the mind numbing arrogance. She's not even protagonist material — a papier-mâché hipster who got her personality from an Urban Outfitters catalog and can't stop contradicting herself despite the fact she is working off a pre-written letter. I have never encountered someone who thought so highly of herself while having almost no substance. She calls herself a writer , but is just a pseudo-intellectual English major who posts aesthetic word salad on Instagram.

Later on I realized that if someone is mean to you unprovoked it's jealousy. One of the catalysts for the meetup was a heartfelt anniversary post I wrote on Instagram. It's not my usual style, but I felt gushy and really went full blown poetic and swoony She's jealous that her own, brought up love and Birth of Venus, blah blah blah. She mentioned my IG post and even admitted it was poetic and well written, but proceeded to use that as the jumping off point to invalidate the love in it. writing is try-hard drivel; a woman in her thirties mentally stuck in 2011 tumblr cringe.

If she truly wanted him she should have pursued him honestly and not wait to mess with another person. Hell, even just owning up to her feelings and saying, “I realize I may have lost my chance with you. Is there still anything in our sixteen year history that makes you want to give us a shot instead? ”à la My Best Friend's Wedding. Treading some moral gray area, but way more acceptable than actively sabotaging a relationship.

She didn't really want him though. She just wanted to continue their friendship in that inappropriate flirtationship space to feed her ego. After the coffee date she ended their friendship in an email. That really important sixteen year friendship became disposable to her once she wasn't able to control it.

Sometimes trash does the public service of loudly identifying itself as trash and takes itself out.

If you're a female best “friend” to a guy in a relationship and you need to flex on “I was here first” and “We did this before you were in the picture,” then you were never interested in seeing that friend thrive in a romantic relationship. You just get off on being his favorite unfulfilled option. If seeing him in love with someone new has you feeling that miserable you're just being selfish. Real love doesn't overstep in a new relationship so you can hog their spotlight. You're not even a friend; you're a skunk marking your territory and keeping him in the friendzone while not really wanting him to have a girlfriend.

You learn to love somebody in their love language and not just yours. Selfish love is not real love. That's just using someone to fill a place. Maybe a distraction. Seeking anything in return isn't real love because if you want that you actually don't have love to give; it's fake; it's toxic. If there's someone who isn't around anymore and you miss them consider the fact that you might just miss the place they held in your life. (You have the freedom to fill that space anyway you want.)

She realized she burned through all her goodwill thus the sudden ghosting and extracting herself. I never asked my partner to pick me or issued any ultimatums. Sometimes important questions stay unanswered. Sometimes you have to move on without the apology you deserve. There is grief in never receiving closure.

My partner finally saw my concerns validated in the aftermath. I bubbled with rage remembering excuses he made for her. Day in and day out I was drinking from an overflowing cup of righteous anger. So what was his role in this? Stupid or co- conspirator?

He was oblivious.

“I can't believe you could've left me for a wannabe influencer.”

I switched my phone wallpaper from his picture to a solid color. Looking at his face filled me with disgust. There's only so much letting go you can ask someone to do. I knew I still loved him, but anytime a woman is hurt she becomes less interested.

How do you recover from unknowingly letting a toxic bitch walk all over and jeopardize your relationship?

Friends told me to move on, date other people. He campaigned for the relationship again. We did the work of picking up the pieces and starting over. 

I'm not pretending to be perfect. I was reeling from back to back traumas. My soft spots turned hard and cynical. It was my turn to be the toxic one. I drove to work sobbing everyday for a month. I complained constantly. My default became anxious and suspicious. I'm so out of touch with the person I was before; she's a stupidly innocent, free-spirited stranger to me. It took time for the poison leach out.

It's a lot of baggage.

The couples who make it aren't always the ones that never had a reason to break up. They're the ones that decide their commitment to each other is more important than their mistakes. Fast forward to the herculean effort he made to earn back my trust and we're still very happily together. (This is published with his permission.)

Our relationship is more grounded in reality now. It's not crowded anymore. Somethings more precious from having almost been lost. Somethings will never be the same. I'm the villain in her story, just as much as she's the villain in mine. We get to live out our own endings and there is peace in that.

Hurtful, painful, memories. Memories of deep regrets, memories of hurting and being hurt. Memories of being abandoned. Only those with such memories buried in their hearts can become stronger, more passionate, and emotionally flexible. Only those can obtain happiness. So Don't forget any of it. Remember it all and overcome it. If you don't overcome it, you'll always be a kid whose soul never grows.  -The Boy Who Fed On Nightmares

[blackaquokat]

The World Runs to Chaos

Fandom: Who Killed Markiplier?

Pairing: DAtective (Y/N District Attorney x Abe the Detective)

Summary: In which a party goes horribly wrong and boundaries are crossed. (Or, alternatively, my DAtective edition of WKM.)

A/N: You may want to read the three previous installments for my DAtective series Law & Disorder before reading this piece. Otherwise some of the references and events may make no sense. I also played with a new kind of formatting for this particular fic, in order to accommodate what I consider to be the angsty DAtective theme song. Also, this is long. Like, really long. About 9,000 words. Enjoy!

“Screw the phone, screw you and all your stupid rules

Are you alone? Are you dancing by yourself?

‘Cause I’m out here, alive here

We’re dancing here

Chugging from the bottom shelf…”

I

Up until the moment Abe saw the District Attorney walk through the door, he thought he could make it through this party in one piece, despite the Mayor’s attendance.

But that had been a goal of his, hadn’t it?

To talk with the Mayor.

Maybe see what Abe’s favorite attorney sees in the guy. If he’s really as clean as they claim he is.

Five minutes into a conversation he won’t remember ten minutes later, and Abe finds that he likes Mayor Damien Goodwin. Which, of course, only makes him more suspicious. He doesn’t like many people.

Unwittingly, he thinks of the one person he does like right now. The memory keeps him from abandoning the interaction.

Besides, he’s not blind.  How often does one get to speak to a drop-dead gorgeous government official?

Don’t think about the DA again.

To further prove that Fate enjoys throwing curveballs into Abe’s life, he looks up and the goddamn District Attorney walks through the door in all their stoic, ready-to-verbally-tear-you-a-new-one glory. Only for the first time since he’s known them, they’re not in working clothes, but in a casual fancy ensemble that practically makes them glow and the sight shoots straight through his lungs.

They look just as surprised to see him. He can’t tell if it’s good surprise or bad, what with their argument still lingering over his head like a pendulum.

“I thought we trusted each other.”

He chokes on whatever he was about to say to the Mayor, whose brow furrows at this reaction. “Are you okay, Detective?”

Before Abe can answer, the Mayor follows his gaze. He can hear the smile in the man’s voice. “Oh! There you are, old friend! How are you settling into your new office?”

Abe quits the room before he can catch their quiet response. But he hears the Mayor’s declaration of trust echo tauntingly after him.

Why are they here?

Abe was asked to look into all the attendees, but the DA was never on the list.

Were they a last-minute invite? Had they just not been an area of concern for Mark?

Or is it their connection to the mayor—

“Welcome, welcome, one and all!”

Mark’s dramatic entrance down the stairs derails Abe’s panic. For the moment.

While he’s thinking rationally (a rarity in and of itself), Abe decides the best thing to do is avoid them until further notice, since he’s technically on assignment right now, keeping an eye on the guests and employees for suspicious activities.

Piece of cake.

Or maybe not, Abe thinks as he watches the District Attorney down a glass of champagne without breaking eye contact with him.

Seems like they can’t stop staring at one another, no matter how drunk they get.

They want to talk, he can tell. Or at least they did before the drinking started.

He’s never seen them drunk before.

As the party guests fumble about, bumping into one another and daring and gambling and throwing cards, he finds himself close to the DA a lot, staring into their wide, ancient eyes, more vulnerable and open than he’s ever witnessed. The fifth time their shoulders brush clumsily against his (if Abe didn’t know any better, he’d think they‘re doing it on purpose), he sees their mouth twist in an odd way.

Almost…impish.

It catches him so off-guard he doesn’t realize he’s been staring at their mouth for far longer than is probably appropriate, but they don’t discourage him, and he doesn’t pull away first.

Or maybe he does.

How that interaction ended is a little fuzzy.

All he knows is one moment they were staring at one another when they went to refill their drinks and suddenly they’re both in an isolated pocket of the room, where the rest of the guests pay them no heed.

“I didn’t realize you and Mark were acquainted,” they say first.

“I could say the same of you,” he shoots back.

Their brow lifts and is it the alcohol or have they always looked this attractive when they were angry?

Well, maybe not so much when they’re mad at him.

(No, even then. It’s a completely different anger than the one they utilize when facing the defense attorneys in court. This one crawls under his skin and sets him on fire. What the hell is wrong with him?)

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, their gaze flickers to where the Mayor is sitting, still blissfully unaware of their absence. “You were talking to Damien when I arrived.”

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t interrogating him,” Abe reassures with a roll of his eyes.

“Then what were you doing, Detective? After all, you made your opinion of him quite clear the other day.”

Damn, they’re back on the “detective” thing. Is this how their opponents feel in the courtroom? He feels like he’s staring down the barrel of a gun again.

No wonder they got elected.

“Just…getting to know the guy, that’s all.”

He winces. That sounds like a lie even to his ears.

Judging by the look on their face, they definitely don’t buy his statement.

He sighs. “Look, I felt bad about what happened and sure, I still don’t trust the guy, but…”

“But?”

He runs a hand down his face. “I see what you mean. He seems like a good guy.”

I can see why you’d choose him.

Their brow furrows. “Why did you say that?”

“Say what?”

Wait, did he say that last thing out loud?

Shit!

Their eyes light up in realization. “Wait. Abe, you don’t think that Damien and I are—”

“Hey, what are you two doing huddled over there?!” jeers Mark from the poker table. “Abe, it’s your blind!”

“Coming!” Abe turns to the DA with an apologetic look before rejoining the table.

He hears them sigh before they follow.

For the rest of the game—where the DA proceeds to clean out every single of their chips because even in their most inebriated state, it’s impossible to read their expression—Abe swears they keep watching him and it thrills him as much as it distracts him and damn it, he didn’t come to this damn party to lose this much money just because he can’t stop thinking about how they were going to end that last sentence.

(Or maybe because he can’t stop wondering what would happen if he leapt across the table and kissed the District Attorney until they both forgot the Mayor even existed.)

Abe wakes up the next morning feeling stiff with alcohol and regret.

The latter baffles him until he flexes his hands and flinches.

His knuckles are bruised. So is his cheekbone.

He can’t for the life of him remember why.

Most of last night, actually, is a blur of loud music, obscenely bright lights, and the beautiful angry eyes of the District Attorney.

Could he be any sappier, for Christ’s sake…?

Abe pinches the bridge of his nose in a lackluster effort to fight against the headache hammering against his skull. His mouth feels like cotton soaked in acid.

(Why does he taste lime on his lips?)

Maybe his headache and his memory will improve once he gets some coffee and egg whites in his system.

Every movement from the bed to the blizzard-cold floor leaves him aching like an old man, so he decides to forego clothing and practically crawls to the closet to slip a guest robe on.

When he arrives downstairs, after an enormous amount of physical exertion that may have left him sweating more than he should have, Abe finds himself blinking into the maze of hallways.

Where the hell is the kitchen again?

He’s trying his damnedest to urge his hungover mind into recalling the layout of this ridiculous house when a strike of lightning exacerbates his headache by several notches.

The sudden sound unsettles him more than he cares to admit (the sun is blaring through the windows, how the hell is there a thunderstorm right now?), so Abe hurries to the nearest room to see if anyone else heard it.

And that’s when he finds the District Attorney standing over Mark’s corpse.

“I’m so sick of parties

I’m so sick of being drunk

I hold my breath, lips brush against my ear

But I don’t feel them

Or know them

I just know you

I know you…”

II

As soon as the room empties, the DA turns on Abe.

“What the hell was that about? I’m an attorney, not a detective!”

Jesus, Abe doesn’t want to think about that right now.

He just made the District Attorney his partner.

His partner.

As soon as the words left his lips (compulsively, stupidly; he thought his hungover had dissipated as soon as he saw Mark’s corpse, there’s no way he would have made them his partner while sober) Abe had wanted to crush them under his foot.

Has he just signed their death warrant?

“Look,” Abe says after too long of a silence, “you’re the only other person here with any kind of experience in law enforcement and I’ll need all the help I can get. You with me, or not?”

His voice comes out harsher than he means, but isn’t that just about par the course whenever he speaks to them these days?

Their eyes narrow at his tone. He suddenly notices the dark mark on their jaw and remembers his sore knuckles.

The punch lands harder than he means it to, and the DA crashes unceremoniously to the floor, hand rubbing the side of their jaw.

The mayor scrambles to their side, one hand holding their head still so he can examine their jaw. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” they respond. They push up onto their elbows and look directly at Abe’s guilty face. “Feel better now?”

No. No, he doesn’t.

Matter of fact, he thinks he might throw up.

“Of course I’m with you.”

Their declaration yanks him from the sudden memory and Abe almost forgets where he is.

Jesus, he punched them last night?

And they’re still speaking to him?

“Abe? You there?”

Abe shakes his head. “Glad to hear you’re onboard, Partner,” the title rolls off his tongue with an ease that both delights and frightens him. “Now let’s get to work. Judging by the temperature of the body that I measured rectally, which is obviously the most accurate way to get the inner body temperature of a corpse—”

“You did what?!”

“—that’s a fact, totally procedure, don’t tell anyone I did it—”

“Christ, Abe, I’m a lawyer, you can’t tell me these things!”

“—I am sure Mark was killed around 1:30 a.m. last night.” Abe thinks on that for a moment, then, because for once he wants to feel like he’s in control of something this morning, he stands up and points at them in accusation. “So what were you doing at 1:30 a.m. last night?”

“Didn’t we do this already?” they snap.

“Answer my question, partner.”

They stare up at him, challenging, and suddenly he remembers something else from the previous night.

“So you're telling me you don't agree with the death penalty?” The idea is baffling to Abe. He stares at them like they’ve grown another head.

“I'm saying that only certain crimes should be considered worthy of further violence,” they argue, “and only when the evidence is undeniable. It's also a horrifying expensive and inhumane practice, barbaric even.” Their tone is adamant, and Abe finds himself admiring the passion lining their posture, lighting up their wavering gaze, he’s never seen them drunk and God, they’re beautiful in their openness.

“So...what then? You don't think a killer deserves death?”

“I'm saying that until discrimination can be taken out of the equation, maybe we shouldn't pump human beings full of electricity, especially if there is even the slightest chance they could be innocent.”

He points at them, and he can’t decide if the almost-smile on their face is genuine enjoyment of the debate or a challenge.

“So you wouldn't want the person who killed you to pay for his crime?”

“I'll be dead. What will I care?”

Abe shoves the images out of his mind.

Meanwhile, the challenge in the DA’s mind fades into something more thoughtful. “Do you seriously not remember?”

“Remember what?”

They glance away from him, biting their lip, before standing up. “Never mind. I was in bed at 1:30. I remember staring at the clock before I went to sleep.”

Are they blushing? Why would they be blushing?

Oh God, what happened last night?

“Fine then.” He can demand answers about any drunken mishaps later. Abe is more than reasonably certain that the DA wouldn’t have killed anyone. “So, we need to figure out where everyone was and what they were doing around that time or, at the very least, who saw Mark last. You need to get out there. See if you can piece together the story of what happened last night. I’ll stick around with the body and run more…tests.”

As he sniffs his fingers, the DA hurries away.

“Please wait until I’m out of the room before doing…whatever you’re about to do.”

The next time Abe sees them, it’s from behind a potted plant, just after he discovers Mark’s missing corpse. He meant to tell them right away, drag them back into the manor but…

They’re talking to the mayor again.

“Look, I’m sorry you saw that argument with the Colonel. I lost my temper, and it wasn’t right, and…he must be in shock.”

“…I’m sure he is.”

What’s with that tone? Did they speak to the Colonel already?

It doesn’t escape Damien’s notice either. “The Colonel’s an eccentric; it’s his best quality, and his worst. But, he’s my friend and…so was Mark.” His hands flail helplessly. “I know I’m supposed to be a leader in this scenario, but I can’t help but feel lost! I’ve known Mark for years, since we were kids! And he’s just gone?”

All they do, after a moment of loud silence, is lay a hand on his shoulder, lightly. He doesn’t shrug them off. As a matter of fact, he seems grateful for the attempt.

Abe hates the acidic taste the sight leaves on his tongue. Still, it’s far less of a display than he expected.

“We went to University together. We’ve been friends ever since.”

Could that really be all there is to it?

“Do you…” they clear their throat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Damien shakes his head. “That’s very kind of you, but truthfully...I just need to be alone…to process all of this. We’ll talk soon, I promise,” he reassures, “but I need to think.”

He walks away from them, head bowed, and Abe has never wanted to see their face more, gauge their reaction.

Could he have overreacted over nothing?

Then he remembers he actually has a job to do. A corpse to find.

“Hey, partner!”

They spin, startled, and then hiss a curse under their breath. “Don’t do that!”

“Get over here, now! Hurry up!”

They must hear the urgency in his voice, because they drop their offended expression and rush to his side.

The tightening, foreboding knot in his gut loosens, just slightly, when they’re next to him again.

“Yeah, it might be the Smirnoff or all the Natty light

Yes, it is weak, but there’s nothing left to lose

So call me right now and I’ll cave

I’ll answer you and blame the booze...”

III

“Abe, weren’t we in a different section of the house a moment ago?” the DA asks.

Abe pauses and looks around. “I don’t know. I’ve never been able to figure out the layout of this place. But anyway, not important right now.” He starts walking forward, the DA just a step behind him. “What’s important to ask is this: why did Mark invite us all here? Why tonight? He said we were celebrating, but he never specified what. It’s almost as if this whole shindig of a hootenanny was just a ruse…”

He stops walking once again, the weight of the day pressing in on his shoulders. “Mark was my friend, had been for years. But then he went quiet. I knew something was wrong, I just never figured out what. Now I guess I never will.”

Could he have prevented this somehow? Stayed sober last night, visited more during those quiet months?

There’s a brushing against his fingers, and Abe looks just in time to see the DA take his hand and squeeze it gently.

He relishes in the comforting contact (when’s the last time he’s let anyone touch him like this?) until they speak again.

“I saw some security footage earlier. You talked to Mark three days before the party?” Their voice is friendly enough, but he hears the unspoken question.

Were you going to tell me?

He levels a serious gaze at them. “I’ve been working with him for years. What’s your excuse?”

You don’t look like you’d have a reason to kill him. But I’ve been wrong before and it cost me dearly.

Their brow lifts. Their hand slips from his grasp and the loss of contact is almost as cold as the look they give him.

“My only connection to Mark is Damien. I’ve only met him a handful of times over the years because he and Damien grew up together, and because he donated generously to my campaign fund.”

It always comes back to the damn mayor, doesn’t it?

Abe’s frustration must have shown, because the DA groans. “My God, will you get over yourself? Damien and I are best friends. That’s all.”

Abe coughs to cover up his disbelief. “That’s fine, I don’t know why you’re telling me—”

“Do you think I’m an idiot, Abe?” they accuse. “Do you think I don’t notice when someone is lashing out over misplaced jealousy?”

Oh shit. They said that word.

That word that is absolutely not what’s happening with him.

Or is it?

“I am not jealous!” Abe defends with a laugh he really hopes sounds indifferent.

Judging by their crossed arms and furrowed brow, he is failing gloriously. He opens his mouth (to dig a deeper hole for himself most likely), but they hold up a hand.

“Look, I know this isn’t the time to have a conversation, that’s fine. But after all of this is said and done, we are going to talk.” They step closer to him, ancient eyes sharp enough to cut into his skin. “There are things I need to tell you. Preferably when we’re not trying to find a killer and a missing corpse.”

Abe wants to laugh but he doesn’t because the urgent sincerity in their face leaves him wondering if he’s seen them look like this before.

He’s almost afraid to hear what they’re going to tell him.

Luckily, murder is a valid reason to put off unwelcome conversations.

He waves his hand, falsifying a nonchalance he absolutely does not feel. “Good point, we’ll talk later about your poor taste in ‘friends’, in the meantime—”

“I swear to God, Abe…”

“—let’s keep walking.” Despite that last jab that he should have kept to himself, the DA follows him further down the hall.

“So, the real question we should be asking is: who stood to gain the most from Mark’s death? Now, in my thorough analysis of the corpse’s anal cavity—”

“I didn’t hear that,” they mutter.

The detective gestures towards the entrance to Mark’s room several minutes later. “Well, after you.”

The DA rolls their eyes, but before they reach for the door, they turn back to him. “Detective, do you remember anyone going into the wine cellar last night?”

“Not that I can recall, why?”

“When I was interrogating the butler,” they confess, “he led me to the cellar and panicked over a broken bottle. While his behavior itself was just…weird, I was wondering when and why any of us would have gone down there. I mean, there wasn’t a pool of blood or even any wine stains, but someone could have easily cleaned it up.”

“Huh…” Abe strokes his stubble chin. “That is…very interesting, indeed. We’ll have to ask around after we examine the victim’s room.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He hesitates a moment, before nodding in approval. “Good work, partner.” Maybe this won’t turn into a disaster after all.

They swell just a hint at the praise. “Thank you.”

The pair enters the room, and the DA hisses a curse at the state of the master bedroom.

Furniture is overturned, clothes are strewn about, and glass is shattered all across the floor. It looks as though a hurricane has blown through the room.

“Looks rough, but I don’t think he was killed here. So perhaps there might be more to the cellar you mentioned. Still, take a look around, see if you find anything, but be careful. I’ve lost three partners before to bedroom booby traps.”

“Yeah…if I die, do not put ‘death by bedroom booby trap’ on my gravestone, please?” They step over a pile of broken glass to a table with several photographs on top.

He doesn’t want to think of them with any kind of gravestone, but he doesn’t exactly want to bring the mood down again.

“Of course, partner, whatever you say. Make sure you don’t tamper with any evidence.”

“I’m sorry, what was that, Mr. Anal Cavity?”

“I heard that!”

Maybe Abe should have paid more attention to the Colonel’s sudden reappearance. Maybe he should have looked up and seen how unsettled you were by the man’s behavior.

But he didn’t.

Now he’s alone in Mark’s bedroom, holding Mark’s underwear, and trying desperately to remember more of what the hell happened last night, at least where the DA is concerned.

He’s only marginally successful.

“You goddamn idiot!” the DA growls. They pull away from the mayor, grab Abe’s arm, and drag him into another room whilst the Colonel calls for another volunteer.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Abe yanks his arm away. “C’mon, it’s a friendly game of Russian Roulette—”

“There is no such thing as a ‘friendly Russian Roulette,’ you drunk moron!”

“Hey, you’re drunk too! Don’t go calling the blue kettle a pot!”

The DA’s frown deepens. “I’m sober enough to know how badly you botched that saying.” They hold up a hand as he tries to speak again. “Look, obviously you still have issues to work out, and since this problem is affecting our enjoyment of the party, I say we get it out of our systems.”

“Get what out of our systems?”

“I want you to punch me, Abe.”

He certainly wasn’t expecting that answer. “What? No! Why would I do that?”

“Because obviously you’re still upset for God knows what reason, and I can’t help but notice that part of it has to do with me. To be honest, I’m still pissed at you too.”

“What, does that mean you’re going to punch me then?” he taunts.

“Yes.”

“What?”

Instead of responding, their fist cracks into his cheek.

Abe reels back, hand touching his cheekbone in disbelief. “You-you—” He can’t decide if he’s indignant or even more attracted to someone who can throw a damn good punch, but his wavering isn’t doing him any favors, “—you hit me!”

“I warned you,” they snap. They hold their arms open, leaving their face and body vulnerable. “Now it’s your turn.”

Abe raises his finger and waves it at them. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Hello again!”

Abe stiffens as the very ruffled mayor stumbles into the room, a wide smile on his face as he beholds his friend, the DA.

“Why do the two of you keep running off together?” He gestures wildly to the other room. “The party is in there! Don’t worry, I made the Colonel put away the gun!”

“That’s great, Damien, but I’m a little busy trying to get the detective here to punch me,” the DA says conversationally.

The mayor glances from his friend to Abe, and blinks several times. “Is this a new game I’m unfamiliar with?”

“It’s a quick thing, don’t worry about it,” the DA dismisses. They turn back to Abe. “Abe, hit me already and we can get this over with.”

And that’s all he’s got so far.

It explains the bruise on his cheek. It explains the discoloration on the DA’s jaw.

But…why the hell did the DA think punching each other would fix anything?

Why would he go through with punching them in the first place? He can’t think of why he would suddenly change his mind.

What did he do to anger them so much?

Wait…the group played Russian Roulette last night?

Mark was shot, along with all those other injuries��was I there when it happened?

Did he die during the game? Was I too drunk to notice?

That last thought feels like a dagger in his gut. It was so stupid of him to let down his guard last night in a house full of strangers. Mark’s blood may as well be on his hands…

Abe paces across the room and comes across the picture his partner had been looking at before they left. He picks it up off the table, a feeling of dread settling over him.

It’s a picture of the Colonel, in a frame with cracked glass. Like the whole thing had been smashed.

Abe drops the frame to the ground with a loud clatter and tears out of the room because he let his partner walk off with the guy who is most likely to have killed Mark last night.

“House parties are proof the world runs to chaos.

I go outside and that’s when I see you.

And you say, don’t talk.

I’m sorry.

I’m scared of this.

Well, I’m scared too…”

IV

“BULLY!”

The Colonel bursts from the pool with a flourish and now you’re wondering if perhaps you need a nap or another dose of alcohol, because what in the actual hell is going on?

You turn away to try to call Damien back, but then the Colonel appears right next to you again, completely dry and dapper, like he didn’t just take a spontaneous dip into the pool.

“Oh, life needs a bit of madness, eh chap?!”

You stare at him for the longest time. “Right now I think Life is just trying to confuse me.”

“Of course, that’s what life is for, isn’t it! Now, what were we talking about? Oh yes, the grisly business inside! Well, I’m sure I’m not the first to say that our host had a great deal of enemies as of late.”

“To be perfectly candid, Colonel,” so long as he’s being open, you decide to be a little honest with him, “no one has really been open about their opinion of Mark, aside from Damien, so I appreciate any insight you may have.”

Nothing you can do about the “madness”, as he so aptly phrased the situation, but acknowledge it and move on.

“Indeed?” The Colonel nods. “Well, I am glad to help. My prying eye might suspect that the people who worked for him might have reason to stab him in the back. God knows he’s a tough son of a bitch to work for.”

You place your hands on your hips. “Is that right…?”

Unwillingly, your mind drifts to Abe. He said he’d working with Mark “for years,” but he also called Mark a friend. You decide to ask him if there’s any merit to the Colonel’s hatred.

“Oh!” He looks over the balcony they have approached, his eyes lighting up in delight. “The old golf course! I-I’ll fetch my clubs!”

“This place has a goddamn golf course too?” you whisper in disbelief as the Colonel charges down the staircase and into the greenery. “Wait, I’m not done—” you call after him.

“Colonel?” Damien reappears behind you. “Damn, I thought I heard him.”

You look back over the balcony and sure enough, the Colonel is nowhere in sight. “You…uh, just missed him. I guess.”

This place makes no. Damn. Sense.

And you can’t even joke with the Detective about it because everything is so tense between the two of you right now.

Maybe it’s a blessing that he doesn’t remember everything you did last night.

Damien pinches the bridge of his nose before shaking his head. “No matter. Would you accompany me? There’s something that I would like to discuss with you.”

“Of course, Damien.”

“Now, I know you’ve been assisting our…intrepid detective with his investigation—”

You try not to pause for too long. “Why do you say it like that?” you ask quietly, even as the urge to defend Abe rises in the back of your throat.

“…I have to bring some concerns of mine to the forefront. If we look at this situation logically, we can only assume that the killer who struck down our dear friend Mark was with us last night. And while I would stake my life on the innocence of the Colonel or yourself—”

“I appreciate that.”

“—can we really say the same of our beloved detective?”

Your mouth twists. “Damien, with all due respect, I don’t think Abe is the killer.”

You very rarely disagree with Damien. In all your years of friendship, you can count on one hand the number of times you and Damien were on opposite sides of a fight.

But this isn’t a fight. Not yet.

Damien’s gaze turns questioning. “My memory of last night is…rather fleeting, I confess, but I remember some things. Old friend, are you acquainted with the detective?”

His tone is neutral, but, at the same time, not unkind. A good start.

“I’ve helped with a few of his cases when they came to court, back when I was just an Assistant Attorney. He was actually the first detective I got to work with.” You spare a brief smile at the memory. “He’s unorthodox, short-tempered, and has a really weird fixation with corpses that I try not to think about too much, but he’s an honorable man. The only one willing to work with someone like me.”

And you may or may not have grown some not-so-trivial feelings for the ridiculous detective who is hellbent on making everything harder than it has to be, but you can’t deal with that can of worms right now.

Damien gives you a long look, long enough to raise questions. But then he nods. “I trust your judgement, and if you believe so, I’m inclined to do the same.”

You relax minutely at his words. At least with the rest of the world falling apart, you could still rely on your dearest friend.

As Abe runs, he only gives brief notice to how the hallways and doorways didn’t lead to the areas he thought they were supposed to.

These thoughts flee from his mind when he finds the Colonel, just as the man pulls the trigger of his gun and fires in Abe’s direction.

The bullet shatters the vase on the table beside Abe.

The gunshot elicits Abe to pull out his own weapon and fix it on the Colonel. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you better lower your weapon and tell me where my partner is, you murderer!” the detective commands.

“I bloody well won’t, you’re the one who assaulted me! For all I know, you could be the murderer!” the Colonel shoots back.

The thunder erupts around them with each utterance of that word, and the sight of the Colonel pointing a gun at him—

The night goes downhill when that damn Colonel whips out his weapon without hesitation at Mark’s suggestion of a game of Russian Roulette.

“Oh, count me out,” the DA hisses as soon as the gun appears. “Guns and I aren’t on friendly terms right now, bullets included or not.”

“Is anyone ever on friendly terms with weapons?” The mayor muses aloud, his hand landing on the DA’s shoulder.

Abe has never wanted to tear off someone’s arm more than in this moment.

“Oh, lighten up, chaps!” the Colonel encourages. “Just a friendly game of ‘Who’ll Bite the Bullet First’ is all it is! Personally, I think I’ll win! I have the strongest teeth!”

The DA blinks. They turn to Damien. “That’s the friend you never shut up about?”

Damien shrugs. “I suppose I’m a magnet for eccentrics.” He punctuates the statement by gripping their shoulder and when the DA rolls their eyes with a begrudging smile in response, Abe does something really stupid.

“I’ll go first!” he announces. His arms fly open, ready for bullet time and wow, he’s really drunk—

That tears the smile off the DA’s face. “What?!”

“Alrighty then!” The Colonel raises his gun and pulls the trigger.

“ABE!!”

But the trigger activates an empty barrel and Abe nearly topples over with the force of his laughter. “Of course not! That’d be too easy, wouldn’t it!” he chuckles.

He can’t even tell if he’s joking or not.

Living’s been far too hard lately.

“What the hell are you idiots doing?”

Abe jerks in surprise at the sound of the DA’s voice. They’re with the Mayor (of course they are damn it, he needs to focus) so his relief about their safety is tinged with irritation.

“Hey, partner, I’m not the idiot in this scenario—”

“Everyone, please!” Damien interrupts desperately. “I know we’re all on edge, but can’t we resolve this amicably?”

What kind of ridiculous understatement is that?

“On edge?!  This psycho tried to shoot me!”

“That’s a bold-faced lie!” The Colonel denies. “I was merely doing some light target practice!”

“Inside?” The butler smacks the Colonel with a feather duster.

“Well, yes! I couldn’t go on the grounds now with that bloody chef in my way, could I?”

“You’re damn right!” the Chef interjects. “You should have remembered that, Private! Besides, you’re not my boss anymore!”

“It’s ‘Colonel’ now,” the man growls.

The DA steps closer to the Colonel and the Chef and Abe’s nerves go haywire at the sight. “Hold on a moment, you guys need to calm the hell down—!”

“Enough of this horseshit!” the detective interrupts, anything to keep his partner from getting too close to the gun-wielding maniac. He addresses the Colonel. “You knew I was onto you and you were trying to knock me off before I could finger you!”

A long, uncomfortable pause follows.

Shit.

“…AS THE MURDERER!” he tacks on too late to save face.

The lightning strikes again, as if also mocking him for his verbal slip-up.

“I will not be called a murderer in my own home!” the Colonel shouts, his statement interrupted yet again by a thunder crack.

“Stop!” a new voice cries out from the back porch.

“This is how it feels to fall in love

This is how it feels to fall

The weakness, the sadness,

The sirens, the madness

The pounding in your chest,

Like you’re racing the streets in an ambulance…”

V

“Mark’s death is a terrible thing indeed,” the newcomer, Celine, Mark’s ever-elusive ex(?) wife declares.

Honestly, Abe doesn’t know what to think of her. She just arrived out of nowhere and suddenly thinks she can take charge of the situation? And how did she figure out what was up with the lightning so quickly?

“We need to speak with Mark.”

“I knew it! He’s a flesh-eating zombie!” the Chef declares.

“No!” Celine shoots down.

“Well, maybe one of those smart zombies,” the Colonel suggests. “Homeo sapio zombifus.”

“Can we stop with the zombie talk?” the DA begs quietly.

Abe decides to take pity on them, since he’s the only one who heard them. “You okay?” he whispers.

“It’s bad enough that there’s some kind of magic going on here,” they hiss, “I do not need to deal with the undead too.”

“I need to commune with the dead.” Celine announces.

Of course she does.

“That…doesn’t sound like a good idea,” Abe finally decides to say.

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t need your permission.”

Rude. He was just expressing a bit of concern over, you know, trying to deal with the devil.

“But you!”

The DA startles when Celine points at them accusingly. “What about me?”

“You’ve been awfully quiet through this whole thing.”

The accusation in her voice is obvious. Abe’s first thought is, yeah, the DA is always quiet, it’s just how they are, but then that gives way to more doubting thoughts.

Abe has no idea where this sudden suspicion of his partner comes from, but now it’s here, shadowing his mind with inky fingers, darkness crawling up his spine.

You don’t remember where they were last night.

They know Mark.

They didn’t like him...

Apparently he’s not the only one. The Chef and Butler express similar sentiments.

(That should have sent off a warning bell, all of them suddenly agreeing on one nonsensical thing.)

“Maybe I shouldn’t have trusted someone so goddamn gorgeous,” the detective muses aloud.

“Are you guys shitting me?”

Their utterly betrayed gaze is enough to frighten the inky suspicion from his mind. The next moment, he’s overwhelmed by cold shivers.

What the hell was that?

And why do the Colonel and the Mayor seem unaffected?

“Celine,” Damien speaks up, “this is our District Attorney and my dearest friend. This baseless accusation will get you nowhere.”

Abe hates the shame tinging his thoughts at the Mayor’s defending his partner.

“Very well.” Celine inclines her head in the DA’s direction. “If Damien can trust you, perhaps I can too. I sense that you have a far greater part to play in all of this. Will you help me find an answer?”

The DA’s brow furrows. “I…I don’t know about this.”

“Please,” Celine presses. “We need to figure out what is happening and this is the only way—”

Abe finally decides to take a stand for the DA. “Alright, that’s enough. I’m not gonna just sit around and let you drag my partner off to their very likely death. I won’t stand for it!”

They don’t reject his help, but judging by the look on their face, it’s too little too late.

“Well, I trust Celine with all my heart! I see no reason why any one should doubt her!” The Colonel defends.

“That’s easy to say when you’re not the one invited to a séance!” the DA argues.

Abe doesn’t know what it is about their tone, but that triggers something…

“If you don’t hit me now, I’ll just hit you again,” the DA taunts, but they sound more frustrated than anything else.

“I won’t hit you!”

“Why not?”

“I’d much rather kiss you!”

The words slip between Abe’s teeth before he can bite them back. He barely sees the DA (or the mayor) register the statement before he panics and punches the DA without further ado.

Oh, Crucified Christ on a platter, he said that?

He’s never drinking around the DA again.

“If it makes you feel any better, you all can stand watch outside the door, but my work cannot be interrupted.” Celine folds her hands and stares down at the DA. “So will you help me, or not?”

Those delayed warning bells kick in.

Something’s not right with this lady.

The DA stares right back at the Seer, completely unintimidated by the woman’s gaze, which Abe finds impressive. He’s barely known her ten minutes, and he already see that Celine is a force to be reckoned with.

“…Fine,” they eventually agree, not bothering to hide their begrudging tone. “But I still don’t like this one bit. I want someone keeping close to wherever we’ll be.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Partner,” Abe reassures. “I’ll be keeping a close eye on every single one of you. Even myself. Especially myself.”

They blink at him like an adorable owl and he winks back. Before they follow Celine up the staircase, he sees their mouth twitch into a brief smile.

Something sparks in his head as the DA leaves with Celine. Abe allows the memory to drift through his mind’s eye while he stands guard by the room, keeping one ear ready for anything out of the ordinary while the rest of the group lingers further away, chatting uneasily.

“I don’t have a concussion, Damien,” the DA says, not unkindly, as the mayor attempts to help them up from the ground. “I’ll be fine. Go back to the party.”

The mayor looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Abe can’t say why.

As the mayor leaves the room, he throws a suspicious glance at Abe.

Abe supposes that’s fair.

The DA sighs once it’s just the two of them. Abe can’t stop staring at the discoloration forming on their jaw.

“Do you want me to grab you ice—?”

“I want you to actually talk to me about what’s going on with you. But we can’t exactly do that while we’re drunk, can we?” They stroll unsteadily upstairs to the guest rooms.

Abe follows them, not entirely knowing why he does so.

“If you’ve got something to say to me, just say it,” he hassles. “No consequences if we can’t remember what we said tomorrow, right?”

They don’t bother responding to that.

When they enter their room, they leave the door open and look over their shoulder, as if expecting him to join them.

In their room.

Abe suddenly regrets everything he just said about no consequences, shit, why are they looking at him like they want him in—

They roll their eyes and yank him inside. “If I was going to sleep with you tonight, I’d tell you. I hate bedroom miscommunications.”

They tear the makeshift hat off of his head and toss it into the hallway. He honestly forgot he’d been wearing it in the first place.

Abe tries for a flippant laugh, but it comes out strangled because now he’s having thoughts. Thoughts he really shouldn’t be having about the District Attorney who may or may not be in bed with the suspicious mayor. “Obviously. Come on, I’d expect nothing else from you. You’re the most practical person I know.”

They stare at him in a way that honestly makes him question their intentions again because holy hell in a handbasket, when’s the last time someone’s eyes raked over him like he wasn’t…cursed?

He doesn’t realize they’ve stepped closer until their toe-to-toe with him.

“Not sure I’m being practical right now,” they whisper.

Abe can’t tell if they’re actually speaking to him or to themself.

Their hand comes up and touches the edge of his loosened tie and it feels like they’ve pried his lungs open, he’s lost all the air he can hold.

Before he can take a breath, they grab his tie and surge forward, stopping just before their lips touch his and he can see the sudden insecurity in their eyes.

Well, too late for that now, Abe thinks as he closes that last centimeter of space between them.

There’s nothing gentle about it. The DA’s hands fist into his vest, his hands grab at their shoulders tight enough to leave bruises before one trails up to grip the back of their neck, and everything about it is glorious and intoxicating, they taste like lime and gin (they must have found a stash of the drink somewhere) and for once he’s not thinking about death and solitude, just wondering at how he finally met someone like this—

They part from one another, and Abe breathes like he’s been underwater for hours.

The DA releases one hand from the tight grip on his vest to hover over the bruise on his cheek, where they punched him.

“Guess that didn’t work like I’d hoped,” they mutter under their breath. They press their lips delicately against the injury, so light he almost doesn’t feel it.

They pull away, releasing his vest, and Abe swears they’re holding his heart bleeding in their hands.

The urge to make them stay in his arms or to run out of the room before they can send him away come at him with all the force of a hurricane.

In the end, his hands lift halfway between him and the DA (does he dare steal one last touch before the night ends?) before falling back to his side. He steps towards the door.

And stops when they grab his elbow.

“We’re going to talk tomorrow,” they promise. “Don’t think too much before then, okay?”

He looks back to see that same intensity in their eyes and it sets his blood on fire.

But they don’t ask him to stay.

Did he want them to?

Yes.

So he only nods once before leaving without another word, going right to his room.

He doesn’t feel much like partying anymore. Not when he keeps getting distracted by the lingering taste of lime on his lips.

When Abe finally blinks away the memory, he feels like throwing himself over the banister.

The DA—he and the DA—they both, they—

They remembered that moment last night, Abe is sure of it.

And Abe didn’t.

God, he is definitely never drinking around the DA again, because that should and will be a memory that keeps him going until the day he dies.

He jumps from the wall at the shouts coming from the room the DA is in.

The room his partner is in.

He bursts in, the mayor close behind.

For once, he doesn’t mind the man’s close proximity.

“I’m watching you

I’m watching me

I’m watching us

Fall…”

VI

The door shuts on the blinding lights emanating from behind the twisted silhouette of Celine and at this point Abe is quite certain he’s lost his mind.

But that’s been in question since long before he came to this godforsaken place, so he focuses his attention on more pressing things.

Like the utter devastation on his partner’s face.

Because their friend the Mayor was behind that door too.

And they look like they’re about to crumble to pieces.

What Abe wants to do is take them in his arms and hold them together. But there are too many people around and the situation is starting to implode.

In light of this, Abe settles with just putting his hand on their shoulder. They spare a glance at him, ancient eyes welling with angry, unshed tears.

They look like he did with every partner he lost.

But then he’s distracted by the Colonel’s outrage and in his haste to chase after the man, he leaves the DA behind.

Abe follows the man around a corner, but there’s no sign of him.

What the hell…?

And when he goes back to where he left his partner, they’re gone too.

Those pictures in his wallet, the ones of past partners long gone, have never felt heavier.

You drop out of that dark, warped dimension, and struggle to regain your balance as your ears pop. Your heart is pounding hard enough to hurt your chest.

The question of how you arrived at this part of the house fades from your mind as quickly as it appears.

As you lean against the nearest door frame, you realize you’re in front of a room you’ve never seen before.

Then again, it seems that the house itself is keeping secrets, as insane as it sounds.

But what hasn’t been insane about this entire situation lately?

(It takes so much effort not to think of Damien. If you try to grapple with the fact that your best friend is never coming back, you’ll be of no help to anyone.)

You press your knuckles into your eyes until tears no longer threaten. Then you make your way into the mystery room and examine the chaos.

You recognize Abe’s writing on the notes, on his board. Newspaper clippings pinned here and there. Pictures of the rest of the employees, the other guests…

The Colonel and Celine.

Together.

But you knew about that.

(Damien told you when it first happened, and you held him as he cried over his sister abandoning one of his friends for another, and how his life had suddenly splintered into fragments.)

You are blatantly obvious in your absence from this investigative wall of madness.

But how the hell did Abe have the time to collect all of this?

…why didn’t he tell you?

Your hand drifts over the typewriter, over the paper littered with scattered, smudged repeating lines:

The Colonel did it.

At the edge of the desk is the smashed picture you found in Mark’s room.

Dread weighs in your stomach like lead. The walls of the room feel like they’re closing in, pressing all the air out of your lungs.

In the back of your head is a suffocating thought desperately clawing forward, demanding your attention. Why is it so hard to listen to it?

This place is cursed, the groundskeeper said.

Eventually, you manage to pry the drowning thought open, and it whispers through your head with all the terror of an impending execution.

You need to get out.

Abe, you think, choking on the tendrils of fear wrapping around your throat. I need to find him.

“There you are!”

You jump far more violently than you should have at the Colonel’s sudden appearance.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you some questions…”

As he looks around the room, you set the picture down and back away as if he’s a wild animal.

Which, considering the look on his face…

“What is this? The detective’s been keeping tabs on us?”

“Colonel, I need you to listen to me—”

“The detective’s been keeping tabs on me. And Celine?” His voice turns into a growl. “He’s the one who orchestrated all of this! He did this!”

Oh God—

“Colonel, wait, no! That’s not true! Colonel!”

You follow him out of the room as he pulls his gun.

You are so terrified that it’s too late to save anyone.

The sight of the shaken DA behind the gun-wielding Colonel is one of the most distressing things Abe has ever seen.

It sets off dark, angry parts of himself he hadn’t known existed before coming to this awful manor.

It’s the Colonel’s fault, something whispers in his head.

“You better choose your next words carefully, Colonel!” Abe threatens as he pulls his own gun on the man. If this guy hurts his partner, not even the gates of hell will keep Abe from enacting vengeance.

“Only my friends get to call me by that name, and you, sir, are no friend of mine!”

“Well, you’re one to talk about friends, you murderer!”

The thunder claps, and Abe can feel stronger tremors under his feet than the past strikes.

“Abe, stop saying that word and put the damn gun away!” the DA pleads.

“Get away from that bastard, Partner! He’s the one who started all this when he murdered Mark!”

“Abe, you don’t understand—”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” the Colonel denies over the sound of another lightning strike. “This is madness!”

“Oh, you wanna talk about madness? Madness is stealing your best friend’s wife!”

“Abe, Colonel, you have to listen to me!” the DA urges as they try to pull at the Colonel’s arm, only for him to shove them away. “We have to get out of here, now!”

Abe keeps speaking, tries to keep the Colonel from turning on his partner. “…Madness is squeezing him for cash to fund your own sick sexual exploits with that very woman!”

“Abe, for the love of God—”

“Shut up!”

Why is there so much lightning now? Why does it feel like shadows are pooling at their feet like blood?

Abe is undeterred. As long as the Colonel stays focused on him, he’s not focusing on the DA. “Madness is plotting the death of your childhood friend because you can’t handle the—”

The echoing gunshot registers a split second before the pain in his chest does. The ground shakes beneath his feet.

“ABE!” the DA screams.

Abe crumbles to the floor like wet cardboard, never taking his eyes off his killer or his partner. There’s an obscenely loud ringing in his ears.

His killer looks oddly regretful.

“Colonel, put the gun down!” the DA orders, the horror leaving their face, replaced with determination.

“Partner…” Abe tries to call, but there’s liquid welling in his lungs, “…run…just run…”

Before the Colonel responds, the DA goes for his gun, and Abe’s mind barely catches up with the sight before another gunshot cuts through the air.

The District Attorney jolts away from the Colonel, red blossoming from their white shirt, from their ribs. They stare at their trembling, bloody hands in a daze.

No.

No, not another one, not another partner, not this one, please God, not this one—

As the world around him fades to darkness, the last thing he sees is his partner toppling over the railing, the Colonel reaching out for them.

He didn’t die.

But most days, he wishes he did.

Here’s the Link to the Epilogue

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[verybadhedgehog]

A Pleasure To Work With

A (completely non shippy) fic about Kylo Ren and his TIE Silencer test team. Premise: he gets on perfectly fine with the men and women of Sienar-Jaemus Fleet Systems. They like and respect him, and he provides them with excellent technical feedback.

(I hope you like tedious descriptions of what I imagine prototype testing / flight testing / race car testing is like, because that’s what this is, punctuated with some faintly amusing examples of General Hux Being A Dick For Absolutely No Reason) 

(can also be found on AO3 here)

Supremacy, Officers’ Wardroom Two, 2235h Friday

“Who are those guys?”

Chief Petty Officer Talget Rees put down her glass of Navy Long. “Which guys?”

“Those. On that table over there. With the unfastened jackets.”

“Oh, them. Yeah, you see the patches under their First Order insignia?”

“Hold on…” Petty Officer Dantrey squinted. “Oh yeah. Is that Sienar-Jaemus Fleet Systems? Light’s not the best in here.”

“Yeah. That’s the development team for the TIE Silencer.”

“No way? The Silencer? Wow. So they work with Kylo Ren?”

Rees grinned. “Yep.”

“Wow. They look rather relaxed, considering. I mean, they must get force-strangled on a fairly regular basis.”

“Yeah, no, funny thing is: apparently not. Apparently he’s totally fine with them.” “Really?”

“Couple of days ago, I was talking to Engineer Suchran — that’s the tall guy there? Brown skin, sort of long face?”

Dantrey nodded.

“And I think her name was Endis — the woman with short hair, leaning over the table?”

“Yeah, I see her.”

“So anyway, they’d had a few drinks and they were chatting about him like it was no big deal.”

“Looks like they’ve had a few drinks now,” Dantrey said, looking at the tech’s table and its detritus of salt snack packets and empty glasses and beer bottles. 

“Oh, go on, Talgs, introduce us. I want to hear Kylo Ren stories — and get details on the Silencer.”

Rees thought about it, then looked over to the table of Sienar-Jaemus techs. She made more deliberate eye contact with someone on the table, nodded, smiled, and stood up. “Come on, let’s go and sit with them.” She led and Dantrey followed along. One of the technicians greeted Rees, and they all made more space at their table for the two Navy officers to settle in.

“How you all doing?” Rees asked.

“Great, yeah.”

“Good session today?”

The technicians glanced between each other, and Rees realised she hadn’t introduced the newcomer. “This is Petty Officer Marco Dantrey, by the way. He’s into starfighters.”

“Well, I mean, who isn’t,” Dantrey said.

The team introduced themselves. Suchran. Endis. Judson. Meredith. 

“Anyway, yeah, good,” Endis said. “Got a few key things sorted out since last test session.”

Suchran took the lead. “We made great progress, so I gave the team an order, no working late tonight. We’ve all earned some beers and snacks.”

“I bet you earn them, working with him.”

Endis laughed. “He’s really not that bad. Did your friend not tell you?” she said, and Dantrey tried not to make the wrong face. “No, it’s alright.” She took another swig of her beer. “You see him totally differently than what we do.”

Dantrey tried again to avoid making the wrong face at the Sienar-Jaenus woman’s rather loose syntax. He supposed that the First Order valued these people for their expertise, and therefore turned a blind eye to their unrefined speech.

“To you, he’s whatever, the Enforcer, all of that,” Judson said, making a dramatic gesture with one hand to illustrate. “To us, he’s a fighter pilot. And not just any fighter pilot, the best.”

“And he gives great technical feedback,” Endis added. “Pleasure to work with, to be quite honest.”

Another technician, Meredith, cut in. “Like, case in point, today we were — oh no, wait a second —“

“If it’s classified you don’t have to,” Dantrey said. “I wouldn’t want you guys getting in trouble on our account.”

“No, no, you’re alright. If I leave out the fine details, we’ll all be right.”

Suchran gave affirmation. Rees and Dantrey leaned forward.

“So, yeah. We were working on the thrust response, implementing some solutions we’d been working out —“

“Solutions I’d been working out.”

“— Yeah, solutions Endis and her guys in Production had been working out — and it was a good session, really. Kylo was happy, he gave us good feedback, some pointers towards further improvements.”

“And a happy KR means a happy team — so, beers all round,” Suchran said. 

“Speaking of which, shall I get a round in?”

There was general agreement, and Judson stood, awkwardly gathered the empty glasses and bottles, and headed for the bar.

Supremacy, Hangar 16, 1400h Monday

Test Technician Meredith fired up the propulsion system. Chief Test Engineer Suchran and Test Engineer Endis checked system readouts together. Suchran asked for an update on initial heat exchange position, and Test Technician Judson delivered.

On time, test pilot Kylo Ren entered the hangar, black cloth flapping behind him. He looked around. “Just us in here?”

“Yep, just our team.”

Kylo unclasped his mask and pulled it off. 

“Put it under here if you want,” said Endis, pointing under the consoles. She and Judson made room, and Kylo stowed his helmet.

“So,” he said. “Fired up and ready?”

“All ready. Just a quick look at the schedule,” he said, and offered a datapad for Kylo’s viewing. “We’d like you to run to the first four sets of beacons and back for three laps to get some thruster data, and then we’re going to try with weapons firing on the barrage targets.”

“Okay,” Kylo said. “I’ll stay out unless you need me to come back in.”

“That’s fine — just wait for my word before you start firing on the targets.”

“You think you’ve pinned down the issue with power draw down?”

“Yep. Just need the data and your feedback to be sure.”

Kylo strolled out to the Silencer, climbed on board and lowered the access hatch.

“Ready to depart.”

“Okay, Kylo, keep it on mode zero till you’re clear of the line.”

“I know.”

“And engine mode two after the line,”

“Copy.”

The Silencer lifted from the hangar floor and slipped out of the atmosphere containment field into the space immediately surrounding the Supremacy, at a modest pace with its thrust arrays only dimly glowing. A set of beeps on the test comm channel indicated that the TIE had passed the boundary delineating the test space, into which other craft were forbidden from passing during the test session (a source of consternation to some of the officers of the Supremacy, who needed to adjust docking routes for supply vessels and transporter craft).

“Engine mode two for the first lap, Kylo,” said Endis.

The rear of the TIE Silencer lit up in red and accelerated to a startling pace, rushing past a set of hover beacons.

Suchran, Endis and Meredith stood around a console, peering at the curves of a graph that drew itself with the TIE’s continuing flight.

“That’s looking better,” Endis said. “Let’s see how tight he takes the second beacons.”

“Definitely better under cornering. Still a gap there though.”

Suchran pressed a button on his comm device. “How’s it feeling in there?”

“Better than before. Could still be better coming out of a tight manoeuvre.”

“Okay, Kylo, copy that.”

“It’s maybe a tenth or less, but I need to have it immediately.”

“Yeah, copy that. Telemetry shows the same. Mode three for your second lap, Kylo. And you can throw it around this time.”

“Can do.”

On the third lap, Kylo called through on the comm channel. “Steering feels slightly loose in places.”

“Okay, Kylo, copy.”

Endis looked at the telemetry screen. “Worse response after acceleration/deceleration,” she said. “And where the throttle is already micro-lagging. Looks like part of the same problem.”

“Gets worse when he’s chucking it about. So could be mechanical,” Suchran said.

“Something physically loose in there?”

“Could be. Let’s bring him in.” He pushed the talk to cockpit button. “Kylo? If you could come back to hangar now, back to hangar.”

Kylo turned the ship around, reduced power, and coasted in to the hangar. He lowered the landing gear and the ship settled.

“Systems to minimum, please, Kylo.”

“Yeah, okay.” He climbed out of the hatch and leapt down to the ground.

“What’s the story?”

“We want to check connections to the thruster array. Something might be mechanically loose in there. Could take a while.”

“Physically cutting connection to the thrusters?” Kylo looked thoughtful and nodded. “That’s possible.” He walked with Suchran to the rear of the fighter. 

“How was it feeling in there?”

“A loose, uncertain feeling in the steering, mostly in the z axis and a little in the x,” Kylo said, holding his hand flat out in front of him and wiggling it to demonstrate.

“After a corner, was that?”

“Yes. In the second part of a complex, especially.”

Two astromech BB units rolled up, and began undoing maintenance hatches on the belly of the fighter.

“Do you need me to… visualise?” Kylo asked, looking intently at the thrust arrays.

“We’ll take a look first, with the droids.”

“Alright. Let me know,” Kylo said, and he turned and walked to a corner of the hangar, where he sat down with his back against a wall.

Technician Judson tipped his head in Kylo’s direction. “What’s he doing? Nap time already? Or meditating?”

“I’d say eighty percent chance meditation. But you can’t discount nap.”

The BB units busied themselves under the fighter, and Suchran went to give them further direction.

A call came in from the bridge, interrupting him. He waved a hand at Endis to tell her to take over in his stead.

“Engineer Suchran? This is Captain Peavey.”

“Good day, sir.”

“Yes, quite. Ah — is this test session finished?”

“No, sir.”

“I see. It’s merely that we don’t see the Silencer in flight, and we would prefer to have anterior sector four space open…”

Suchran could hear another man’s voice fussing in the background.

“Give me the bloody comm — Engineer Suchran? General Hux.”

Suchran rolled his eyes. This was all they needed.

“Are you and Ren going to be flying that TIE or not?”

“The TIE is undergoing some modifications at the moment, sir, and Kylo Ren isready to get back on board.”

“What’s he doing now, if I might ask.”

“Meditating, I believe, sir.”

Hux scoffed audibly. “Well, I’m sure you’re all terribly patient and understanding with his mystical ways, although of course the rest of the starfighter corps seem not to need to indulge in his brand of relaxation.”

Suchran rolled his eyes again.

“How long do you intend to have that sector of space tied up?”

“Until 1700h, sir. As scheduled.”

Hux sighed. “Fine. What modifications are you doing, if I might ask?”

“Correcting a mechanical issue with cable routing, sir.”

“A mechanical issue? At this stage?”

“Issues can arise at various stages of the process, with a prototype, sir,” Suchran said, gritting his teeth.

He could hear Hux muttering to Peavey, off mic. “What are we paying these sums of money for if they’re still having mechanical problems — this is corner cutting at the front end stage, I could have half this done in-house.”

Suchran made a rude gesture at the comm device, grateful that it wasn’t a holotransmission.

“Alright. Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” Hux said, a little sarcastically, and cut off the transmission.

Judson looked up from his work. “Was that the bridge?”

“That was Hux.”

“He does like to, erm, take an interest, doesn’t he?”

“He does. If you can call it that.”

Endis and the BB units emerged from beneath the fighter.

“We found the culprit, I believe. One cable bundle on the starboard side was tugging under its own weight. Two cable ties and some welding, and we should be good as gold.”

“Do we have images?”

“I had BB-9L take before and after images.”

“Good. Something to show to production.” 

The BB unit trundled to a console, to upload its images.

It was time to start the flight test again, and Suchran knew the team had little time to waste. “Meredith! You go and get the sleeping prince, cos we’re ready to go, I reckon.”

Meredith sighed. “Oh alright. I’ll stand out of lightsaber’s range,” he laughed.

Kylo opened his eyes at Meredith’s approach, stood, stretched, and walked back with him.

“Issues fixed, Engineer?”

“We believe so,” Suchran said. “Time for a test and if all’s well we’ll go straight into the weapons power draw-down test.”

“Good.”

“One warm up lap and one full power lap and then we’ll start with the heavy lasers.”

Kylo climbed back on board and quickly had the TIE fired up and heading back out of the hangar.

Endis and Judson stood at their monitoring screens.

“How’s the thrust response, Endis?”

“We’ve lost the micro-lag, and laterals are looking good.”

Suchran pushed the talk to cockpit button to check in with Kylo. “How’s it feeling?”

“Better.”

“Under lateral acceleration?”

“Better.”

Suchran turned to his left. “Ready, Judson?”

Judson tapped on his screen. “Power cell readouts running.”

“Okay, good.” Suchran pushed the button again. “Alright, Kylo, we’re ready for the weapons power draw-down test.”

“I’ll come round from ship side.”

“Confirm that. Target one has shields fully up, ready to go.”

Kylo swung the TIE around and set off into the test space again.

“Okay, fire when ready on this lap.”

“Confirm.”

Long bolts of green laser plasma fired from the TIE’s cannons and dispersed on the shields of the target satellite.

“Heavy fire from both sides,” Suchran said.

“Yes, yes, yes, I’m doing it. You don’t have to remind me.” He pummelled the barrage target with several more rounds of fire. “Fuck’s sake.”

Suchran cut the comm.

“Power cells discharging — smooth curve as predicted. Down to fifty five percent now,” Judson said, “and cells starting to recharge now.”

“Need to check if that’s from reactor or solars. Holding steady?”

“Steady at sixty percent approx, and he’s giving it plenty.”

“How’s the rector to ion drive throughput?”

“Steady.”

“Good. He’s gonna have a hole in the shields in a minute. I’ll call him off.”

“Kylo? That’s enough on the lasers.”

His fire ceased.

“You’ve got what we need?” he asked.

“Looking good from here, Kylo. Nothing to note on thrust or handling?”

“No. All responses normal.”

Suchran called the TIE back in.

Supremacy, Hangar 16, 1010h Tuesday

“Same runs as yesterday, but after the second lap, stealth field on. Four laps full stealth, then pop it back off and we’ll reestablish comms.”

“Two laps, then four laps full stealth, got it. Thrusters on mode two?”

“Mode two, but you can try mode three or five on one of your stealth laps. We’ll download data at the end but as far as handling goes I’m more interested in your report.”

Kylo raised the landing gear, and the Silencer departed the hangar to start his run-in laps.

Endis and Judson monitored their screens.

A comm from the bridge came through. Suchran hoped it wasn’t General Hux again. He hoped in vain.

“Are you lot flying that Silencer out there in stealth mode?”

“Yes, sir. We are conducting a test of the cloaking field.”

“I take it you have full permission for that.”

“Of course, sir. We have full authorisation. You signed off on the request —“

“Yes, of course I did. I simply find that —“ Hux lowered his voice. “Listen, do you trust him?”

“He’s a fighter pilot, your — our — best, sir. A fighter pilot engaged in necessary testing.”

“Well. So long as he doesn’t simply wander off, we’ll all be fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see. Good. That’ll be all.”

Hux abruptly cut the comm and Suchran shook his head.

Endis glanced across at him. “Was that Hux again?”

“Yep.”

“What did he want? Or should I not ask?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Suchran said.

They looked at each other and shook their heads. Endis silently mouthed a rude word.

“He is, though,” Suchran said. “Don’t talk like that in front of your new Navy pals, mind you, or they’ll be sending themselves off to reconditioning.” 

Meredith was standing close to the hangar exit, staring out into the void.

“I have a visual on the Silencer,” he called.

“You sure? By your eyes?”

“Yeah, just got a glimpse of him rounding one of the beacons. Absolutely nothing on sensors though.”

“Well, that’s good.”

After a few minutes, the Silencer suddenly reappeared on Suchran’s test space monitor, and telemetry graphs began to redraw themselves in front of Endis and Judson. The fighter approached the Supremacy for a good fifteen seconds before Kylo opened comms.

“Coming back in now.”

“Okay, give us your debrief when you’re docked.”

Kylo stood and described how the Silencer had behaved on his test run, hands moving animatedly as he laid out the movements and attitudes of the starfighter in flight. 

“That’s meshing with what we expected,” Suchran said. “Give us a write up so we have that to take to Production along with the data download.”

“Of course,” Kylo said. Then he fixed Suchran with a questioning look. “Tell me, did you have any interruptions this time?”

“Yes. Just one.”

“Was it General Hux?”

“It was.”

Kylo grimaced. “He shouldn’t interfere. What did he want?”

“He wanted to know if we were flying in stealth mode.”

“He knows that. And he should go through the proper channels.”

“Technically,” Suchran said, “as I am leading the test team, I am the proper channels.”

“No,” Kylo said. “Fuck that. He’s doing this to get at me, but he can’t call directly to the TIE, yet, so he calls you. It’s pathetic really.”

“We answer questions as and when appropriate. We can’t exactly tell him to go away.”

“You could refer him to me.”

“If you like.”

“Tell him, the next time he tries to interfere, that I’ve given you direct orders to refer all questions to me. You’re under my command as much as his.”

“Yes. Sir.”

“Kriffing fuck. He shouldn’t even be here. He should be supervising progress on his own project.” Kylo looked up in the vague direction of the Supremacy’s bridge, and glowered. “Has he brought his hangers-on? “

“I did speak to Captain Peavey earlier on.”

“Peavey, huh. So who’s commanding the Finalizer? Ship’s cat?”

“No idea.”

“Pathetic, isn’t it?”

The technicians made vague non-committal sounds of amusement.

“I’ll turn up on his project, see how he likes it,” Kylo muttered. “In fact, when we’re done here, I’ll go and speak to him.”

“If I could have your report first though. Sir.”

Kylo ran a hand through his hair and made a face. “Yeah. Of course.” He reached for his datapad.

Supremacy, Bridge, 1315h Tuesday

“Ah, Ren. Good to see you.

Under his mask, Kylo rolled his eyes at Hux’s insincerity. “You seem keen to follow me around, General.”

“Not at all.”

“So, what then brings you to the Supremacy?”

“I divide my time between the Finalizer, work on Starkiller, and the Supremacy, as you know.”

“And how much time would you spend on this ship if you were able to stay away from my fighter testing?”

“That’s none of your business, Ren.”

“No, Hux. It’s none of your business.”

“The equipment of First Order military is none of my business? My forces?”

“The First Order’s forces. You are not the Order.”

Hux stared at him, his face sour and pinched. “It is every bit my business.”

“You have hundreds of other lines of command to attend to before you come to a test program operated by external contractor personnel. Does your chief provisioning officer know you’ve gone over her head? Does Sienar-Jaemus’ liaison manager know you’ve gone over his head? Ignoring your other responsibilities to do so?”

“Don’t question how I lead and how I manage,” Hux said, suddenly blistering.

Ren barked a dry, distorted laugh. “All because you can’t leave me alone to pilot a starfighter for half an hour.”

“I’m taking an interest, Ren. I want to know how testing is going. I’d like to get progress reports.”

“You’ll get reports. Ask your chief provisioning officer.” He leant closer. “Yes, I do know what your organisation chart looks like.”

“Well done you,” sniffed Hux.

“So, don’t hassle my team again. I’ve given them orders to refer all your questions to me.”

“Oh, splendid. If I know they’ll refer to you, I shall make it my business to speak to them much more frequently. Thank you very much indeed, Ren.”

Hux turned and departed. Kylo clenched a fist and gritted his teeth. Hux would come to regret this.

[jflashandclash]

Attrition of Peace

Fifteen: Annabeth

How to Predict Unicorn Collisions. You Don’t.

             Annabeth hated when things didn’t go according to plan, and being side-rammed by a unicorn hadn’t been part of the plan. As she pushed off the black pavement of the Brooklyn street, she thought about how she should recalculate this.

           She’d been furious that her call with Frank had been interrupted. No matter how many drachmas she and Percy tried to throw at Iris, they kept getting the message, Your rainbow has been disconnected. Please hang up, and try your rainbow again.

           The two most important parts of the message had been left out: Leo is alive and these demigods were probably terrified.

           And now Frank and Hazel were here. Something must have gone wrong for them to ride all the way to the East coast on Arion.

           Finding the right flight over had been child’s play. She knew which airlines the Romans had frequent flyer miles with because of some deals they’d worked out with the Amazon. She knew their preferred airports and the approximated time the flight would have left. They only ever did direct route flights, since layovers were bad news for ADHD, monster hunted demigods.

           She had hoped Piper could talk to them first, using that line she never got to use on the Romans when they first got to Camp Jupiter, “Lower your weapons. We just want to talk.” Or Will, since he and the shy daughter of Apollo, Kally, seemed to get along well. Or Nico, her friend. Or Jason, who connected really well with Axel over Capture the Flag.

           Something about this felt like a set up: the way the video of Euna Song turning people into trees had zoomed carefully onto hers, Kally’s, and Pax’s faces without any context as to why they were fighting against those people, the way the dialogue had been muted from the video of Axel attacking Leo, the way her phone, and the phone with the videos, malfunctioned so she couldn’t watch it again for a closer analysis, and the way the two ex-Kronos soldiers had ended up in a town whose policy was to execute ex-Kronos soldiers.  

           This group of half-bloods was suspicious, and very dangerous, but she also suspected something else was happening here, possibly something out of their control. From what she’d seen of Calex Rupin McKenzie and Merry Blythe at Camp Half-Blood and from Piper’s solid impression of them, neither seemed the type to associate with murders without reason.  

           But she also knew that desperation could crack a person. She wanted to know what was going on. They needed more data. Like where Axel had found Leo Valdez.

           Percy gently touched her arm. “Are you alright?” he shouted over the sound of the getaway taxi-van zooming away and horns blaring from oncoming traffic.

           Scraps and bruises. Minimal damage. They needed to focus on their target. She nodded, checking him over first. He looked the same—just dazed from being thrown off Blackjack.

           Had he been hurt, she’d have to murder a unicorn.

           They staggered to their feet in enough time to see the unicorn blur in retreat, Arion, riderless, was in quick pursuit. Annabeth wondered if that unicorn knew mythology was not on its side in a race against that horse.

           “Is Blackjack okay?” she asked, assessing the situation. Percy’s pegasus stumbled to his hooves. Hazel was on foot, Frank had disappeared, and an SUV pulled up beside them. She didn’t get to see what had attacked Hazel and Frank to knock them off Arion.

           Percy nodded, quoting in his best equestrian mimic, “Good as new, boss. I think I’m going to take it easy for a bit. I get a carrot for that, right?” He reached to pet Blackjack’s face. “Thanks for the ride, bud. Get to safety. You’ll get a whole bushel when we get back to camp.”

           Blackjack huffed and flew off into the air. Percy turned to Annabeth. “I hope Arion teaches that unicorn to play nice with other ponies.”

           Someone threw open the door to the SUV beside them, and Annabeth was glad to see Jason Grace motioning them inside. Piper gave them a happy wave from the back and a, “Hey guys! Tell me about NRU after we’re done doing some demigod hunting.”

Hazel hopped in from the other side, glancing towards the front in concern.

“Sorry I’m running late,” Jason apologized. “I couldn’t summon Tempest. I was scared my powers might throw off weather patterns around the airport.”

           Something felt uncomfortable inside the SUV, and it took Annabeth a moment to realize it wasn’t because the driver was a French zombie. There was an argument happening.

           “What’s the one thing I told you not to do?” Will demanded, his hands on his hips, despite being seated in the middle. If he hadn’t been such a firm believer in seatbelts, she was pretty sure he’d be leaning over Nico’s passenger seat.

           Nico sighed and leaned his head against the headrest to stare at the ceiling. “Raise the dead.”

           “And what did you do?”

           “Raise the dead—but look Will, it’s been a month since my last incident, and it’s just summoning the dead—not rocket science or shadow travel—”[1]

           Annabeth winced as they rearranged the seating. Everyone had promised to enforce Will’s no excess power usage for six months on Nico, but none of them  predicted Apollo showing up to shake Nico like a ragdoll. It put Nico’s recovery back by a lot and terrified Will and pretty much everyone at camp.

Jason jumped into the back. Percy pulled Annabeth into his lap so they could conserve on seating. From the uncomfortable glance that Jason and Piper shared, Will and Nico had been arguing since the airport. Maybe a chat about rogue half-bloods or college entrance exams would be relaxing.

           “Nico, I’m not saying this because I don’t have faith in you. I’m mad because we made an agreement and because I care about you and it would crush me if anything happened to you.”

           Nico went bright red in the face and sank into his seat. “Will,” he grumbled, “Not in front of everyone.”

Hazel cleared her throat. She looked concerned for her brother, but her expression also had serious problem written all over it. Something had gone wrong in Rome. Annabeth’s mind raced with ideas.

“It’s great to see you guys, but Frank scouted ahead. We should—”

           A hummingbird darted through the door before Annabeth could shut it. When Frank turned back into a human, the SUV became uncomfortably cramped, and Annabeth started to really miss the expansiveness of the Argo II. Annabeth’s brain filed through excuses to push them past any cops that might pull them over for having too many people in a vehicle.

           Normally, Frank would have been embarrassed to squish in the tiny bit of space between Will and she and Percy. Instead, he leaned forward to talk to the driver, jumped to find it an undead person, and turned in confusion to Nico. “Uh—hey Nico—they’re five blocks ahead, can you uh tell—”

           “Monsieur Jules-Albert.”

           “Yes, Monsieur Jules-Albert to follow—”

           The zombie driver stepped on it. Their SUV lurched forward, knocking Frank back. Though they quickly jerked back to a stop in Brooklyn’s absurd traffic. Annabeth’s mind whirled to calculate if it would be faster to walk.

           “Seatbelt,” Will said to Frank, folding his arms and frowning at the passenger seat in the best charades of, we’ll finish this later, that Annabeth had ever seen.

           “Augh, dude, what happened to your ear?” Percy asked.

           Annabeth was about to ask the same question. Frank had a hasty patch job of gauze on his ear with medical tape wrapped around his head to keep it in place. From the old blood dried on the gauze, she had a feeling there wasn’t much of an ear left under there.

           “I can probably reattach it if you have the ear,” Will offered, sensing the same.

           “I don’t,” Frank said grimly, like he’d forgotten a number two pencil on test day. “Axel bit it off after he set Reyna’s house on fire.

           “He what?!” Nico demanded, sitting up in his seat and forgetting his prior embarrassment. “Is Reyna okay?”

           “Physically, yea,” Frank said. He gave them a brief update on what happened as Jules drove.

           “Wait—why were they in Reyna’s house? I thought she pretty much lived, ate, slept, and plotted punishments for bad legionnaires in the principia,” Percy asked.  

           Annabeth swatted him. She’d seen Reyna and Axel interact once, when Axel first parked outside Camp Half-Blood’s boundaries and refused to come inside. From what she’d seen then, and from a few comments Piper had made about the type of guy Reyna might like, Annabeth had a guess why Axel was in her house.

           “They were on a breakfast date, sort of,” Hazel confirmed from the back of the SUV. “It was… hard to convince her not to come on this quest, but she’s making sure Camp Half-Blood is safe, since she knows you guys are out.”

           Annabeth hoped that wouldn’t make everyone lose focus. She kept reminding herself that they needed all the facts first, that something wasn’t adding up here, but Nico voiced the opinion of the group perfectly.

           “I’m going to drag Axel to Tartarus and craft him a personal punishment for the rest of eternity. How dare he hurt Reyna,” Nico growled. As the SUV rolled to a stop, he glanced back. “Or Frank. Sorry about your ear, Frank.”

           “It’s okay; it’s just gone for good.”

           “Nico, we talked about this,” Will scolded.

           Nico rolled his eyes and threw his door open. “Fine. In a few months, I’ll drag him to Tartarus and craft him a personal punishment.”

           “There’s my responsible son of Hades.”

           They got out of the SUV and took off down a wide alley between two brick buildings designed with the classic flare of late nineteenth century architecture. This was an old part of Brooklyn, one the gentrification hadn’t yet touched, but the neon blue and purple lights around two ionic columns were new. They stood on either side of a club entrance that Annabeth could see Euna, Calex, and Merry darted through.  

           They needed a plan.

           The bouncer was a huge guy in a biker jacket—what you’d expect to find at a club in New York. Unlike what you’d expect, he stood off to the side of the door, leaning against the wall and grinning stupidly at their approach. He held a hand out to prevent the small line of guests from entering. The guests in line whispered, looking far less agitated than Annabeth would expect with a bouncer not letting anyone in.

           From what Annabeth had read and seen, clubs weren’t usually active this early at night. She hoped this wouldn’t be a rerun of Club Lotus.

           “Stop,” Annabeth said before they reached the entrance.

           Everyone skittered to a stop, like she’d pulled a gear out of a watch. Jason, Percy, Piper, Hazel, Frank, and Nico all paused to glance at her expectantly. She forgot how well their team worked together. The only person who stumbled was Will.

           “We need a plan.” Jason read off her face.

           Annabeth’s mind spun. That was her territory. But she was missing some integral data to make a full plan. Her instinct told her not to go in with swords drawn. “We should try to parley. When they ran from the airport, and when they were in the cab, they didn’t attack any of us. The Pax brothers may have only done that in New Rome because they were cornered.”

          They’d have to worry about Frank’s quest from Ares later. Right now, she wanted to know what was going on.

          “Seeing Roman colors is going to probably scare them, so Hazel, use the Mist to hide what you and Frank look like. Stay to the entrance to make sure they don’t double back to escape. Everyone else, keep with your partner—” She didn’t need to say who was partnering with whom. “—keep alert. They are dangerous, but try to talk them down first. If you see them—”

          “Find or walkie-talkie Jason and I,” Piper finished. “And I can make sure things don’t get out of hand.”

          Annabeth was pleased to see Will open up his jacket to show off a charging station for walkie talkies beside his medical kit and a package of latex gloves. He handed one off to Percy and one to Hazel.

          Because Iris Messaging had been so inconsistent, and the presence of a half-blood tended to make technology go haywire, she’d been experimenting with ways to keep in contact. Older walkie talkies proved somewhat reliable.

          The other problem was getting into the club. If Axel Misted a group of underaged kids in, Hazel could probably do the same. Annabeth just hoped everyone either had a driver’s permit or a library card for Hazel to Mist.

          The bouncer put a huge arm out across the door. “The guitarist says you’re with him. And he said you’re allowed to keep your weapons. And we aren’t supposed to kill you.”

          Annabeth wanted to swear. She should have assumed the others had connections here, else they wouldn’t have ran straight to this club. Her brain pierced through the Mist to reregister the bouncer’s single eye, and how tall he was. Despite all the time she’d spent with Tyson, the seven year old in her always cowered at the sight of Cyclopes. But she was almost a legal adult now, a hero of Olympus and a daughter of Athena. Annabeth maintained steady eye contact. This guy wasn’t mimicking any of them, and didn’t even look interested in chowing down on one of their heads.

          The people in line hazed into various monsters and ghosts.  

          “This is a club for monsters,” Frank said. The way he said it made her wonder when Frank would bring the entire legion here for a warm up drill.

          Everyone else must have seen it too. They touched their weapons.

          This Cyclops kept grinning, not seeming to realize which demigods he was stalling. “The guitarist says you can come in, but,” he said, “the tiny Pax said you can only come in if that one gives me a hug.” The Cyclops pointed at Jason Grace.

          Jason Grace pointed at himself in confusion. “Me?”

          The Cyclops nodded. “He said you love hugging Cyclopes. And the tiny Pax knows I love hugs.” The Cyclops folded his arms and stood up tall, like he had declared how much he liked breaking people’s necks.

          Percy stifled a laugh. “Hey, Cyclopes give the best bear hugs, probably only second to Frank.”

          “You’re not going to hurt him,” Piper asked her question as a statement, one enlaced with charm speak.

          The Cyclops didn’t change his posture or expression at all. Maybe he really did like hugs. “Nope!” he affirmed.

          Jason frowned as Hazel giggled and Nico and Will choked on laughs.

          Percy patted Jason’s back. “He seems like a good Cyclops. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Thanks for reading guys! I had a great time writing this one :D XD

 Foonote:

[1] I need to thank both Gravity Falls and BruneGonda for this. I’ve been trying to find a way to slip her hilarious fanart in for three books.

[sinesalvatorem]

Taking Me On A Date: A Comprehensive Guide

(As comprehensive as I can make a Tumblr post I wrote on the spur of the moment, that is. I will try to update over time with more info and links. You can also use this as general advice on interacting with me.)

I recently got into some conversations about how and why someone might want to take me on a date. As such, I’ve decided to write up in one place as much as I can figure out about what I’d want out of a date and what other people should expect from me.

What I Like:

I am bisexual, and am happy to go on dates with people of any gender/sex. I lean androphilic, which means I’m into a cluster of traits that tend to be correlated with maleness. I find testosterone-influenced features and masculine gender presentation and stuff to be sexy. However, they’re just part of what I find attractive, and I can be attracted to people with very little of either.

I’m someone with a mostly-male body (I haven’t been on HRT very long) and a very feminine personality / presentation / behaviour set. I can be reasonably described as a transgirl, though these days I’m somewhat confused by what being trans means. However, the important thing to note is that in any situation with gender roles I will almost certainly be most comfortable and happy in the female one.

This means that, among other things, I’d like you to take the initiative as much as possible. Suggest what we do, place an order on my behalf (after consulting me, ofc), escalate things yourself, etc. If things are going well, I would very much like it if you tried to kiss me (or asked to kiss me, if you prefer). [How to tell if I want to be kissed] If I really like you but I have to take the initiative to go anywhere, I will have a hard time, because doing so is very out of sync with my personality. I can and will do it if it’s clear that we both want it and you aren’t moving, but be aware that this is vastly dispreferred.

I also really like being complimented. You can be as shallow or silly or dramatic as you want, and I won’t interpret your compliments as fake or be repulsed by them. For more on how I perceive (and use) complements, see here.

I usually enjoy physical contact. In general, leaning against me, resting your hand on my leg, putting your arm around me, etc are all very nice. If for some reason they aren’t, I’ll pull away and say something to that effect. However, this is rare. Overall, err on the side of touching me, if you would like to. Kissing is as described above. If making out (ie: sustained, enthusiastic kissing) ensues, you can grope to your heart’s content.

Going on a date with you does not necessarily mean I would like to sleep with you, nor do I assume that everyone who goes on a date with me would like to sleep with me. However, it is a possibility. What I like sexually is an essay in itself but, luckily, an essay I’ve already written. You can read the guide to my sexual preferences here or browse my NSFW blog here.

What I Dislike:

Please do not issue direct commands to me for any reason. For anything you would command me to do, you should just ask me to do it instead. Seriously. Using the imperative with me ends very badly. Please consider this a hard limit.

I don’t like being talked down to. Don’t get me wrong - I like learning about things. However, talking to me like I’m too dumb to get what you mean, or saying things to the effect of “Oh, of course you wouldn’t know this”, will generally annoy me quite a bit. I like feeling like I’m learning something collaboratively with someone else, rather than providing them with an opportunity to feel superior.

Relatedly, I don’t like getting into heated arguments on dates. Especially if it’s in a public venue. I’m OK with arguing in a general sense, but it kind of counteracts the date experience. Here I can’t say I’m perfect - I might very well make the comment that leads to the argument. However, if I notice that this has happened and point it out, I would very much appreciate it if you were willing to set the argument aside for another time.

If I state a boundary in advance, please DO NOT approach it in the expectation that I will stop you at the right time. I encourage you to verbally ask what to do about something that seems like an edge case, but do not give the impression in your actions that you’re going to violate the boundary because you expect me to enforce it myself.

For an example taken from a Less Wrong thread:

Person 1: The other week I was making out and cuddling with a girl, and we'd already explicitly negotiated that we wouldn't be having sex. So at some point we were spooning, and I asked "Can I touch your breasts?". She hesitated, so I said, "Ah, that's a no, don't worry". She was obviously relieved, and we continued without any problems. This sort of thing only comes up a small minority of the time, but when it does I think it's actually pretty important to verbalise things. So I'm wondering whether you have a different system, or just never find yourself needing to check in with someone that directly?

Person 2: With the breasts, no, I wouldn't explicitly ask in that way. Hands go on body, hands caress slowly toward breasts. Pay attention to response. Another way is to look where you intend the hands to go, and go there. Perhaps a comment on the breasts first.

Person 1:  For me it really depends on my model of what I think they want. Like, assume I'm pretty sure that there'll be a line somewhere. Obviously, the right thing to do isn't just "escalate until they give an explicit 'no' (either verbally, or by moving my hand away)". But even if you just proceed cautiously and keep gauging their response, they're likely to spend a lot of the time thinking about when/whether you're going to push past where they're comfortable, and steeling themselves to give that no when it happens. Especially with girls, most will have had more than a few negative experiences with pushy guys.

What person 1 did is an example of what I’m in favour of. What person 2 did would freak me out. Person 1′s response perfectly illustrates why. I frankly do not have the mental energy to keep track of how close you’re coming to overstepping my boundaries so I can enforce them. If you want to go further, please use words first.

(Note that I’m not saying that what Person 2 did is in any way Universally Bad. It probably works fine for some people. However, it does not work for me. I am writing this guide in advance specifically because what works for one person may not work for another, and I want to clarify where I stand.)

How To Communicate With Me:

When speaking to me, there is basically no need to worry whether what you’re saying to me is too private/TMI/unwanted/etc. I have no “Woah! Too much information!” reaction to speak of. If you’d like to tell me something, I’d like to know it, because I am infinitely curious about everyone. I am always in favour of deepening knowledge. (However, I will generally try to track how I speak to you to ensure I’m not stepping over any of the usual boundaries. This is me asymmetrically giving you permission to disregard that for me.)

I am somewhat guess culture in that I can’t clearly communicate my preferences one-on-one in-the-moment. (Which is why it’s so much easier to just write up this Tumblr post in advance.) Here is a very detailed explanation of what’s going on with my communication style. In case you TL;DR (though it’s only 2 pages), the important bits to note are:

I encourage people to ask me whenever they want something from me, because communication needs to happen somehow. If you can hedge it by giving me an obvious acceptable out (“but I know it’s far away…”, “but if you’re too busy…”, etc), that would be great, because it would feel 100% safe, but you don’t have to.

If you give me an out and I don’t take it, but I do raise an objection, assume that’s my true objection and you can troubleshoot it. If you don’t give me an out and I raise an objection, it may be my way of grasping for an escape clause. In that case, only troubleshoot to the first level, and back off if I keep giving excuses. If I start trying to pull out my hair, you probably broke me.

I view going on a date as exploratory. I want to learn how much I like you and how well we get along. I can usually tell pretty quickly how well I like someone from the cues I pick up in interaction. By the end of a first date, there’s a ~80% chance that I know whether I’m into you. However, if I’m unsure, I’ll lean toward trying another time. You can definitely ask about scheduling a second date right after the first one, and you can call me back as soon as you want. Rules about how long you need to wait are silly IMO.

I hate talking on the phone or via email. Instant messaging through Tumblr or Facebook is preferred, and SMS is OK. Even so, I am sometimes bad at keeping in touch with people online, even if I like them a lot and/or can consistently meet them in person. More details here.

I am OK with you being as explicit (or crass) as you want about the degree to which you’re into me from the get-go. This could be “You’re OK to hang out with” or “You are what gives the universe meaning” or anything inbetween. Yes, I’m completely aware of how weird that is in a first date context. No, I don’t particularly care that it is. (I will probably avoid being weird, though, because not everyone is as weirdness-tolerant as I am.)

After the date, if you invite me to go back to your house, I will assume that this is a polite way of asking to sleep with me, because this is how that’s generally used. (You can also directly ask me if I want to have sex with you but, if you’re looking for a polite way to ask, this is ideal.) If you ask me to head back to your place and I don’t want to sleep with you, I’ll decline, which works well enough if what you were actually asking was whether I wanted to sleep with you.

However, it’s possible that you want to invite me to hang out at your house for non-sexual reasons! And then my declining would be unfortunate if I actually did want to hang out more! In that case, you can say you want me to go home with you “for non-sexual reasons”. In that case, I won’t assume that you definitely don’t want to sleep with me, but I will assume that you won’t be disappointed if I decide not to. If you don’t want to sleep with me, or you do want to while also wanting me to visit for other reasons, this is the way to ask.

Logistics:

I live in the San Francisco Bay Area so, if you also live there, you can go out with me now. If not, you may be able to go out with me if/when I visit your city in the future.

To the greatest degree possible, I want you to plan it. Of course I want you to consult me on what I want and to ask if I approve of the place/time before we go but, the more you take over the planning, the more I’ll enjoy it. From The Art of Charm:

If you want the girl to like you and enjoy herself on the date, then you’ve got to take control every step of the way.  Deciding what to do, where to go, how long it will take – all that logistical stuff – it’s all up to you.

The ability to lead is something all women find attractive in a guy.  And by taking on this burden of responsibility, it means that the girl you’re out with doesn’t have to worry about these things.  She can just relax, go with the flow, and enjoy herself and the time you’re spending together.

Frankly, the claim that “all women” find this attractive is false. However, I find this attractive in people, so I won’t deny that this is good advice about me. Specifically, the thing about it relaxing your date would be super true of me, and I will definitely enjoy my time with you a lot more if I can focus on you instead of on logistics.

Getting around will require me using the train system unless you want to pick me up yourself or pay for an Uber/Lyft for me. I can’t drive and I have a vendetta against buses. As such, I would appreciate it if we met up somewhere near a Caltrain or BART station.

I try to be very clear on whether I’m going to show up to something. If I cancel, I try to say so as far in advance as possible, and I also like to form plans at least two days in advance (preferably 3-5). I also try to confirm via messaging whether we’re definitely getting together on the day of the meeting, so the other person can back out. I am sometimes late due to the vagueries of the train system (or annoyingly early, because I almost always leave home early), but so far I’ve never flaked on my dates without saying anything. I would strongly encourage you to likewise tell me in advance if it isn’t going to work out - doubly so if I make the 5½ hour roundtrip to Berkeley (which I’m willing to do if we actually meet).

If things involve money, I would greatly appreciate it if you paid. This is because I’m broke (am recent immigrant who is new to the jerb-thiefing). However, don’t worry about me being an expensive date - you can openly optimise for thrift and I’ll be down with it. I also try to order things from the cheaper end of the menu. I disapprove of spending other people’s money as much as I disapprove of spending my own.

If going out involves getting food, we’ll need to discuss my very complicated and kind of restrictive diet. Just bringing that up in advance.

See Also:

Guides on how to go on dates that I approve of (for giving good advice on how to go out with me) are this Reddit post, this article from The Art of Charm, these two WikiHow pieces (Article 1 & Article 2), and this guide from Instructables. Rescripting Sex by Cliff Pervocracy is also relevant.

My OkCupid dating profile and match questions, and my face and voice.

My Tumblr profile, my description of how to message me online, my post asking to meet up with people in the Bay, and my general social skills advice.

[johnbutlersbuzz]

ON THE ROAD AGAIN WITH BONNIE & CLYDE

Well, I’m on the road again. Cue Willie Nelson’s song.

What, wait-a-minute?

I’m just told that Willie’s music publishers want some green-dough, some cabbage, some buckaroos, to play his song in public. That’s okay, I’ll just mumble the words and hum it in my mind. Trouble is, that song is hard to get out of your head once you start it playing inside there. Know what I mean?

I’m driving north on Highway 83 in ARGO. Wearing an un-tucked light blue Columbia fly-fishing shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and loafers without socks, I am easily identified by locals along the way as a “yur-not-fum-round-here” guy.

If you want to quickly find the road, I’m traveling. Pick up a paper map of the U.S.A. (remember those?). If you can’t find one, do this mentally: hold the map out in front of you with the west side of it in your left hand and east side in your right.

Yes, of course, with north at the top.

Now, fold it in half from left to right (ah, note for dyslexics: a right to left folding of the map also works, with, of course, north still at the top), then crease it in the middle. Now open it back up.

Look at the crease in the middle. Highway 83 should be right there in the crease, or, at least, close to it, just to the left side, from top to bottom.

Some writers have called Highway 83, “The Last American Highway.” One guidebook dubbed this highway, “The Road To Nowhere,” which, in all due respect to the travel guide, seems disparaging, belittling, and frankly, stupid. I wasn’t the best student in my high school geography class, but I can see the road does go somewhere, and on both ends of it: old Mexico to Canada. Two exciting, diverse places, albeit, one very violent, the other passive and peaceful. So in my humble opinion, this demeaned Highway 83 needs a more notable name.

I’m naming it: HEARTLAND HIGHWAY.

It’s a more fitting moniker don’t you think?  Much more appropriate, especially when you come to know it for what it really is and what it represents for America and the world.

Highway 83, Heartland Highway, is 1,885 miles long, traversing south from old Mexico, through the length of Texas, the panhandle of Oklahoma, the western side of Kansas, Nebraska, and straight across South Dakota and North Dakota, and on north into Manitoba, Canada.

This mostly two-lane road unfolds, with narrow shoulders most of the way, and occasional trucks hauling everything from mammoth round-bails of hay, to cattle, to large farm equipment; all whizzing by, way to close in the opposing lane.

Heartland Highway is dotted, sparsely, with small classic American towns. The kind of towns that reflect the soul of a great country.

Sturdy people who live in those towns and on farms scattered around. They are all in the middle of the nation’s bread-basket-fields of corn, wheat, and grain. And if providing food for the country and the world is not enough along Heartland Highway, oil is brought up from below the surface to produce energy, and brought from above via huge wind-turbines.

Over those 1,885 miles, there are a million stories; many lost in the wind and dust; others told and retold. Historians begin with stories of roaming dinosaurs embedded in rock thousands of years ago, to stories of Indian tribes fighting each other; then Indian and European settlers fighting each other. There are stories of railroaders, smugglers, drug runners, bank robbers, and on and on.

Ranchers and farmers began scratching out an existence in the 1800’s along the route, back when it was just wagon ruts with a strip of grass growing in-between, much of the way. Modern day “Snow-birds,” use 83 to flee winter heading south for warmer climes.

As I drive north through the panhandle of Texas, nearing the panhandle of Oklahoma, I stop at a little rest area on the west side of 83, Heartland Highway. I’m about seven miles north of Wellington, Texas (birthplace of composer and songwriter Jimmy Webb).

I’m standing near the spot that almost ended the criminal career of the notorious Bonnie and Clyde on June 10, 1933. The final ending for the pair would come later, but this specific spot at the top of Texas, next to the Salt Fork Red River, changed Bonnie’s life in a significant way and added a story to the area’s history that is still compelling to this day.

Bonnie and Clyde were a couple of outlaws, famous depression-era desperados in the early thirties: Bonnie Elizabeth Parker and Clyde Chestnut Barrows.

Maybe Clyde’s parents bestowing a middle name on him, like “Chestnut,” had something to do with the anger he carried inside. Okay, I’m playing armchair analyst here, but it’s a thought worth pondering.

Bonnie and Clyde centered on robbing banks, along with Clyde’s brother and their various gang members who joined up with them from time to time. Their crime spree wrecked havoc that included murder, from  Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Louisiana, Arkansas, Missouri, to Illinois.

On a side note, as a teenager, I had the intriguing experience of interviewing one of their colleagues, Frank Hardy. He had retired to Waco, Texas after his life in crime, which included an extended stay behind bars. He died of a heart attack shortly after our interview. This is while I was in high school writing for the student newspaper. I’ll tell you about that another time.

So, back in 1933, Bonnie and Clyde were driving the same route I’m on today, but with a little more motivation. They were desperately trying to reach the Oklahoma state line to meet up with Clyde’s brother, and fleeing the Texas law. Fortunately, I am able to take my time, meandering, with no one chasing after me (as far as I know).

Bonnie and Clyde, along with a gang member, William Jones, raced to the state border on that hot June 10th day. Getting to the state line was a key strategy because law enforcement officers lost the authority to enforce their state laws if they crossed their state boundaries. Before cell phones, the internet, and sparsity of land-line telephones, communicating was not as easy as it is today, all to the benefit of the bad guys.

Reaching the Oklahoma/Texas state line for Bonnie and Clyde meant a reprieve from the immediate pursuit of the Texas police. An escape from justice, for the moment.

In the hasty flee for the border they apparently didn’t see the detour sign warning the bridge had been washed away. Bonnie and Clyde’s Ford coup plunged into a dry creek bed off the Salt Fork of the Red River.

The whole incidence, starting with the car speeding past the barriers, then plunging into the creek bed, was witnessed by a farmer, John Pritchard, and his family, from their farmhouse nearby.

John Pritchard, his dad, and brother-in-law, being good citizens rushed to the scene, helping to save Bonnie, Clyde and his brother from the burning car rolled over on its side. Not knowing the victims were criminals, the Pritchard family cared for them in their home.

Bonnie’s leg was burnt from the car fire and splashing battery acid, resulting in her being afflicted with a limp, needing assistance to walk, the rest of her life. The Clyde Barrow was nicked-up and bruised. They required medical attention, so Pritchard’s son-in-law, Alonzo Cartwright, drove into town to get a doctor.

Before the doctor arrived, the Sheriff and his deputy showed up at the farmhouse. Clyde reacted, and Bonnie suddenly came to life. They took their guns, handcuffed them, and proceeded to kidnap them in their own car. A scuffle resulted in the farmer’s daughter being shot in one hand, while in her other hand she held her baby.

To ensure the farmer couldn’t follow them, the gangsters shot out the tires of the Pritchard family automobile. Before leaving, Clyde offered money to Pritchard saying, “… for all the trouble we’ve been to you.”

“No,” said Pritchard, “if a man can’t help another man, things are in pretty bad shape.”

After crossing into Oklahoma, the gang tied the Sheriff and deputy to a tree with barbed wire near the town of Sayre.

Bonnie and Clyde would live nearly another year before being gunned down by Texas Rangers.

In the wrecked Ford coupe abandoned in the riverbed, Bonnie left one of her leather gloves. Clyde got his guns but overlooked an ammo clip, still loaded with twenty rounds of bullets.

Those two items are kept to this day at the Collingsworth County Museum in Wellington. A reminder of the day Bonnie and Clyde made a mark on the otherwise quiet little community.

Just one of the stories along the Heartland Highway. And it’s back on in ARGO for me, headed north on 83, discovering America, one story at a time.

See you down the road #JohnButlersBuzz

  (Special thanks to the Collingsworth County Museum and the Texas Historical Commission.)