manybcdthings

[manybcdthings]

Cruz smirked as soon as his brother spoke. That Santiago humor, dry as bone. It always got to him, ever since he was a kid. The kind of sarcasm that most people could miss. Not family, though. "Yeah, you're right." he muttered, tossing the words like an afterthought. "Let the kids handle 'em. That'll end real cute." he grinned wider, tsking a little. But none of it was funny. Suppliers drying up, going dark, disappearing. It didn't scream war, not yet, but it sure as hell wasn't peace either.

Cruz kept his eyes on the fire, but he felt Santiago's thoughts working beside him. That quiet, heavy spinning they both did. Obsessing, analyzing, checking angles that weren't even there yet. It was an Alvarez trait. Cruz called it staying alive. Still, he wondered. How sharp could you really be if your head was always somewhere else? Watching everything meant you risked missing the one thing right in front of you. It might have worked for this long, but what if it was just luck?

At Santiago's question, Cruz nodded once then took a slow sip of beer, still warm from the sun. "Yeah. Somethin' small. Easy. A little cash, little dope. Just enough bait." his tone was low, even. "Canary traps work for a reason, carnal." he could still hear the scattered noise from the rest of the ranch. Voices, laughs, slurred shit, a few engines coughing to life. The night wasn't over for any of them, not even for him but it still didn't mean he was rushing. Cruz gave another sidelong glance at his brother, eyes steady. "Charlie told me 'bout the shit you found at that apartment." his voice was still easy, but he was watching for Santiago's reaction. "I think she's got a right to dig into it. You ask me? Let her."

santiago has never known the silence of a still mind. even now, with the fire low and the night softened by drink, his thoughts spool without pause. he's used to it. patterns etched across the ceiling he won't sleep under. a thousand ideas twisting into shape behind his eyes. plans. variables. the slow architecture of danger.

the noise has dulled around him into faded laughter, emptied bottles, footsteps dissolving against desert dust. but he hardly notices how the others have scattered, as they always do, carried off by fatigue or obligation or the pull of another job. he remains, as he often does, anchored by the glow of a dying bonfire, watching the embers perform their slow, smoky vanishing act. the flames stretch and fall. reach and retreat. reach and retreat.

it's only when cruz speaks that santi shifts, glancing at his brother with the kind of ease he doesn't offer many. he lifts the bottle to his lips and smiles, not because the words are funny, but because cruz said them. 'yeah?' santiago murmurs, cigarette now balanced between his fingers, drawn from behind his ear like a ritual. he doesn't light it yet. 'we ain't had much trouble at drop spots, hermano. weird place to wanna check.' he adds, voice even and unbothered.

but there's no bite to it and no real dismissal. the truth is softer, more private. santiago doesn't think caution is foolish, not when the safest places are often the first to fall. especially when the silence has gone on too long. he glances back toward the fire, then to cruz, and exhales. 'what're you thinking?' he asks, a slow grin forming. 'tempt a cabrón with a pile of money and see who comes sniffing? that kind of drop?' he says it like a joke, but the spark behind his eyes is all calculation.

[manybcdthings]

It'd be too fucking easy to say loving Roxy Rose was like loving a wild animal. Teeth, claws, blood on the tile. People liked metaphors like that. Feral girl. Danger in a miniskirt. And yeah, sometimes it fit. But most people weren't close enough to see her like this. Not when the rage was just pain with nowhere to go. Felix had clocked it early, learned it like a second language. Roxy Rose wasn't a wild animal. She wasn't just chaos. She was aftermath. He remembered the exact moment it hit him. Ten years ago, give or take.

They'd been sleeping together for weeks and according to Roxy, not together. Felix agreed because it was easier to agree when you didn't want to look too closely at what you felt. So he flirted with someone else at the bar the next night. Watched Roxy's eyes go cold and shark black just seconds before the girl's head went through the window. That was it. After that, no declarations were needed. She just broke someone's face and smiled through the glass dust in her hair, and he knew. Roxy laughed when the violence was natural. When she didn't laugh, it meant something worse.

And right now, there was nothing funny about her rage. She was containing it, and Felix didn't interrupt. Just nodded a little, let a small grin drag across his mouth. Not for any other reason than the way he saw it all happen in real time. The way she glared at him. The way, just for a second, she took a breath. And then those blue eyes rolled at him like he was an idiot. The way she moved to the kitchen, silhouette slicing through neon pink light like a blade through cotton candy. "Nah, not a plant." he muttered, mostly to the phone as he popped the back off. "But, a plant makes more sense than coincidence." he pried the battery loose, and the shell creaked like it hadn't been touched in years.

There were a thousand questions clawing around this burner. And knowing Roxy, she'd want answers to all of them. Every last one. And Felix? Well, he was already trying to find them for her. "Not sure why someone would fake it being his, either." he added just as the SIM card slid free between his fingers. It was a miracle it was even there. Or a mistake. And neither sounded like Michael fucking Rose. Felix sighed, glancing to the kitchen just as Roxy stood in that cracked halo of pink light, downing cherry vodka like it was holy water.

He was grinning again. Softer. The kind of grin that wasn't sympathy, but was considerate. Gentle in a way that probably didn't suit his mouth. Then, he held the SIM card up to the light like it might confess something. Scratched. Like it had been switched out a million times. "What if he wanted you to find it? You and Dom. Your mom. Gave it to someone, said 'wait, not yet.'" as soon as he said it, he almost wanted to scoff. That'd be nice. It'd be cleaner. Easier. But nothing ever was.

Grief's a weird one. It shapeshifts fast into sadness. But sadness doesn't have a place in Roxy's world. Not really. Around here, sadness is just the scenic route to anger. All roads lead to Rage. Or whatever the fuck the saying is. She's hunched over the tangled graveyard of chargers like she's been sitting here for eighty years. Spine coiled. Jaw clenched tight enough to creak. The pill she swallowed twenty minutes ago hasn't kicked in yet, but her molars grind like gears. She can taste blood. The inside of her cheek is raw, bitten through without even noticing.

Another cable gets shoved into place with too much force, and her hand slips, yanking the whole mess with it. Felix is somewhere on the couch beside her but she barely registers him. All her focus is pinned to the burner in her lap. The one she knows was her dad's. No doubt in her mind. That torn playing card? Michael all over it. Classic Rose move. Mark the trail, hide the trap. Her fingers tremble. She hates that they tremble.

And it's strange because...Roxy can't remember if she ever cried. No one would ever call Michael Rose a good man, either. Nothing to really miss. He was cruel. Mean, too. He taught her how to strip a pistol in thirty seconds flat. Taught her to swing a bat like it was a part of her, for Christ sake. That shit matters. Felix's voice breaks through like it might stitch her back together if she lets it. She doesn't look at him, but she feels his fingers ghost over hers, and something in her chest shifts just enough to breathe again.

Until he mentions DJ, and her eyes snap to him. Rage. Rage. Anger. Sad. Grief. Love. Three, two, one. Roxy exhales and then her eyes roll dramatically. "I'm not going to DJ fucking Anderson." she bites out, quiet but no less certain. "He won't say shit on purpose, but he'll say shit by accident. That's worse." her gaze drops back to the phone still clenched tight in her fist. Like if she lets go, it might detonate or maybe she will. "Think it's a plant?" she mutters, and suddenly her voice softens just enough to sound human again. Then, without ceremony, she tosses the phone toward Felix like she doesn't give a shit if it shatters against the floor.

She's already moving to the kitchen space where's half a bottle of cherry vodka waits for her. "Or he just left it there in that fucking warehouse for some reason?" she scoffs as she yanks open the fridge, the sound popping like a KRAK. "Yeah, right. Real on brand for Mikey Rose. Leave loose ends, walk away from a burner." her laugh is bitter and sharp and she's already chasing vodka down her throat before the sound even fades. It's almost impressive, how fast grief circles the drain and comes back up swinging into rage again. Love. Greif. Sadness. Anger. Rage.

[manybcdthings]

Full Name: Jasper Stone

Age & Birthday: 34 years old, April 10th

Hometown: Las Vegas, Nevada

Occupation/Role: Soldier / Recruitment / Deal Broker

DETAILS

History with The Saints: Jasper and his brother Eli were born into the Kings just like their father, Owen, and their youngest brother, Asher. But when Ash was killed on a job gone sideways, Jasper and Eli became convinced the Kings set him up. Bitter and furious, they started leaking intel to the Saints out of spite. By 2020, they'd fully flipped sides, bringing with them a handful of connections and enough leverage to earn a cautious welcome. But trust wasn’t handed over easily. They've been fighting for it ever since.

What They’re Known For: Jasper’s main job is turning people. Freelancers, side hustlers, business contacts. He finds the ones worth flipping and makes them Saints-friendly. If there’s neutral ground, he plants a flag in it. He's earned his stripes as a soldier and can fight when needed, but he's usually the one sent into uncertain zones to soft pressure the territory toward Saints control. A middleman, a fixer, a recruiter and always playing some angle.

PERSONALITY

Core Traits: Calculating, Perceptive, Intuitive, Outgoing, Manipulative, Sarcastic, Mischievous, Strategic, Persuasive

Strengths: Jasper knows how to make you think something was your idea. He’s persuasive, subtle, and dangerously good at making people feel like they can trust him. His instincts are sharp. He can read a room like a map and shift his tone to whatever fits the moment. Under pressure, he’s steady, efficient, and always playing long game.

Weaknesses: He’s a chameleon, and people know it. His ease with masks makes him hard to pin down. People feel like they don't really know him. He delivers results, sure. He’s good company at a bar. But there’s always a flicker in his expression that says keeping one hand behind his back. It’s not even intentional, it’s just his face. But it means people rarely get close to him.

What Keeps Them Up at Night, If Anything?: Jasper’s not naive. He knows his and Eli’s history means they’ll always be the first names blamed if anything smells off. Sometimes he wonders if they’re truly Saints or just convenient assets kept on a leash. He’s got backup plans. Escape routes. A mental list of cities he could disappear into if it all goes south.

How Do They Handle Conflict?: Jasper plays the role the moment needs. If there’s a fight, he’ll swing. If the moment needs a calm voice, he’ll smooth the tension. But if it’s not his fight, he’ll watch it all and remember every detail. Conflict is fuel, and leverage. Sometimes, it’s more useful to let it play out than stop it.

HISTORY

Current Situation: One of Jasper’s longtime contacts, Grant, a supplier he flipped from the Kings back when he first joined the Saints has gone completely off grid. Grant ran low profile salvage shipments out of Sloan, and been reliable for years. Until now. A week ago he went quiet, his warehouse is cleared out and his phone’s dead. Two days ago, someone slid a printed text thread under Jasper’s apartment door. One of the messages is dated a week before Grant vanished. It reads: “All set up and ready to go.” The text looks like it came from Grant. Location Ping. The reply has Jasper’s sign off. It’s just vague enough to make it seem like Jasper caused the disappearance or planned it, or was dealing with Grant on the side. But Jasper never had that conversation before. He’s been set up and if this gets out, he’ll be branded a traitor with no way of proving his innocence. Now he’s trying to trace where it really came from and what the hell happened to Grant… before someone else finds out first.

[manybcdthings]

dust trail ranch

cruz alvarez and santiago alvarez @gloriouswhispers

Late afternoon hit different out here. The heat didn't scream like it did in the city, it hung. Dry, heavy, thick with that Vegas desert dust that found its way into your eyes, your lungs, your teeth. Somewhere out past the fake stables, someone was laughing too loud. Dust Trail Ranch was a joke on paper. Failed tourist trap turned Saints safehouse, surrounded by abandoned half finished buildings and those sun bleached Under Development signs that had been rotting in the wind.

But tonight, like most nights lately, the place did its job. Bonfire, beers. Saints were scattering now, fading off into trucks or dragging themselves toward rusted out sheds to pass out with bad decisions to laugh about tomorrow. Cruz stayed, sitting side by side with his brother on a low bench that had seen too many summers. Neither said much. They just watched the fire shrink, letting it die slow. Cruz's beer was warm, but he drank it anyway. His mind hadn't slowed down in weeks thanks to too many questions with half assed answers.

He cleared his throat, rough and quiet, the kind of sound that said listen up more than excuse me. "I wanna run a fake dead drop." he said, voice quiet but determined. He took another sip from the bottle and didn't rush to finish his thought. "Nothing big. Just wanna test a few runners. See if someone's treatin' drop points like they're fuckin' gossip."

[manybcdthings]

roxy's apartment

felix ranstrom and roxanna rose @hxckedvxid

Roxy's place was never quiet. Felix didn't expect it to be. Hell, at this point, he'd probably hate it if it was. The boombox in the corner had been half dead for years, and always thrashed out something that was maybe hyperpop, maybe punk, maybe both. Graffiti glimmered across every wall, catching the light. The windows were open, but the place still reeked of bubblegum and vodka. Outside, traffic howled. Dogs barked. Someone was screaming about rent or revenge. Inside, she cackled above it all.

Usually but not tonight. The chaos was still there, undeniable and hers but Roxy hadn't laughed in twenty minutes. Not a giggle, not a snort, not even that deranged little hum she did when her brain was on fire and her heart was full of knives. She was pacing. That was the first red flag. The second was the nest of phone chargers on the floor. At least a dozen, maybe more, all coiled like discarded snakes. He hadn't even known she owned that many.

She was crouched near an outlet, jaw clenched, trying one charger after another like something had to work if she just jammed it hard enough. The burner in her hand stayed dark. Felix hadn't blinked in a while. He was pretty sure of that. The joint in his fingers had smoldered down to a ghost, but he still dragged the last of it before grinding it out in a neon pink ashtray that said SPANK ME in glitter letters.

"Rox. Babe." he said, voice steady as he leaned in a little. Just enough to hopefully cut through the spiral. Then, a hand reached out. Slow like he was trying not to startle a wild animal. And gently, he stopped her own hands as they untangled another charger. "I mean it, DJ's the best bet." the first time he made the suggestion, she told him to stop being stupid. The second, she gave him a look like she might stab him. The third, she snarled.

Felix's last hope was that the fourth time's the charm. His eyes flicked over her profile, and even from this angle he could see the determination turned mania flashing behind her eyes. He said nothing else for a moment, just kept his fingers brushing against hers. "He won't give a fuck what's on that thing. He's too dumb to care. And even if he could put two and two together, he'd eat the phone before he ever talked."

[manybcdthings]

Full Name: Cruz Alvarez

Age & Birthday: 43 years old, September 7th

Hometown: Tijuana, Mexico

Occupation/Role: Lieutenant - Protection & Guard/Attack Dog Training

DETAILS

History with The Saints: The Alvarez's have been tied to the Saints for decades, with Cruz and his family coming to the Saints just over 20 years ago. Cruz immediately began working for the gang, following in his father's footsteps. For the past few years, he's been the lieutenant responsible for all things to do with protection and security.

What They’re Known For: Cruz is known to be no nonsense and abrupt. He has the Alvarez calmness, but some might say Cruz is an eerie sort of calm, as if he's just waiting for an excuse to suddenly not be. He's all business, and he doesn't take kindly to any slackers. He's the one who trains up the gang's attack and guard dogs, and he's the one people count on to keep them safe.

PERSONALITY

Core Traits: Abrupt, Instinctive, Protective, Distrusting, Guarded, Brutal, Cold, Loyal, Intimidating, Impatient

Strengths: Cruz is good at getting to the root cause of a problem and cutting through all the bullshit. He can be calculating and analytical, and just like his father and brother, he doesn't lose his temper unless the situation really calls for it. However, Cruz carries himself with a demeanor that tells other people not to test him. His loyalty to his family goes deep, some even say the only time they see him smile is when he's with his blood.

Weaknesses: Cruz is harder to get through to than Santiago, often stubborn and abrupt. It's possible for his way of approaching things to cause conflict, as he's direct and known to be cold. He's definitely not known as the approachable Alvarez.

What Keeps Them Up at Night, If Anything?: Since the death of his older brother Miguel in 2022, Cruz has taken it upon himself to keep an eye out for Nacho and Ines. He knows he's not the only one, but it weighs on him often. He tries not to overstep, but he's never been a man who does things by halves.

How Do They Handle Conflict?: Similar to the Alvarez reputation, takes a lot for Cruz to reach any level of violence. His approach is to intimidate until the others back down so violence isn't always necessary. It also seems to be an Alvarez trait that once their temper goes, all bets are off. Cruz has been known to be evil with his brutality.

HISTORY

Current Situation: Cruz is currently impatient to figure out what's happening with the suppliers. He knows that usually, thing like this start quietly and the next thing, there's a war on their doorsteps. He's amping up protection and security work.

[manybcdthings]

Full Name: Felix Ranstrom

Age & Birthday: 32 years old, November 3rd

Hometown: Las Vegas, Nevada

Occupation/Role: Enforcer

DETAILS

History with The Saints: Jakob and Felix grew up in the foster system before before aging out at 18 and having to figure out life for themselves. With nothing but their wit, stubbornness and viking sized selves, they managed to keep food in their stomach and clothes on their back. Eventually they caught the eye of the Saints and were recruited in. They've been with them for ten years now and rose up the ranks to become enforcers two years ago.

What They’re Known For: Felix is known as the brooding one out of the Ranstrom twins. His brutalness is usually quiet, swift, intense but efficient. Surprisingly useful at getting people to talk and he's trusted to run interrogations. Running joke that he makes people watch a four hour French movie and they just hand over their secrets.

PERSONALITY

Core Traits:  Stubborn, Analytical, Cynical, Brooding, Intense, Focused, Level-Headed, Observant, Instinctive, Protective, Ruthless

Strengths: Felix's observational and analytical skills are the main traits that make him reliable on a job. He doesn't take unnecessary risks and can think practically about the task at hand. He notices small details, and enjoys inflicting a little psychological warfare just for the hell of it.

Weaknesses: His intensity can tip into obsessiveness, meaning he rarely lets things go. Habits, grudges or people. His humor tips into the dry, sarcastic, satirical and even absurd. Which means there's no way of knowing when his troublesome streak might hit. He doesn't trust many people, and he prefers to keep his own emotions locked up tight.

What Keeps Them Up at Night, If Anything?: Felix has always been an insomniac but surprisingly, he doesn't question his life choices as much as he probably should. At times, he wonders if life could have been different for him and Jakob but he usually talks himself into deciding there's no point to life, anyways.

How Do They Handle Conflict?: Felix isn't aggressive or even someone who actively seeks confrontation. Seemingly, he's a rather calm person who just so happens to be capable of brutal violence when it's needed. He doesn't throw his weight around, or his words as much as people might expect. But his sarcasm often provokes, because he can't help himself.

HISTORY

Current Situation: Felix is doing what he's always done. Working jobs that require intimidation and muscle, which now means keeping an ear to the ground for anything about the Saints suppliers and connections.

[manybcdthings]

anderson home

dusty, danny and dj @hxckedvxid @secrettyrant

It was late when Dusty stumbled up to the condo. Not that he gave a shit what time it was. He had been running on weed fumes, gas station coffee, and two day old trail mix for what might've been a week. So really, who's even counting? The place looked the same as always. Shitty. Kinda leaning to one side. Cracked walls, duct tape on the screen door, and the porch light flickering like it was trying to give Monty a seizure. Clearwater might've been by the beach, but this part? This was where dreams came to die.

He stopped at the foot of the steps, blinked hard, and patted his pockets. "Ah, fuck." he muttered. No keys. Of course. Still a little drunk and still a little high thanks to the hippies with the van, Dusty wobbled his way to the window. He could see the TV glow bouncing off the inside wall and then there it was. Danny's ugly face and DJ's turtle face. Thank God his Anderson genes actually made sense. And as soon as he locked eyes with his brothers, Dusty smacked his palm flat against the glass like a bug hitting a windshield.

"Hey!" he shouted, voice hoarse and rough like he'd been eating glass for weeks. He pointed at his own face like look who it is, bitch. Waved. Did a little shimmy. Jumped. Knocked again, harder. "Come on, gay boys. Open the fuckin' door!" he leaned against the glass till his nose squished up and left a greasy smudge. "You ain't gonna believe the shit I been through. Utah's got fuckin' cults, man!"

[manybcdthings]

flaming art tattoo studio

felix ranstrom and astra edwards, and nova @ofwrxth

Felix never thought of himself as someone who took things for granted. His brain wasn't built for that. He noticed things. All the time. The scrape of old ink beneath his nails. The way silence sounded different in the shop at night. How fast people talked when they were lying. That kind of thing. Still, every now and then, something hit him sideways. A moment he'd lived before, but that suddenly felt new. A few hours earlier, he was grumbling about a no show client. Then Astra walked in with their daughter on her hip, and the static in his head went quiet in an instant. Just gone.

Now, Nova was sat in the tattoo chair, looking absurdly small, like someone had shrunk her down and placed her there as a joke. Her legs didn't even reach the edge of the seat, just hovered there in the air like punctuation marks. It was ridiculous. And it made him grin every time he looked. What really got him, though, was the stencil. He'd drawn the fairy in five minutes, nothing elaborate, just soft wings and a little trail of stars. But he had to make it laughably tiny to fit her arm. Shrink it again. No, smaller. Still smaller. Until it barely felt like a design at all, almost a dot with wings.

"Okay, so first we have to put this on." he said, voice low, careful. He always spoke differently with her. Gentler, more patient than he ever was with anyone else. He pressed the stencil gently against her upper arm, smoothing it over with two fingers while watching her expression. "And if you like it, then we get to tattoo it for real." Obviously not. It would be done with sharpie. Felix felt sick even calling it a real tattoo, actually. But, he peeled the paper back slow, revealing the faint ink left behind.

Then he scooped her up effortless, and instinctive to carry her toward the mirror. He held out her arm so she could see the little fairy dancing there in purple stencil lines. "Still want this one, baby?" he asked, even though he didn't really need her to answer. His eyes flicked to the reflection, just in time to meet Nova's and see another head of curls behind them. That trademark Astra shuffle that was already making Felix fight back another laugh.

[manybcdthings]

clearwater streets

finn carter and elsie suwan @ofwrxth

Technically, the plan is Penrose. Happy hour. Half priced cocktails with floral garnishes and maybe a moment of pretending they're not broke. And okay, maybe there's a tiny plan to catch sight of Noah. Or Julian. Or both. Something easy to look at, like a little sorbet for the eyeballs. But the plans have imploded. Finn spots Elsie, waving at her in a dramatic yet stiff gesture. He zeroes in like a gay bloodhound, grabs her gently by the wrist...he's nothing if not polite...and starts steering her back the way he came. There's no real explanation, just a wide eyed expression and a breathless, "Don't even ask. It'll take five minutes. Just trust me."

He's practically stomping and sashaying at the same time, which is a very specific, hard to master locomotion technique fueled by caffeine and a high tolerance for drama. "Okay, so...So I was walking by the beach front apartments, right? And I see this truck. Just parked there. And I'm thinking, oh? Oh?? Who's moving in midweek with that energy?" his voice lifts in wonder, as if he's narrating a documentary called The Hot Male in His Natural Habitat. He tugs her along, already mentally composing their meet cute. "These guys. Elsie, I swear. They look like TJ. Like...possibly surfers, maybe skaters? Like, they have bop house energy. Not frat, not bro, bop. I don't even know what that means, but I felt it."

His pace picks up as they approach the apartments, the light shifting golden around them. He's practically vibrating now and then...and then the sunlight hits the front porch just wrong. Or just right, depending on your definition of cosmic disappointment. Because now he can really see them. The alleged TJs. And oh no. Oh no no no. One of them is wearing socks with sandals and a neckbeard that looks like it grew out of spite. Another is eating tuna straight from the can with his fingers. There's a third guy, maybe, or it's just a sentient pile of laundry. Finn stares. Blinks. Processes. "Oh My God. The bar really is that low in this town."

[manybcdthings]

studio

nick westwood and bella westwood @hxckedvxid

The morning had broken in that distinctly California way. Sunlight soft through the haze, warmth already clinging to the pavement. Mornings in Clearwater never rushed, they always stretched slowly. And inside the radio studio, tucked between dusty vinyl crates and the faint buzz of old equipment, the day was just beginning for Nick. The red On Air light blinked to life, and he clicked instantly into gear. "Good morning, Clearwater," he said, letting his voice stay as smooth as the sunrise. "It's Nick and Bella here with 'Hey, That's Nice'. A little bit of good news from around the world and right here at home to start your day right."

He always made sure his voice was bright but not abrasive, familiar without sounding rehearsed. He learned early on that mornings required precision. Too much energy and people tuned out. Too little and they fell back asleep. Normally, the intro was the danger zone. One glance at Bella and he could be fighting with his own laughter. Today, there was no room for that. His eyes found hers across the console, a flicker of a warning behind them. Also a plea.

Don't say it. Don't mention China giving food aid to Palestine. Don't mention China giving food aid to Palestine. Don't mention China giving food aid to Palestine.

[manybcdthings]

Felix grinned, full of quiet satisfaction as he let Jakob keep talking. There was a specific kind of joy in watching someone willingly step into quicksand, especially when you knew exactly how deep it went. Brotherhood was good for that. Eternal ammo free of charge. And right now? Jakob was practically handing him bullets. He leaned back, arms crossed, wearing that practiced look of feigned neutrality. "I think that's just racial profiling with extra steps." he said, voice flat but smug at once. "Actually, it's insane you've never seen her before." he added, like he just remembered a grocery list item. "Pretty sure I saw her last week." he gave a shrug. Casual. Maybe even believable, if you didn't know him.

But then mistake number one happened. He looked at Jakob. And that was it. The entire bit collapsed. Because Felix recognized the expression immediately. Not guilt. Not even regret. No, this was something worse. That look wasn't "I accidentally fucked up a little." It was "I did something and I liked it and now I'm trying to pretend I didn't." Felix knew it well. He'd worn it enough times to consider it part of his own genetic makeup, too. His eyes narrowed. A slow, surgical sort of scrutiny followed. Dissecting every micro shift in Jakob's face like he was mapping enemy territory.

Then he leaned forward. "Jakob," he said, voice law and almost desperate. "Don't fuck Lola's sister." it wasn't even a warning. It was the resigned prayer of a man who could already see the drama before it unfolded. But he needed to say it. For the universe, Astra would say but Felix would say it was for the inevitable group chat fallout. Lola becoming more passive aggressive than ever before. Which, really, was the same thing.

+ FELIX / HOME

"How was I supposed to know it wasn't my order? It was the same place. And I wanted to make sure you animals didn't get to it first." Jakob says, an indeterminate amount of time later because I don't know where Monty and my thread will go, and he takes another large bite of his burrito. "Besides, I said sorry. And I didn't take back the tip either." Even though she hadn't technically delivered anything. He nods at Felix, "and it was the same order too. I really...anyone could've made that mistake." @manybcdthings

[manybcdthings]

gas station

felix ranstrom and cordelia edwards @hxckedvxid

Someone was late for their shift. Probably vaping behind the dumpsters, or having a spiritual experience with a Monster in the back. Wasn't Felix's problem. The second the clock hit twelve, he was out of there like Gothic Cinderella. Fuck the glass slipper and fuck the guy he was half way through serving, too. He was taking too long to decide what scratch offs he wanted, so Felix just pocketed them for himself as he left. Didn't even glance over his shoulder at the understandable "What the fuck?" that followed.

He wasn't in a rush for anywhere in particular. Just the vision of Cordelia loitering by the pumps, that slow impatient pace she had when she wanted something without being obvious. His grin showed up somewhere between the door closing behind him and the first step toward her. But, it hit him sideways after that. The way he was convinced he'd lost her. For good, this time. But even two years wasn't enough to snap whatever this fucked up tether was between them. Cordelia fell right back into his orbit again, like she was always supposed to be there. And he wasn't complaining.

"I was feeling generous. You're welcome." Felix said once close enough, holding up the scratch offs as his eyes dragged over those impossibly symmetrical features. The kind of pretty that made people stupid. Him included. "If you win," he added, voice low. "You're buying the first round for once. Think that's fair, or tantrum worthy?" his arm had already slipped around her shoulders, pace picking up to move them home. Or, more than likely, straight to The Dog.

[manybcdthings]

Solomon "Sol" Doucet

37 years old, July 15th

New Orleans, Lousiana - Clearwater, CA

Bike Fixer / Artist / Owner of Grayscale Apparel

INFO

Lived in New Orleans most of his life and was in the care system

Found his bio mother when he turned 30 and moved to Los Angeles to connect, but their relationship broke down

Felt like a new start completely and settled in Clearwater instead

Just a hipster kind of dude, fixes up push bikes, sells his art online or now at Studio 11 and owns a little apparel company

[manybcdthings]

Nicholas Westwood

30 years old, March 5th

Clearwater, CA

Journalist at Clearwater Gazette & Radio Host (a small segment) on KCLR 88.3

INFO

Went into journalism hoping to do political journalism and move away from Clearwater

Kind of ended up just following where the money was easiest and more stable, works with his family at The Clearwater Gazette

Has a small segment in the mornings with Bella on the local radio. It's called "Hey, that's nice" and they share good news stories happening locally and afar

Not really working his passion but also can't complain about his life, considering he's engaged to Juniper

[manybcdthings]

their home

finn carter and jackson carter @wilddwcrds

"The Bear?" Finn's voice pitched up an octave, full of judgment as he crossed the living room. The sort of walk where half of him was masking straightness and the other half wanted to sashay. He stopped dead in front of the TV, arms folded, one foot turned in like his ankles couldn't commit to the same direction. He didn't even look at Jackson, just squinted at the close up of a sweaty, chain smoking chef. Jeremy Allen White launched into something about hands, or family, or sauce...and it was enough to make his nose wrinkle. "If I wanted to hear men yell and be emotionally repressed, I'd just call Dad," he muttered with a dry chuckle.

His eyebrows did the heavy lifting then, one arching with academic judgment, the other twitching like it was bored already. Finn was moving slowly, not quite ready to leave but not quite willing to commit and instead he perched delicately on the arm of the couch, crossing his legs like he was halfway through an audition for Emotionally Complex Couch Goblin #2. He didn't look away from the screen, though. That was the problem. "I can't believe you want to watch this when you can just get it livestreamed at the diner."

[manybcdthings]

Felix watched Cassidy slide the beer across the bar. He decided, then and there, that it was a pity beer. She could probably read every petty thought rattling around in his skull, right down to the pathetic mood he couldn't shake. Great. And her quip about unclenching only made him realize how hunched he was. Shoulders up like a fucking gargoyle latched onto the bar. He straightened. Just gradually. As if moving too fast would confirm everything.

Still, there was a flicker of relief to hear Cordelia hadn't skipped town entirely. It was a miracle, actually. Felix was half convinced he'd open Instagram to some picture of a shitty motel sign. The kind Cordelia would always claim was the best she ever stayed in. But, he kept his expression neutral. Blank, even. "Okay. Good to know." he said, nodding the once. "Would've been a little dramatic if she left mid-sentence. Even for her." his voice was flat, like none of this mattered to him and like his hand wasn't locked too tight around the bottle.

Then came the real trap. Cassidy offered to call her down, just said it like it wouldn't rip the entire situation open. Absolutely fucking not. "No, it's fine." his voice might've come too quick, maybe even too sharp but he didn't care. And before he could even recover, Cassidy landed another hit. Lover's tiff. She might have said it like it joke, but her face said something else. Like an idiot, Felix almost nodded. Almost. Caught himself. He had to laugh, only because it would've been strange if he didn't. A useless huff of a breath escaped him.

Honestly? Felix had no idea what his brain was doing. He didn't even know why he was sat at the bar anymore. But, the words just came out. Like his mind tipped too far into overcorrection. "She just left a few things, that's all." A lie. A pointless lie, too. Cordelia hadn't left anything. Not even a bee sock. Not even one of her annoying hair beads that always felt like he was stepping on Lego. And fine, it wasn't exactly a World-Ending kind of lie. But...it was a lie that could and would find it's way back to Cordelia. He blinked, like the words were still a shock to him. "Nothing important." he quickly added, already regretting it. "I'll text her." which he wouldn't. Obviously. But it seemed Felix had quickly picked up a new habit of just saying absolutely anything.

Cassidy Edwards has been called a lot of things over the years. Some deserved. Some less so. Scammer, sure. Fraudster, fine. Liar...only if you count tax evasion as lying. And headcase? Honestly, that one stung, mostly because it came from a mall Santa. Still, through all of it, Cassidy has maintained one universal truth. She can read people like menus. Skim the surface, circle the good stuff, and always know what's worth biting into. This particular situation is a laminated special with a flashing neon arrow pointing at it. She doesn't need tea leaves to know what went down.

Cordelia claimed she was just fine on Felix's couch. That was at noon. By dusk, she was there at the door with her duffel bag over her shoulder. Cassidy didn't ask. Cold feet were practically a family heirloom on her side of the bloodline, handed down with a shrug and a cigarette. So now Charlie Prescott, poor thing, has two Edwards taking up cushion space and pretending not to be related.

Then, enter Felix. He walks into The Dog like he's feeling sorry for himself. Tall, sluggish, and carrying the emotional equivalent of a weather warning. Cassidy clocks him instantly and doesn't even slow down drying the same pint glass she's been working on for ten minutes. She just grins, the secretive kind that says oh, sweetheart before she even opens her mouth. She grabs a beer without asking and slides it across the bar like a peace offering. Or a bribe. "She hasn't skipped town." Cassidy says, voice low but warm, a little amused. "You can unclench."

Then she lifts her chin, nodding to the ceiling. "She's probably about ready to head for her shift at the shack. Want me to call her down?" it's not really a question, it's more of a social experiment. A way to catch if he flinches, or the tiniest flicker of discomfort across his face. Her grin's already spreading like wildfire. "Lover's tiff?" she asks, too casually. Innocent, if innocence wore leopard print and smelled of coconut rum.