#(even though they almost certainly did not because they’re all banked up with their daddy’s money)

[k00ldino]

slamming my head against a brick wall WHYYYY WON’T IT LET ME FILL OUT THE FAFSA WHY WHY WHY WHY

[theculturedmarxist]

The New York Times is literally a propaganda outlet and Timothy Egan is a deceitful chode. His every word drips with the anxious desperation of the Democrats who know their goose is cooked.

Watching “Succession,” the HBO show about the most despicable plutocrats to seize the public imagination since the Trumps were forced on us, made me want to tax the ultrarich into a homeless shelter. And it almost made a Bernie Bro of me.

That’s the thing about class loathing: It feels good, a moral high with its own endorphins, but is ultimately self-defeating. A Bernie Sanders rally is a hit from the same pipe: Screw those greedy billionaire bastards!

Sanders has passion going for him. He has authenticity. He certainly has consistency: His bumper-sticker sloganeering hasn’t changed for half a century. He was, “even as a young man, an old man,” as Time magazine said.

But he cannot beat Donald Trump, for the same reason people do not translate their hatred of the odious rich into pitchfork brigades against walled estates.

Because powerful oligarchs that own their government murder them with impunity when they do.

>March 7 was a bitterly cold day in Detroit, and a crowd estimated at between 3,000 and 5,000 gathered near the Dearborn city limits, about a mile from the Ford plant. The Detroit Times called it "one of the coldest days of the winter, with a frigid gale whooping out of the northwest". Marchers carried banners reading "Give Us Work, "We Want Bread Not Crumbs", and "Tax the Rich and Feed the Poor". Albert Goetz gave a speech, asking that the marchers avoid violence. The march proceeded peacefully along the streets of Detroit until it reached the Dearborn city limits.

>There, the Dearborn police attempted to stop the march by firing tear gas into the crowd and began hitting marchers with clubs. One officer fired a gun at the marchers. The unarmed crowd scattered into a field covered with stones, picked them up, and began throwing stones at the police. The angry marchers regrouped and advanced nearly a mile toward the plant. There, two fire engines began spraying cold water onto the marchers from an overpass. The police were joined by Ford security guards and began shooting into the crowd. Marchers Joe York, Coleman Leny and Joe DeBlasio were killed, and at least 22 others were wounded by gunfire.

>The leaders decided to call off the march at that point and began an orderly retreat. Harry Bennett, head of Ford security, drove up in a car, opened a window, and fired a pistol into the crowd. Immediately, the car was pelted with rocks, and Bennett was injured. He got out of the car and continued firing at the retreating marchers. Dearborn police and Ford security men opened fire with machine guns on the retreating marchers. Joe Bussell, 16 years old, was killed, and dozens more men were wounded. Bennett was hospitalized for his injury.

> All of the seriously wounded marchers were arrested, and the police chained many to their hospital beds after they were admitted for treatment. A nationwide search was conducted for William Z. Foster, but he was not arrested. No law enforcement or Ford security officer was arrested, although all reliable reports showed that they had engaged in all the gunfire, resulting in deaths, injuries and property damage. The New York Times reported that "Dearborn streets were stained with blood, streets were littered with broken glass and the wreckage of bullet-riddled automobiles, and nearly every window in the Ford plant's employment building had been broken".

The United States has never been a socialist country, even when it most likely should have been one, during the robber baron tyranny of the Gilded Age or the desperation of the Great Depression, and it never will be. Which isn’t to say that American capitalism is working; it needs Teddy Roosevelt-style trustbusting and restructuring. We’re coming for you, Facebook.

Yeah, just look how well that’s worked out, you fucking idiot.

The next month presents the last chance for serious scrutiny of Sanders, who is leading in both Iowa and New Hampshire. After that, Republicans will rip the bark off him. When they’re done, you will not recognize the aging, mouth-frothing, business-destroying commie from Ben and Jerry’s dystopian dairy. Demagogy is what Republicans do best. And Sanders is ripe for caricature. 

The same Republicans that got their breakfast ate by the dottering windbag cheetoman? The same Republicans that are unpopular with over half the fucking country? The same Republicans which have shown majority support for Sanders’s policies in the past? Those are the Republicans you’re talking about, right, Timothy, you fucking asshole?

I’m not worried about the Russian stuff — Bernie’s self-described “very strange honeymoon” to the totalitarian hell of the Soviet Union in 1988, and his kind words for similar regimes. Compared with a president who is a willing stooge for the Russian strongman Vladimir Putin, a little vodka-induced dancing with the red bear is peanuts.

Nor am I worried about the legitimate questions concerning the candidate’s wife, Jane Sanders, who ran a Vermont college into the ground. Again, Trump’s family of grifters — from Ivanka securing her patents from China while Daddy made other promises to Beijing, to Don Jr.’s using the White House to leverage the family brand — give Democrats more than enough ammunition to return the fire.

This is fun. Due to a complete lack of incriminating conduct, little Timmy has to invent wrongdoing to libel Jane Sanders. I suppose he’s relying on his readers being too stupid to read the article that he himself links, another NYT hitpiece that desperately tries to paint Ms Sanders as a shady character without anything in the way of tangible proof.

>Federal prosecutors have not spoken publicly about their investigation, though late last year, Ms. Sanders’s lead lawyer said he had been told it had been closed. And while doubts remain about the contribution pledges claimed by the college, the lawyer has said that neither Ms. Sanders nor her husband was even questioned by investigators, indicating a lack of significant evidence of a crime.

>After Ms. Sanders’s ouster, the college’s troubles worsened. It abandoned a promising effort she had undertaken to sell some of its new land to improve its finances, interviews show. A few years later, when it did begin selling, it was to a consortium that secretly included at least one member of its board, raising conflict-of-interest questions.

>There is little question that the college’s 2016 demise can be traced to Ms. Sanders’s decision to champion an aggressive — critics say reckless — plan to buy the land. But with potential students put off by the lack of a campus, and with many such colleges struggling at the time, her move was the academic equivalent of a Hail Mary. Her allies said she never had a chance to fulfill her vision.

>“Jane made an audacious gambit to save the college,” said Genevieve Jacobs, a former faculty member. “It seemed to be a moment of ‘change or die.’”

>In interviews and emails, Ms. Sanders expressed frustration at her dismissal and the college’s failure to continue her rescue plan.

>“They went a completely different direction in every way than what we had proposed and decided upon as a board — with the bank, with the diocese, the bonding agency,” she said. “They didn’t carry out any of the plan. It was very confusing and upsetting at the time.”

The TL;DR seems to be: Jane Sanders tried to save a struggling school with an audacious but risky plan that ended up being aborted when she was let go by by a board, some of the members of which may have had a stake in seeing it fail. At the very least, a much more complex situation than the aspersion of “running it into the ground.”

Trump bragged about sexual assault, paid off a porn star and ran a fraudulent university. He sucks up to dictators and tells a half-dozen lies before he puts his socks on in the morning. A weird column about a rape fantasy from 1972 is not going to sink Bernie when Trump has debased all public discourse.

No, what will get the Trump demagogue factory working at full throttle is the central message of the Sanders campaign: that the United States needs a political revolution. It may very well need one. But most people don’t think so, as Barack Obama has argued. And getting two million new progressive votes in the usual area codes is not going to change that.

“Ah jeez, ah fuck, he has no sexual indiscretions that I can dredge up and his Feminist polemic against pornography and the rape culture that it engenders is old news, and if I actually reported on it honestly people might actually read it and support his ideas. Oh, well, you see, despite the incredible groundswell of support for just such a thing, Barack Obama, the man that gave the banks trillions of dollars and then allowed the state apparatus to function as their gestapo-cum-storm troopers, says we don’t need one!”

Timothy Egan wants to dismiss “two million new progressive votes” after doing a little gaslighting. His Democrat masters don’t want people to remember that it was Obama’s promises of Hope and Change after 8 years of Republican tyranny that generated a record breaking voter turnout. They would also like you to forget that 2016 was a 20-year low in voter turnout. Do you think those things are related, Mr Egan? Do you think that there might be some connection between Obama taking advantage of the desperation of millions of people, betraying them, and then those people not fucking showing up next time, causing your party to lose to the dimwit that they themselves boosted to the position?

Give Sanders credit for moving public opinion along on a living wage, higher taxes on the rich and the need for immediate action to stem the immolation of the planet. Most great ideas start on the fringe and move to the middle.

But some of his other ideas are stillborn, or never get beyond the fringe. Socialism, despite its flavor-of-the-month appeal to young people, is not popular with the general public. Just 39 percent of Americans view socialism positively, a bare uptick from 2010, compared with 87 percent who have a positive view of free enterprise, Gallup found last fall.

“Just” 39 percent of Americans, up 4% from 2016. This is ignoring for the moment that due to Americans’ piss-poor education system they have no idea what “Socialism” means aside from “more government.” Looking at the breakdown of results, it seems as though they just asked people off the top of their head what they thought about X, no definition or elaboration given. Unsurprisingly, when you look at the actual numbers on specific issues, you can see exactly why Egan has to play this deceptive bullshit: of respondents 18-34, 52% have a favorable view of “Socialism,” as opposed to 47% supporting “Capitalism.” This is in sharp contrast to the 35-54 and 55+ cohorts. 65% of Democrats have a favorable view of “Socialism.” Those with a “Liberal” ideology are even more in favor at 74%, Timothy Egan, you massive shithead.

What’s more, American confidence in the economy is now at the highest level in nearly two decades. That’s hardly the best condition for overthrowing the system.

"The highest level in nearly two decades.” That’s faint fucking praise right there.

You can see the tremendous fucking crater caused by the crash in 2007/8, a reversal of a whopping -81 points from the previous year. With many economists forecasting recession beginning either this year or the next, we’ll see how long the confidence lasts. 

So-called Medicare for all, once people understand that it involves eliminating all private insurance, polls at barely above 40 percent in some surveys, versus the 70 percent who favor the option of Medicare for all who want it. Other polls show majority support. But cost is a huge concern. And even Sanders cannot give a price tag for nationalizing more than one-sixth of the economy.

A ban on fracking is a poison pill in a must-win state like Pennsylvania, which Democrats lost by just over 44,000 votes in 2016. Eliminating Immigration and Customs Enforcement, another Sanders plan, is hugely unpopular with the general public.

“Medicare for all is really unpopular, except when it isn’t.”

Hmm, you know? Hmmm.

As for fracking, from his own link:

>A November poll conducted by the Kaiser Family Foundation and the Cook Political Report found that only 39 percent of Pennsylvania swing voters saw a fracking ban as a good idea, even as nearly 7 in 10 of those same voters said they supported the idea of a “Green New Deal” for the environment.

Democrats are whinging on the jobs “lost” to a fracking ban as though it exists in isolation. 39% might support a fracking ban, but 70% support the GND, which could potentially offset the “job loss” with industry that has the potential not to leave their state as a fucking environmentally ruined horror show. I haven’t run the numbers on this, but not living in a cesspool of polluted air and water tends to be pretty popular, Timbo.

More shellgames from Mr Egan regarding abolishing ICE.

> Only 1 in 4 voters in the poll, 25 percent, believe the federal government should get rid of ICE. The majority, 54 percent, think the government should keep ICE. Twenty-one percent of voters are undecided. 

That sounds bad. Maybe it’s not such a good ide

>But a plurality of Democratic voters do support abolishing ICE, the poll shows. Among Democrats, 43 percent say the government should get rid of ICE, while only 34 percent say it should keep ICE.

Oh.

Sanders is a rigid man, and he projects grumpy-old-man rigidity, with his policy prescriptions frozen in failed Marxist pipe dreams. He’s unlikely to change. I sort of like that about his character, in the same way I like that he didn’t cave to the politically correct bullies who went after him for accepting the support of the influential podcaster Joe Rogan.

Democrats win with broad-vision optimists who still shake up the system — Franklin Roosevelt, of course, but also Obama. The D’s flipped 40 House seats in 2018 without using any of Sanders’s stringent medicine. If they stick to that elixir they’ll oust Trump, the goal of a majority of Americans.

Democrats lose with fire-and-brimstone fundamentalists. Three times, the party nominated William Jennings Bryan, the quirky progressive with great oratorical pipes, and three times they were trounced. Look him up, kids. Your grandchildren will do a similar search for Bernie Sanders when they wonder how Donald Trump won a second term.

“Failed Marxist pipe dreams.” Aaaaay lmao. You should also have an inkling something is wrong when you have to go all the way back to FDR to find someone that supports your point. Talk about “poison pills,” Obama proved himself to be as much of a snake as the rest, and the effects of that resonated in 2016 when the Dems ran on a platform of “that’s a nice country you have there, you wouldn’t want Trump to get elected, would you?” How did that work out? You ran one of the most unpopular politicians in the country—after very blatantly rigging the primaries against Sanders to do so—against one of the most unpopular capitalists in the country, and lost, dipshit!

Ironically, I think Timbob’s closing statement will prove true, though not in the way his clown ass intends. Shills like Egan are doing everything they can to try and poison public perception against Sanders and his policies, who only proves increasingly popular as time goes on, so much so in fact that the DNC is already biting its nails and muttering to itself about ways it can try and cheat his supporters again.

In conversations on the sidelines of a DNC executive committee meeting and in telephone calls and texts in recent days, about a half-dozen members have discussed the possibility of a policy reversal to ensure that so-called superdelegates can vote on the first ballot at the party’s national convention. Such a move would increase the influence of DNC members, members of Congress and other top party officials, who now must wait until the second ballot to have their say if the convention is contested.

They deny it in the article, claim that changing the rules would be “bad sportsmanship,” but one would be a fool to believe them. If anything, their ambivalence towards relying on Superdelegates would make me even more nervous at this stage. Politico wants it to seem like the DNC is bent on playing fair, but more likely than not they have no intention of changing the convention rules because they believe there’s no need. With Warren’s flagging support and the luke-warm response to Biden, I doubt they’re overcome with optimism of beating Sanders in an honest primary. With all the shenanigans from last time’s primaries in mind, it’s likely that the machinery to rig the results their way is already in place—the primary could already be over before it even begins.

[virmillion]

Ibytm - T minus 50 seconds

Masterpost - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter - ao3

Words: 1,638

Logan clutches the laser shooter close to his chest, walking as fast as his feet will allow without full-on running to the safety of a blind spot around the corner (running is against the rules). The red pipes of light beaming from his chest do nothing to calm his nerves, which are more frazzled now than they’ve ever been. Worse even than the time a rumor floated around the fifth floor that Mx. Oatmeal was auditioning candidates to be launched into space to check on the jellyfish. (And in case you were wondering, yes, their last name really is Oatmeal. Please hold your shock.) And if his heart leaps into his throat with enough force to knock him of his breath when his foot catches on a loose seam, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own, isn’t it?

He whips himself around the corner and holds his breath, watching the black reflective wall betray the positions of his pursuers. Their shining blue lights bounce with each of their impossibly quiet footfalls as they swing a hard right turn. One turn too early.

Logan exhales as softly as he can manage, pressing the barrel of his shooter to his ribcage to prevent an inhale too deep, too loud. He releases it, one inch at a time, as his heart rate reluctantly slows. Well, as much as it can slow, given the nerve shakedown he’s putting it through by playing laser tag. Why did he let Virgil talk him into this?

Because it was the soonest you’d be able to see each other again in person, his brain unhelpfully supplies. Logan shakes off the thought, daring another glance around the corner. So thorough is his relief at the empty space that he almost doesn’t notice the swarm of faint blue light advancing from the far end of his hall. His heart finds that familiar place around his tonsils once more.

Clutching the scope to his eye, Logan scurries down the corridor and keeps his eyes peeled for an inconspicuous hiding place, but to no avail. Only one way to go—the last fork at the end of the hall. For all the black lights bouncing around in his skull, he’s surprised he hasn’t been completely blinded yet.

He hesitates at the split, torn between retreading the same ground or making a break for the red base, smack dab in the heart of blue territory. Left or right? Familiarity or safety?

The sound of footsteps hammers to his left. Easily five people, maybe more. Not long behind their broadcasted presence is a herd of blue lights, rattling like so many rain clouds along the walls.

He banks a sharp right.

He ventures down the hall on the balls of his feet, uncertain which way to face. If I continue forward, he reasons, I’ll see anyone coming. If I face backward, he counters, I’ll know how much distance I’ve got on those other blues. But I already know they’re there, and I don’t know who’s in the direction I’m heading. If I face forward, though, the other blues might snipe me from behind. So might someone in front of me. Or the people behind me might drop off, and I’ll be evading for no reason, and maybe even putting myself more at risk.

This thought process continues for some time.

He finds himself settling on a weird half-pivot style, spinning back and forth to scope out all directions, rather than, y’know, picking a direction and sticking with it. By the time he reaches the end of the hall, he almost feels optimistic about his chances of not losing any points for his team. This unearned confidence comes mere moments before he rams into someone with the slopes of his shoulder blades.

Logan lets out a yelp, tossing his weapon in the air and scrambling to point it as he whips around to defend himself—or figure out whether he can escape. He hasn’t decided yet.

The gun just about leaps out of his hands again as he locks eyes with Virgil. Where Logan wields an awkwardly large rifle, clunky in his untrained hands, Virgil spins two mini shooters around his thumbs. He likened them to the Splatoon 2 dualies, but Logan wouldn’t know—he’s never played. Supposedly, Virgil’s next mission following this escapade is to be correcting that lifelong mistake.

Virgil, it might interest you to know, is not on the red team. That is, he’s on the blue team. Against Logan. Sorry, might’ve forgotten to mention that.

The correct thing for Logan to do in this situation would be to tag Virgil’s gear with his hand sensors, or just laser the guy point blank. Virgil is much better at thinking on his feet than Logan. Of course, Logan has the detriment of never having played laser tag before, while Virgil apparently has years of experience under his belt, but that’s beside the point.

Aiming his dualies square at Logan’s chest sensor, Virgil cocks his head to the side and levels a grin at him. Overconfident, certainly, but with good reason.

Logan laughs uncomfortably. “What a tangled web, am I right?” His voice cracks on the last word.

“Said the fly to the spider,” Virgil retorts. Luckily for him—or not, as the case may be—Logan is spared from having to come up with a clever remark by the sound of frantic feet. For the briefest of moments, he’s reminded of the ‘...Daddy?’ ‘Do I look like—’ vine, but he shakes it off when he sees the kid rushing up to greet him. His chest glows a proud red to match Logan’s as he barrels closer, evading what looks like a distant swarm of blue fireflies. The rest of Virgil’s team, no doubt.

The next few things happen in very rapid succession, much too fast for Logan to keep up with. It goes something like this: The kid trips over his (probably untied) shoes, crashes into Virgil’s back, and saves himself with a somersault before continuing past Logan, evidently unimpeded. To the best of your ability, do try to keep up, because that in itself was only one event, the fallout of which Logan would never have predicted. At least, not outside of a cheesy romance movie. Virgil pinwheels his arms from the kid’s collision, his eyes waffling between the duealies he doesn’t want to drop and the balance he doesn’t want to lose. At the former, he succeeds expertly. At the latter, he fails spectacularly. Logan, in an understandable display of his inexperience, tosses his gun to the side and thrusts his arms out—to steady Virgil, to save himself, he isn’t sure. His answer doesn’t delay long.

Virgil releases the faintest of yelps—almost like when you accidentally step on a puppy’s foot—as he falls forward. He spreads his arms out to avoid literally punching Logan in the face as his momentum knocks both of them to the ground. It doesn’t really register in Logan’s mind what, exactly, just happened, until his heart decides to start beating again. An ache is rapidly forming along the side of his spine, but he ignores it in favor of wondering just how compromising their position looks.

Each of Virgil’s hands—both of which are still holding their respective dualies—are planted on either side of Logan’s head, his bent elbows keeping their faces mere inches apart. Where Logan’s feet drew up to his thighs in an attempt to curl in on himself, their progress is blocked by Virgil’s legs—one knee pressed to the ground between Logan’s, and the side of his other shoe planted firmly against the outside of Logan’s leg. Logan forces himself to draw a real breath, pleading with his brain to depart from its currently wayward train. It sprints in circles like a child thrown from one of those playground merry-go-rounds, whipping in incomprehensible circles without a care for what Logan would rather be doing—which is literally anything else, mind you. The messiness of this metaphor should offer some inkling as to how hard Logan is working to keep up with his current situation.

Oh my god, is he going to kiss me, is that what this is, I’ve always seen it in movies but never expected it in real life, oh my god, he’s going to kiss me, oh my god, what do I do, oh my god, oh my god, oh my —

Well, you probably get the picture by now. Also some concerns about whether Virgil will take the opportunity to get a point for his team, whether Logan should try to do the same, all that fun stuff.

Logan’s eyes must widen, or maybe his lips part, or something else in his expression betrays the whirlwind of thoughts in his head, because Virgil’s cheeks suddenly turn bright pink, and Logan is pretty sure it isn’t the reflection of the lights on his vest. Well, maybe the lights are helping a little bit, but Virgil’s face certainly wasn’t that red when they first bumped into each other tonight. Logan swallows around a lump in his throat as Virgil freezes, which is at once both better and worse than when he was, you know, existing like a normal human bent over his friend on the opposing team of a laser tag game. What else would be the next most reasonable thing for Virgil to do but jump to his feet, knocking Logan’s gun farther away in the process?

Logan glances behind himself as he props his weight on an elbow, but the kid on his team is long gone. Beyond Virgil, the swarm of blue is still steadily advancing. Virgil spins his dualies around his fingers once more before running to join them.

After he levels a laser shot square at Logan’s chest, of course.

[thatbluegibson]

CH 76

"So where was Travis off to in such a hurry?" Dave asked.

The boys ran ahead of them towards the little playground in the church grounds at the end of the road and Liz reached for Dave's hand. He was keenly aware that Liz hadn't mentioned anything to the boys about their relationship yet and the last thing he wanted to do was step over any boundaries so he would let her be the affectionate one for once.

He had been nursing his hangover while Liz was at the studio when Travis and the boys showed up early, barging into the house like they had lived there all their lives. Dave had been nervous about meeting them and although Owen took an immediate liking to him, Jack seemed a little aloof. He dutifully shook Dave's hand and politely introduced himself, but the moment Travis and Owen were out of earshot, he started asking questions.

*

"You have tattoos like my daddy," Jack said suddenly.

"Yep," Dave crouched to his eye level and rotated his arm to show him the feathers. "And your mommy."

Jack looked him over with the assessing eye of someone three times his age, then nodded sharply. "Uncle T says you're taking care of my mommy, but she doesn't need taking care of."

"Yeah, isn't that the truth...," he laughed, marveling at how much Jack looked like Kyle. Sandy blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, and tall frame, even for his age.

"So what are you doing here?"

"Well...," Dave thought carefully about how he would state this. He didn't want to say too much but he also wasn't about to lie to Jack. "We're really good friends and we like spending time together so-"

"So you're her boyfriend?"

He might look like Kyle, but he was all Liz in the personality department. There would be no bullshitting this kid. "Yep."

Jack considered this a minute, sending Dave's anxiety through the roof before finally cracking a smile and he dug into his pocket to produce a shiny yellow toy car. "Do you like cars, Mr. Dave?"

*

"The Triumph dealer was calling his name," Liz brought him back to the present with a laugh and they dropped onto a park bench next to the play structure.

"How's recording coming along?" he asked. She had offered precious few details about her time in the studio and he knew it was because she didn't want him meddling but he was curious.

Her smile made his heart lift in his chest "I finally got the piano piece down," she said. "I'm going to mix it back in LA once I find a place."

He knew just the place but decided to save the offer of 606 until later. "Any particular reason you're doing this or is it just for fun?"

She sat back against the bench and he reflexively put his arm around her, "Paul took me on a tour of the studio and suggested I start writing another piece, so I went home and did just that. Then I thought about what you had said about the doctorate and ... well, I made a call to U-Dub, dropped a couple names and the address I was at and they got me in the program almost right away."

"There was zero chance of you sitting still here, huh," Dave chuckled.

Liz raised an eyebrow from behind her aviators but smiled. "Did you sit still when you busted your leg?"

He shook his head almost leaned in to kiss her when Jack's whine rang out to them. "Mommy, I'm so hungry!"

"You just ate lunch!" she cried. "If you can convince your brother to leave we can go get something to eat."

Jack skipped away to plead his case with Owen and Liz reached up to hold Dave's hand. "They've certainly taken a shine to you," she said.

He let out a relieved sigh and grinned. "It really could have gone either way."

"Oh, I doubt that," she laughed. "The key to Jack is to talk to him like he's an equal and the key to Owen is food."

"He says yes, Mommy!," Jack yelled from across the playground, making both Liz and Dave laugh.

"See?"

The boys ran ahead again as Dave and Liz followed them to the edge of the church grounds. "Go through the trees, Jack but stop as soon as you reach the pavement!" she called after them when they paused for a moment at a bank of thick trees and shrubs. Her hand found Dave's again and she sighed sadly. "I'm going to miss this place when I get to LA," she lamented.

"Then you'll have to bring me back here when you haven't been maimed by a stage light and I don't have a tour breathing down my neck."

The fact that he could make her laugh so easily was something he hoped he would never get used to. They could hear the boys laughing and playing in the thicket when they reached the edge of the lawn and the narrow pathway that led to the street. Two stone columns stood on either side of the path and an ominous iron archway connected them several feet in the air.

Liz went a few feet down the path but stopped when she realized Dave wasn't beside her. "What's wrong?" He shifted a little on his feet then looked around to find another route. "Oh my god, are you scared?" she teased.

"I'm not scared," he scoffed and glanced at the ancient headstones jutting up from the earth. "I'm terrified."

"Oh, Dave," she giggled and walked back to him, taking his hand to drag him into the cemetery. "They're just boxes of old bones."

"That's what every pretty girl says at the beginning of a horror movie," he insisted, but let her lead him through the gates. "Next thing you know, your brains are being gnawed on by the undead."

She laughed and reached out to push his hair off his shoulder. "They'd have to get through this mop first, so I think you'll be okay."

He smiled and squeezed her hand, idly thinking about how Halloween would go that year. She could bring the boys over and they could all go door to door, or Taylor and Ally could take the kids and they could stay home under the guise of handing out candy, but just leave the bucket on the porch. His mind was immersed in the possibilities when he heard Jack calling them. Thinking something was wrong he looked up and found they were happily playing in a little clearing marked with another set of iron gates, though these were much smaller. Two white marble lambs topped the stone gateway, laying peacefully as if they were asleep and fresh flowers were set carefully next to each little headstone, all in their own little glass vases.

"Look, Mommy! This one says my name!"

Liz made her way over and knelt down next to him, clearing the leaves from the stone and reading the name with him. They spoke quietly while Dave stood with Owen by the gates so they wouldn't interfere. He recognized the flowers on the graves as the ones in the garden back at the house and he felt his stomach drop. She had obviously cleared the headstones and laid the flowers, but her motives were unclear. Shit, had she lost a baby at some point? Owen tugged on his hand and he bent to pick him up, brushing his long auburn hair back out of his eyes. He looked nothing like Kyle and everything like Liz. Green eyes, dark hair, skin that was quick to blush and eyebrows that would knit together when he was thinking about something. He hadn't yet gotten a feel for his personality but he was hoping Owen took after her like Jack had.

Liz stood up and wiped the dirt from her jeans, gently putting her hand on Jack's shoulder when he looked up at her. "It's okay, buddy. I promise," was all she said and Jack nodded, seemingly satisfied with her words.

"Can Owie and I have a race?" he asked.

Dave set Owen back down and Liz rolled her eyes. "Yes, but where are you supposed to stop?"

Jack and Owen were already running down the path when he yelled over his shoulder, "The pavement!"

Dave watched her carefully as she stepped over a grave and back to him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she looked around, realizing he knew it was all her handiwork and said quietly, "I try not to overthink my motives. Poor little things never got a chance."

He wanted to ask her so many things, but the subject was far too heavy for the middle of the day and he chose to shelve it for another time.

*

The pub they had chosen was fairly empty due to mid-day on the high street and they quickly found a quiet corner to settle into.

"And then Pluto became a dwarf planet because of the classification of...," Jack chattered on, holding up Liz's phone with a NASA image of the planet while Dave listened intently and handed him pieces of chicken strips.

"Those pictures make Pluto look a little like the Death Star," Dave said, squinting at the small photo through his glasses.

Jack furrowed his brow and looked to his mother with concern. "What's a Death Star?"

"It's in Star Wars, bud," Liz muttered, distracted by Owen shoving several fries in his mouth at once.

"What's a Star War?"

Dave's jaw dropped a little and he slowly turned to stare at Elizabeth. She glanced over, looking a little sheepish and shrugged. "Dude, I've never seen Star Wars," she admitted.

"That's it," Dave said firmly, jumping up from the table and lifting Jack into his arms. Liz stifled a laugh as he held Jack upside down and pretended to scold her. "We're going home right now and all of you are watching Star Wars. Get your stuff, let's go."

Jack laughed and squirmed in his arms while Owen looked fearfully at his mother. "Mama! Still hungry!"

"I know, baby," she laughed and handed him one of her brother's chicken strips. "Dave's just kidding."

Dave flipped Jack upright and set him back in his chair, his little face was bright red and he was still giggling hysterically. "Can we have a movie night, Mommy?"

Dave gasped like he had just heard the best idea in years, "Can we?"

They both turned to her with wide eyes and she burst out laughing. "I don't care. Just let me finish my damn beer!"

*

Liz checked the time and smiled to herself. It was way past the boy's bedtime but was willing to let it slide this time. She set her book on the nightstand and wandered down the steps into the dark kitchen, hearing the closing credit music drift from the sitting room where Dave and the boys had made a makeshift couch out of pillows, blankets, and cushions. A white sheet hung from the wall and Dave's phone was plugged into a projector borrowed from Apple Studios, featuring the very first Star Wars movie.

They were all sound asleep, Owen snuggled up under Dave's right arm as he leaned against the chair and Jack under his left. She felt as if a weight had been lifted now that she was with her boys again and that they had acclimated to Dave so well. She had been worried, mostly of Kyle saying something to the boys that could threaten their relationship with Dave before it even started, but they hadn't once brought their father up. The thought made her wonder how rehab was going and made a note to ask Travis in the morning.

She knelt down to pick up Owen but woke Dave in the process. He blinked sleepily, smiling when he focused on her face. "You missed the best part, babe," he said quietly.

"I'm sure we'll watch several times tomorrow, too" she replied and crawled across the blanket to kiss him. "These guys need to get to bed."

Owen didn't wake, just curled into his mother's arms and shoved his thumb in his mouth, but Jack began to mutter still under the haze of a deep sleep when Dave moved him.

"Dave, did they do it? Did they get the Death Star?"

"They sure did, bud," he said softly and lifted him into his arms.

"That's good," Jack nodded against Dave's shoulder and drifted back to sleep.

They got the boys tucked into their beds and tiptoed back to their room. Liz clicked off the lamp on her nightstand and flopped back against her pillows, frowning when Dave continued to scroll through his phone. "What are you doing?"

"Downloading the next movie."

"Nerd," she accused with a laugh. "And now you're indoctrinating my children?"

"Babe, you're lucky I didn't call CPS on you! Jack is seven and he'd never seen Star Wars!" he teased.

"You didn't see it until you were at least, what... eight? And you did just fine," she shot back.

Dave thought back to the Memorial Day weekend when his mom took him and his sister to the movies. His parents had divorced the year prior and Star Wars was the first bright spot in what had been a really shitty year. "Smart ass," he grinned.

He set his phone down and settled into the bed next to her, reaching across the sheets to drag her to him. She relaxed into his arms and brushed the hair out of his face before kissing him.

"Have you thought any more about the Taylor and Allison thing?" he asked suddenly.

"What thing?"

"The whole baby thing..."

She froze for a moment, absorbing his words. "Oh," she nodded. "I didn't realize they wanted a whole baby."

"Smart ass," he repeated.

She smiled and put her hand on his cheek, tracing the line of his beard. "What about it?"

"I've just been thinking a lot about it and if you wanted to do it, I'd be... you know... cool with that," he fumbled over his words, realizing that he had been completely selfish in his reasons to keep her from helping his best friend.

"What changed your mind?" she asked, trying to appear as unaffected as possible. She had been almost too tired to speak, but now she was wide awake.

"Just... I don't know. Seeing you as a mom, I guess."

She was quiet for a long moment, thinking hard about what he was telling her. "I want you to tell Taylor and Ally," she finally said.

He nodded, already thinking of all the ways he needed to apologize to them for how he acted over this. "Yeah, but I want you there to protect me when Taylor tries to put his fist through my face."

[msirinashayk]

When the coronavirus pandemic hit New York in March 2020, Irina Shayk’s mother, Olga, was visiting from Russia, staying with the 35-year-old model and her three-year-old daughter, Lea, in Shayk’s West Village home. Many lockdowns and flight cancellations later, Olga finally left on December 2, 11 months after she had arrived.

“We were together constantly for almost a year, which meant I really built a different relationship with my mother,” says Shayk, who left Russia for Paris aged 20 before moving to New York just over a decade ago. “We had a couple of crazy times when we would get angry about things, but she was able to help with my daughter for all the time the schools were closed.” And it was, she says, enlightening to be living as three generations of women in one house, all speaking Russian (Olga doesn’t speak any English, but Shayk speaks to her daughter only in Russian, so Lea is fluent). “It took me back to my own childhood and living with my parents. I miss her again now that she has gone,” Shayk admits. “And my daughter misses her too.”

I’ve met Shayk twice before, most recently in the summer of 2018, but have always found her something of an enigma. By which I mean impenetrable. Having spent five years dating the most famous footballer in the world, Cristiano Ronaldo, then four years with the Hollywood actor Bradley Cooper, she is no stranger to media attention and has historically been reticent to divulge details of her life.

Today, however, things couldn’t feel more different. And not just because of the optics — I’m interviewing her in SoHo, New York, wearing two masks (double-masking is now officially recommended in America). But even the new protocols pale into insignificance beside the dramatic difference in Shayk’s demeanour. Beside me on the sofa, in a hoodie, leggings and long red socks, this is a warmer, softer, infinitely more open Shayk than I had expected. “In this pandemic we really start to appreciate human communication,” she says in her still idiosyncratic syntax. “We realise who our true friends are and which people have to be out of your life. For a lot of friends of mine it cleared up so many things for them, and so it is for myself.”

It was in June 2019, however, long before lockdown, that she split from Lea’s father, Cooper — a subject about which she has always remained tight-lipped, barely even acknowledging the relationship in interviews. Today, however, she refers to him numerous times. “Lea knows Daddy doesn’t speak Russian, so she translates from Russian to English for him sometimes,” she says. They co-parent equally and “our only priority is her happiness and that she is loved from both sides”.

“It’s really interesting to see the dynamic between her and me, and her and her dad,” she reveals. “It reminds me of when I was a child. Anything that my mum said, I would be, like, ‘Oh, Mama’s talking, whatever.’ And anything my dad would say, I’d be, like, ‘Oh, that’s … ’ ” She pulls a face of awe and admiration. “It’s like having a reflection. She’s a mini-me.”

One big difference, however, as Shayk readily admits, is that “my daughter is being raised in a different environment than I was. She’s never going to know what it is to open the fridge and you don’t have a meal or bread.”

Shayk grew up in the small Russian village of Yemanzhelinsk, and her coal miner father, Valery, died when she was just 14, leaving Olga, a classical pianist turned music teacher, to raise their two daughters alone. “We had to work in the garden all summer and save all the potatoes for winter,” Shayk says. “You got a ticket for milk and you had to stand in line for it. You had no washing machine, no dryer and no nanny, of course — my mum did it all herself.”

Shayk’s experiences of growing up poor and sometimes hungry in Russia were a large part of her motivation, when the effects of the pandemic began to bite in the late spring, to start volunteering at a food bank in the Bronx, where she and a group of friends still spend most weekends. “So many families depend on kids getting meals at school, and with schools closed and so many people losing their jobs it’s a huge problem,” she says. “I really wanted to give something back, especially when we have so much time on our hands.”

Her modelling ambitions were a means to an urgent end at first. After winning a local modelling contest she “worked specifically to get the money”. When she flew to Paris at the age of 20, “all I was thinking about was that I could maybe get some catalogue work and help my family”.

With her outrageously sizzling figure, however, she was soon modelling for lingerie brands including Intimissimi and Victoria’s Secret, and became the first Russian to grace the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. However, she says that specific sort of success can also become a hindrance. “In fashion people put a claim on you — ‘She’s swimsuit, she’s Sports Illustrated.’ And then people don’t want to touch you because they’re, like, ‘Oh, she’s too sexy,’ ” she tells me. “I heard so many people say, ‘You will never do that cover, you will never do that campaign.’ You learn to accept people saying no to you. And to not be discouraged.” She has now walked in 64 shows, had 114 magazine covers and appeared in 146 advertising campaigns over her 15-year career, gracing the catwalk for Versace, Givenchy, Rihanna’s Savage x Fenty, Valentino haute couture and many more.

Despite being a bona fide supermodel these days, mixing in the highest of high-fashion circles — she counts Burberry’s chief creative officer, Riccardo Tisci, as a close friend and recently fronted the brand’s pre-fall 2020 campaign (Lea, she tells me, has regular FaceTime calls with Tisci) and fellow supermodel Joan Smalls as part of her crew — there is little chance of Shayk losing her head to the glamour of it all. She comes from a long line of industrious women, including a grandmother who worked in intelligence for the Red Army at 19. “Women run the world, even though sometimes we’ll let the men think they do,” she says with a laugh. “In a Russian household man is the boss, but behind the boss there is the real boss. We have to be sneaky sometimes.”

I mention I’ve read somewhere that she thinks she might actually scare men. “I don’t even know how to say it in the right way to not discriminate man,” she says. “But there is something about a woman who has her own opinion, who has her own voice and who runs her life and her career. There is something fascinating for man and maybe a little scary.”

That notion doesn’t seem to bother her at all, though. “I never thought I needed a man in my life to be complete as a woman,” she says with a smile. “Maybe it’s something to do with losing my father at a young age and coping. Like, if I can live without my father since I was 14, I can live out there without any guy.” She does, she’s quick to clarify, “truly believe in the tradition of marriage. But do I go out there looking for a husband? Hell, no.” She laughs. “He had better find me on my sofa watching Netflix because I’m not going anywhere looking for him. I think it’s all about right timing and right person. If it’s going to come, I’m open for it.”

Is there any romance in her life right now? She throws back her head and lets out a long laugh. “I don’t know,” she says eventually. “I don’t think so. I just turned 35 and I’m discovering myself being free and really, truly doing what I want to do. And in a relationship, for me, it’s so important that you do things from love, not for love.” That’s very wise, I say. “You don’t have to shape or filter yourself for any guy out there,” she continues. “I had that in a relationship, and now, being single, I can step back and say, ‘This is who I am.’ Don’t change who you are for somebody out there, because that’s not going to work out.”

Maybe it’s the pandemic, maybe it’s motherhood, maybe it’s the transcendental meditation she has been practising for the past 18 months, but Shayk certainly seems in a settled, sorted place. Sometimes, she says, she gets so tired of not being able to see people’s faces in the pandemic that “when I put a mask on, I draw a smiley face on it, so people can see I’m smiling under the mask”.

I feel like drawing one on both of mine, just to let her know that I am too.

@mulkerrins

[pendragonfics]

Weekend At Happy’s

Too Young to Be Super, Too Smart Not to Be: Chapter One | Chapter Two

Paring: Tony Stark & Child!Reader

Tags: female reader, child reader, set during and after Captain America: Civil War, childhood, divorce, feels, angst, fluff. 

Summary: You're the child of Tony Stark and Pepper Potts, and everyone is away doing adult things without you. All you want is someone to play dolls with.

Word Count: 1,717

Current Date: 2017-07-12

When your Mommy and Daddy split up, one took you, the other the company. Every day was like Christmas with Dad; even if his facial hair wasn’t white, or long like Santa Claus, he did his best to make you try to forget that your family was different to before. You were seven years old, and certainly not an idiot; after all, your father was Tony Stark, and your mother was the hard-working Pepper Potts. But everything was changing again, but bigger.

But all you wanted to do was have someone play dolls with, and nobody was able to do that.

Since your Dad was an Avenger, and was always zooming around the world in his shiny red and gold suits, he was never home enough to play with your toys and wind-up cars. You might be of age to go to school, but you were yet to go to school with other kids your age, and instead learned with F.R.I.D.A.Y and your long-distance teacher on the computers.

You’d met Steve Rogers before, but he wasn’t able to play with your toys. Neither could Natasha, or Clint, or even Thor. Uncle Happy said that the Avengers were having some troubles, and that they needed to fix them before they came to play with your new doll house. He didn’t mention where Thor was, but you knew the god was probably in his castle playing dolls with his brother. It was okay. Even though you didn’t have a brother, you knew it was important that Thor played with him a while, even if you couldn’t join in.

Maybe who you missed the most was Fun Wanda. She wasn’t like the other Avengers; she was younger, and her eyes lit up like there was fairy magic in her. She had shown you some of her special things – how colours came from her fingers, and made things she didn’t touch do things. She was just like a princess; her hair was long, and her fingers, too. They were good fingers for braiding hair with the flowers she made from her special gift. She had laughed when you had first called her Fun Wanda; her face lit up like something from a story book.

On the eighth day without seeing anyone but Uncle Happy, you packed a bag. Stuffed into your lamp-shaped backpack were a few of your favourite toys, the book you had been reading with Sam (“‘The Story of Doctor Dolittle’ is awesome, you’re going to love it! he’d said, and then only had time to read only half to you) and a pair of spare socks. But before you could sneak out to find someone to play with you, you were stopped. By Uncle Happy.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks you, raising a brow.

“Out,” you reply. “To someone who will play with my toys with me.”

He extends a hand to your shoulder, and reroutes you to face inward the apartment. “________, it’s not that I don’t want to play toys with you…I’m busy. I need to make sure you’re safe.” Bulging out from the zipper is your novel, complete with the bookmark Sam left in it. Happy notices it, and adds, “How about you sit down, and I’ll read?”

“No thank you,” you shake your head, defiant, but still polite. “I want Fun Wanda, and Steve, and Clint who makes monkey faces with me over the table,” you feel tears welling in your eyes, and you add, “I miss my Dad, and Mommy.”

Uncle Happy doesn’t say anything while you hiccup through your tears, almost like you’re a little baby again, and wailing to get your way. But you’ve tried crying to bring your parents back together. It hadn’t worked the first time.

The phone in his hand vibrates, and once again, he must take the call. “Sir? Sir – okay. Yes. I’ll send a plane at once. Yeah. All right. yes, stay still.” He takes the phone from his ear, and with a flurry, he’s texting, and tapping at the holo-screen of the modified phone with graphs in big words you haven’t get gotten the hang of. “Okay. One has been dispatched. Sit tight.”

You swallow, watching Uncle Happy. “Was that my Dad?”

He nods, slowly.

“Why didn’t you let me talk to him?” you ask him. “You always let me speak to Dad when he’s on the phone.”

The bodyguard and close friend of Tony Stark took a moment to consider his words. Then, “I know, ________. Your dad just needs to focus on coming home first. It wasn’t a good connection, you wouldn’t have been able to talk long.”

You cross your arms. “Why won’t you let me go find anyone to play with?” you ask him, but before he can speak, you add, “I’m seven, not an idiot. I know there’s something going on.” You point to the TV in the corner, virtually untouched since you’d been left in the apartment with Uncle Happy. “I might not have access to the internet here, but the news last night said something about the Avengers.”

Happy nods. “There’s…a problem.” He admits, and adds, “You remember that time I took you to the supermarket, and we only had enough money to buy one tub of ice cream, but you wanted mint choc chip, and I wanted vanilla?” He asks.

“Yeah, but I had Dad’s bank card. We ended up buying both.” You remind him.

Happy agrees with you, but stroking his chin in thought, he adds, “Uh, how about…pretend we didn’t have the card. And that you had no choice but to have vanilla ice cream even if you didn’t want to, because I said so.” He tells you.

You stick your tongue out. “Bah! It’s yucky.”

He nods. “But I like vanilla, and it wouldn’t bother me that much. See, the Avengers sort of have to all agree on a certain ice cream flavour, otherwise they can’t be Avengers anymore without being thought of as bad guys.”

Your eyebrows skyrocket. “But they’re not bad guys! They’re the good guys!” you protest. “How can they be bad guys just for wanting their own ice cream?”

Happy takes a deep breath. “Um, in real life, it’s not ice cream they have to agree on. It’s a set of rules that mean they must work under the order of the government. Sort of like the police, except they’ve got Thor.” He tells you slowly. “Got it?”

You shake your head, but then nod quickly. “N-yeah. But that’s not right. The Avengers are supposed to be heroes for the people, Happy, not the government! What if the government do bad things, like when the snake-people were inside Mr. Coulson’s house?”

Happy frowns. “Do you mean when HYDRA infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D.?” He asks.

You nod. “If the bad people are in charge of the Avengers, how can they save the day? How can Daddy save the day?” You swallow, looking down. “I don’t want Dad to be a bad guy.”

Happy puts a hand on your shoulder. “He isn’t a bad guy, ________.” Despite focusing on other things, there is still residue of tears in your eyes, and wiping them away, you take your backpack off, kick your sneakers off, and retreat to your bedroom. “________? Are you okay?”

You shake your head. “I want my Dad.”

---

When your Mommy and Daddy split up, Steve had given you a toy rabbit, named Rabbit. At first, it had smelt of Captain America, but after time, it had lost the red, white, and blue scent. Instead, your bunny smelt of bacon (often your rabbit joined you for breakfast and fell into the serving plate. Such a naughty bunny), and was the one thing that helped you to go to sleep.

But tonight, after the day of boredom and a botched-up escape plan, your mind was still buzzing, and the smell of your rabbit wasn’t helping. Instead, in the light of your glow-in-the-dark stars, the buttons on rabbit’s eyes were lit up, full of ideas.

“I wonder when Dad’s going to be home,” you whisper to Rabbit, as quiet as you can be. Uncle Happy is in the next room, reading from his newspaper like a Proper Adult that your Dad really isn’t. “I wish the Avengers weren’t fighting with each other. It makes me think about how Mommy and Dad fight. They’re always loud.”

You lay there, waiting for Rabbit to comfort you. But your stuffed toy doesn’t reply to you. It’s only a toy.

When you wake, there’s a hand on your head, softly parting your hair from your face. You blink slowly, and waking, see whose hand it is who is calmly bringing you to the land of wakefulness. Slowly, a sleepy smile comes over your face, and at once, you sit up, and give him your biggest hug that you can give.

“Dad!” you cry out. “I missed you!” There are cuts and scrapes all over him, like he’s been go-karting without you. But still, he has a big smile, and he’s holding you tight too. “Uncle Happy told me about what happened with the Avengers.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did he?”

You nod. “Yeah. The whole Avengers had to agree on one ice cream flavour, but not everyone liked what they had to choose,” you tell him, “But it wasn’t about ice cream.”

Your dad hums, looking down at you with his warm brown eyes full of love, “That’s right. But uh, I’m thinking of taking some time off all the superhero stuff, ________. I think I should go into a different business.”

“You won’t be Iron Man anymore?” You frown.

“Yeah, I’ll still be Iron Man,” he tells you. “But I’ll focus on other stuff. How about you, and I have all day to do what you want. Disneyland, or pancakes, or –,”

“Can you play with me?” you ask him.

Your dad, the legendary Tony Stark, the invincible Iron Man nods. “Sure, kiddo. Want to play house, or science, or –,”

“Science!” you shout, and wriggling from his grip, go to get your toys to set up the scene for the pretend laboratory. “You can be my assistant, Daddy. We’re going to make stuff to make people fly!”

He grins. “Woah! Sounds cool!”

>> NEXT CHAPTER

[abutterflyobsession]

We Never Cry: Strange Magic Superhero AU

coauthored by @deluxetrashqueen who basically owns this AU now. Read the previous chapter on Ao3

“Absolutely not.”

Bog folded his arms and set his jaw, looking down his nose at Marianne, resolved to be the victor of this particular encounter, regardless of the odds stacked against him.

“Why not?” Marianne asked, her own arms folded and her head tilted back so she could meet his glare with her own, “It's not bribery, it's not charity, it's not even a gift. It's me replacing something I damaged. I owe you this.”

“Something you damaged? Is this about my bike or my face?”

Bog tucked his arms a little tighter, refusing to give into the temptation of pulling the gleaming new motorcycle upright and checking out its features. The bike sat where Marianne had parked it after she had ridden it around to the loading docks of the supposedly deserted warehouse with a complete lack of discretion.

“What would people think if they saw Marianne Fairwood hanging around empty warehouses?” Bog grumbled, turning the subject away from the motorcycle.

Marianne snorted and leaned on the bike, expression dark. “Marianne Fairwood is a nice young lady who smiles sweetly for the press and poses in front of microscopes in daddy's lab for promotional marketing. Marianne Fairwood does not ride motorcycles into the industrial area of town like some sort of--”

“Nocturnal vigilante?” Bog offered.

“Yeah. People aren't looking for this.” She gestured at her long black coat and heavy boots. “Not to mention I was wearing a helmet like a responsible motorcyclist.”

Bog was forced to unfold his arms to catch the helmet Marianne tossed at him.

“Hey! I said no!”

“Oh, did you? But if you said no, how are you going to make your dramatic exit next time you hit up Fairwood labs or some bank?”

“Isn't that something you should be appreciating? Your father owns Fairwood labs. You're a vigilante. I'm a “supervillain.” Bog made air quotes with his free hand. “One, I might add, who kidnapped your sister not two weeks ago.”

“Please, Dawn thoroughly enjoyed her outing. She's even more of a celebrity now and she's milking the situation for all it's worth. Also, she likes you. 'Boggy'.” Marianne rolled the nickname off her tongue, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

Bog covered his eyes with one gloved hand and sighed.

After his mother arrived at the alley Bog and Marianne piled in the van so they could leave the area as quickly as possible. Neither of them had been particularly quiet during their fight and who knew what sort of attention might have been attracted.

“What have you done to yourself now?” His mother demanded, seeing the wreckage of his face. She was so busy peering at him in the rear view mirror that she almost hit a car when she merged into traffic. Bog was thankful that she knew better than to delay their departure with questions, and she barely did more than exclaim a few times before they were well away from the alley.

“You came alone?” Bog asked, gripping the headrest of the passenger side seat as he leaned between the seats to talk to his mother. If he weren't so tired and aching he might have ripped his claws right into the headrest, the surge of panic at the thought of his mother being unprotected nearly drowning everything else out.

“Get back there.” Griselda waved one hand at him, “If somebody sees you all banged up like that we might get stopped.”

“You should have at least--”

“Everyone else was tired from the heist. Anyway, who'd pay attention to me? Some old lady in a van. Now, who's the young lady and how did you two end up looking like you came off for the worse in a fight with a blender? I said sit down!”

Griselda snapped and Bog retreated so swiftly that Marianne chuckled. This drew his mother's attention to Marianne and she squinted into the review mirror, studying the young woman's face in the dim interior of the van.

“Aren't you--?”

“This is Marianne Fairwood,” Bog broke in, “Marianne, Griselda. My mother.”

“Your . . . mom?” A spark of true humor lit up Marianne's eyes, the flash of passing street lights catching on glints of amber. “Your mom picked us up?”

“She's not supposed to be here.” Bog growled, hunching over further in his seat.

“It's just . . . it's just,” Marianne bit her lips to try and keep back a grin, “The mighty Bog King, scourge of the authorities, feared by the helpless citizens, on the FBI's most wanted list . . . got picked up by his mom like a kid who got in trouble for fighting.”

“It isn't funny. She's not supposed to be here. You're not supposed to be here, mother. You're one of the few free agents we have at our disposal, for one thing. For another, if anything happened to you I'd--”

“Hush, son, or you're grounded.”

A laugh exploded out of Marianne and she clapped her hand over her mouth too late to stop it.

Bog eyed her, irritated by her amusement and disconcerted by the thought of what trouble his mother might have gotten into, running around by herself. He was greatly displeased by how no one was taking any of this seriously.

“Marianne Fairwood?” Griselda said, “As in Fairwood Industries? From the looks of my boy I'd say you were an unwilling hostage, but from the way you jumped right in the car I'd say you weren't. First aid kit is under your seat, Bog, if anything is bleeding too much to wait until we're back.”

“I'm fine.” Bog snapped. Which was, of course, a lie. He could still feel Marianne's boot printed on his chest and the cracked rib lanced red hot pain over his torso when he breathed too deeply. “And you,” He glared at Marianne, “So pleased with yourself, but you still live at home with daddy, don't you?”

She shrugged off the barb, “Fair point. But I wasn't laughing at you, Bog. Or you, Mrs. King. It's just so . . . mundane. It doesn't seem to fit. Like we got into a scuffle on the playground and the principal called our parents to come pick us up.”

Bog finally gave a snort of laughter. “Yeah,” he said, looking at the petite crime-fighter sitting across from him. She had delicate features that could not be disguised even by her smeared makeup and the crust of dried blood streaked across her skin. The expressions he'd seen play across her face did not seem suited to it. The deep, seething anger, the wild glee of battle . . . now a weary grin that seemed almost companionable, like a friend sharing a joke. There was nothing delicate about those looks. And there was certainly nothing delicate about her fists.

“Yeah,” Bog said again, breath hitching from another stab from his ribs, “Yeah, I guess it really doesn't fit.”

The trip back to the Bog King's base gave Marianne enough time to catch her breath and start appreciating the extent of her own injuries. She was fairly sure she had a hand print on her ankle from when King had grabbed and thrown her off. Barred lines throbbed on her arms from her hasty climb up the fire escape of the building, and she could feel the glass in her hands that had been driven in deeper by her recent activities. Loosened scales were sliding around in the sleeves of her jacket, adding an irritating itch to her aches and pains.

To top it off she was starving. Wistful thoughts of the arrangements of chocolate dipped fruit on the buffet table that she had never gotten to eat, all of it miles away and coated in dirt and glass, danced in the back of her head. They linked arms with the thought that jumping into a car with The Bog King to some unknown destination was a bad idea. Feet planted on the floor, hand resting on a baton concealed in the lining of her coat, she kept a watchful eye on her new ally.

Likewise, he was watching her, eyes glinting from underneath heavy eyebrows that seemed to rest in a default expression of glowering suspicion. His staff was on the floor under his feet, though, and his arms were crossed tightly across his chest. Whenever they hit a pothole—or the occasional curb—Marianne could see him wince.

When he swung himself out of the back of the van he grunted when his feet hit the ground and he was limping when he led Marianne through the loading bay of what was apparently an empty warehouse. A twinge of guilt plucked at her. After the heat of battle passed she always got hit by guilt and a fear she had gone too far. It was worse now because she was seeing the results firsthand instead of reading about another drug dealer being hospitalized by the city's newest vigilante. She tried to console herself with her own bruises, but it didn't help much when they stepped into a lighted area and she could see exactly how wrecked King's face really was.

“Where is everyone?” King seemed to be confused and gestured for her to follow as he strode away in long, unsteady steps, heading toward an area sectioned off by stacks of empty boxes while Griselda bustled off across the warehouse, “They should have been back before me.”

“Where's my sister?” Marianne shot back, quickening her pace to keep up with him, even though her ankle was telling her she ought to find the nearest chair, sit herself down in it, and never move again.

“Yoohoo!” Griselda King called from across the warehouse, “They're all in here!”

“In where—what are they doing in my lab!”

Disregarding his injuries, King shot over to his mother so fast that Marianne was fairly sure she missed most of his journey when she blinked. Jogging over, she jabbed an elbow into his ribs to get him out of the doorway, where he had stopped short and frozen in place, “Thanks for waiting, King. Now where is--”

“Hello!” Dawn's voice ran out, bright and cheerful as ever.

“--my sister,” Marianne finished, trying to process the sight of what appeared to be a cozy little tea party going on in the middle of a room furnished like Frankenstein's laboratory. She was almost disappointed not to see a few Tesla coils scattered around and sparking with unnecessary electricity.

“Marianne!”

Dawn was seated in a folding chair, one of several parked around an uneven card table. The other chairs were occupied by people who must have been King's cohorts. They must have been, because all of them showed signs of mutation, mostly in earthy discoloration of the skin. Dawn was snugly in the middle of things, obviously overseeing the pouring of tea into an assortment of unmatched mugs, and distributing a plate of oreoes and vanilla wafers. Upon seeing Marianne Dawn jumped up from her chair and hurled herself across the room and into her sister's arms.

“Oh, Marianne! You put on your mask and cape and came to get me? You are the sweetest!”

“What is she doing in my lab?” King demanded, regaining his voice, “Who let her in here?”

“Uh.” Said a small, nervous looking man with a beaked nose, “We had to . . . put her somewhere?”

“That is why we prepared a room!” King growled.

“How considerate,” Marianne said, rolling her eyes before checking over her sister. She grabbed Dawn's face and turned her back and forth. “You okay?”

“Oh, I'm fine now,” Dawn laughed, “They put a bag over my head but when I started to cry they took it off and apologized. Have you seen this lab? I can't believe some of the equipment they've got. So outdated, but it's all fixed up to work anyway, it's amazing. Don't tell dad where I am, just let me stay. I live here now.”

“She's fine.” Marianne said, rolling her eyes again.

“She's in my lab,” King repeated, waiting for someone to share his outrage.

“What a tragedy,” Marianne snorted, stepping away from Dawn so she could check where the intense throbbing in her head was coming from exactly.

“What about you?” Dawn pulled her sister back, “You're a total mess! There's blood in your hair—oh, that looks nasty! What happened to you two?” Her eyes darted back and forth between Marianne and King, taking in their battered forms.

“. . . each other?” Marianne shrugged, thinking longingly of a long soak in a hot bath followed by a three course dinner plus dessert and coffee, “We've kind of . . . reached a truce. I'll get you out of here soon.”

“She's in my lab.” Bog repeated.

“Yes, I am!” Dawn agreed, her brightness shadowing over just a touch at the sight of him looming in the doorway, simmering with anger. But when her eyes fell on King's exposed hands her brightness was not only restored, but it increased, “Omigosh, that looks really advanced! Oh! No wonder you wanted the research!”

“I wanted it back.” King quickly tucked his hands out of sight, “And I want you out of my lab! All of you!” The other occupants of the folding chairs rose as one and scurried out of the room, shoving at each other to try and be the first one out the door, “And tell Gus I want to talk to him. Now!”

“Yessir!” Someone yelped, just before the door banged shut behind them.

“Now,” King turned back to Dawn and Marianne, only to find Dawn tugging on his wrist and dragging his hand back into the open, “What—what are you doing?”

“I've never seen this type of mutation before! Is it at all insect-based? We've really got terribly little data on insect mutations and it's making it hard to do thorough research on reversing—um.”

Dawn shut her mouth, pressing pink lips together and shooting Marianne a look.

Marianne scratched at her wrist under her sleeve, picking out a loose scale and flicking it away, “It's okay—we sort of exchanged notes.”

“Get off!” King shook Dawn's hand off, “Don't—don't touch me!”

Marianne guided Dawn back, glaring at Bog, “Watch your tone!”

“Tell that crazy creature to keep her hands to herself!”

“This crazy creature is my sister and practically a self-made expert in the serum and the mutations caused by it!'

“I'm only still in graduate school, actually,” Dawn said, “But daddy let's me play in the company labs. There really ought to be better encryption on the network where they store the data.”

“I don't care. I want my research back so I could put you back where you belong: somewhere far from me! That's the deal.”

“More or less,” Marianne sighed, “But I believe that was some discussion about sharing information.”

“Once you've returned what's rightfully mine . . . then we can hash that out.”

“Okaaay,” Dawn sat back down at the card table and picked up a mug and gestured to the plate, “Cookie?”

“No!” Bog and Marianne snapped at the same time.

“They've got the chocolate cream,” Dawn said, nibbling an oreo.

Marianne's stomach was past the point of growling. It was past the point of registering hunger at all. A woozy, sick feeling had settled over her and it was making it hard to concentrate. “Darn it,” Marianne said, snatched up a cookie and biting into it.

King gave her a look, “Really? Cookies? Now?”

“I have been chasing after you all night,” She said through a mouthful of crumbs, “I am starving.”

“There's water in the fridge,” Dawn pointed, “No, no! The other fridge!”

“Urgh,” Marianne slammed the door on some gristly looking specimens and located bottled water in the correct refrigerator. She held the chilled bottle to the lump on her head and winced at the contact, “Not to mention blood loss,” She hissed.

“Not to mention,” King snorted, leaning by the door, arms folded and eyes alert.

“Yeah,” Marianne looked over at King's face and tried to pretend it wasn't a twinge of guilt that made her pick up a bottle of water for him, “Here!”

King caught the bottle of water Marianne lobbed at him and the plastic crinkled when he squeezed it too tight. He had straightened up, body tensing like he was under attack. He looked at the innocent bottle of water in his hand and then back at Marianne, confusion all over his face.

“Ah . . . what?”

“Say thank you,” King's mother smacked her son's shoulder as she entered the lab carrying a plate of sandwiches.

“Ow! Mom!”

“Thank her and drink your water! Then go wash your face. Actually, show Miss Fairwood where she can tidy up and see if there's a clean shirt for her somewhere. Then you go wash and change and then you will eat something,”

“Mother, I--”

“Go!”

Marianne gratefully accepted a scrounged t-shirt from a red-faced King and went into the bathroom to change. When she pulled her own shirt off a small shower of scales fluttered to the floor, sparkling in the yellow light. Small patches of scales were missing where she'd been bruised the worst, the exposed skin puckered and sickly pale where it wasn't turning purple. She ran her hands down her arms, brushing free the rest of the loose scales and making sure that her arms hadn't suffered anything worse than bruising.

Dabbing a damp hand towel to the back of her head, she became aware of restless shuffling outside the door.

“Keeping an eye on me, King?”

“So to speak,” He grumbled through the door.

“I promise I'm not going to blow out the side of the building and escape,” Marianne rinsed the hand towel until the pink washed out of the water, “You can go patch yourself up.”

“I'm fine.”

Sitting down on the closed toilet, Marianne pulled up the leg of her pants and inspected the dark bruising on her ankle while she kept talking to King, “How many of your ribs did I crack? At least one, right?”

King mumbled something too low for her to make out.

Out of habit, Marianne swept up the shed scales and funneled them into a pocket of her jacket. Donning her jacket again, she zipped up the pocket and opened the door. She shoved the first aide kit at King. “Do you need any help cleaning up the back of your head?”

“No.”

King entered the bathroom and locked himself in and Marianne found herself alone in the hall with two of Bog's cohorts. Neither seemed inclined to conversation, folding their arms and glaring at her, so she leaned back on the door and asked King some questions.

“How'd you get into the party and plant all those explosives?”

“Caterers.” King grunted.

“It's always the caterers,” Marianne sighed, “Early access to the venue for setup, lots of time to get creative with the decorations.”

Further questions were answered with distracted grunts as King shuffled around in the bathroom. When he finally limped out he was wearing a clean shirt under his jacket, a new pair of gloves on his hands, and his usual dark scowl on his face.

When they got back to the lab they found Dawn cooing over a tank of cockroaches. “Aw, look at your little antennae! Yeah, you groom them, little guy!” She had reached in and was letting one scuttle around over her fingers and palm.

King made a pained noise, deep in his throat.

“Oh, hi!” Dawn gently dropped the roach back into its habitat after kissing the air over it's twitching antennae, “Oh!”

King had slammed the lid back onto the tank the second Dawn's hand was out of the way, “Don't touch the specimens!”

“My hands were clean!”

“That's not--” He looked at the earnest little face in front of him, then glanced over at Marianne's warning expression. King ran a hand down his face and took a breath before continuing more calmly, “Please, don't meddle with my lab, thank you. You're not guests, for pity's sake . . . And aren't young--” King's eyes traveled over Dawn's pink face and bright-eyed expression, “--persons supposed to dislike that sort of thing?” He gestured with a freshly gloved hand at the roaches.

“Hm?” Dawn asked, looking up from making kissing noises through the glass at the roaches.

“Never—never mind.”

Swallowing a bite of cookie, Marianne cleared her throat and tried to bring the conversation back to recent events—despite her enjoyment over King's awkwardness, “So, King,”

“Yes, Fairwood?”

With a habitual twitch to pull down the cuffs of her jacket, Marianne pulled out a folding chair and flipped it around, sitting astride and resting her arms on the back of it, “Obviously you have a reason for thinking Fairwood Industries stole your research, and I honestly can't wait to hear what rock solid proof you have that was enough to justify you blowing the building halfway to kingdom come.”

King grunted, “It's complicated.”

“Enlighten me.”

“The thief copied the digital data and wiped the system,” Dawn said helpfully, “I checked but it's all completely gone. The hard copies were taken too, all the file cabinets.”

Marianne and King stared at Dawn.

“. . . we were talking about it while we waited for you guys to come back,” She shrugged and sipped her tea, “The thief tore their uniform getting the file cabinets out of the loading docks—which I guess means he had help—and left behind a patch with the Fairwood logo on it.”

“That's it?” Marianne stood up, knocking her chair over and kicking it out of the way as she advanced on King, “You endangered my family's lives because of a piece of uniform? You don't even know if it was actually an employee wearing that uniform! It's not like they're kept under lock and key and who would be so recklessly stupid to wear their work uniform while committing a robbery?”

“Let go of my coat, Fairwood,” King hissed.

Marianne hadn't realized she had grabbed the front of his coat and pulled him down to her level. She gave his coat another tug and contemplated slamming her forehead into his, grabbing Dawn, and fighting her way out of the warehouse. Drained as she was the thought of fighting made her blood heat up again. All she wanted to do was smash King's face in for daring to threaten her family, for leading her on a wild chase, and just because she really wanted to smash something.

Pain clamped down on her ear and her head was jerked sharply to the side.

“No fighting in the lair!” Griselda said, pinching Marianne's ear, “We're short of furniture as it is without any more of you dummies getting into a brawl in the lab.”

“Ow, mom!” King's tall frame was hunched awkwardly over as he attempted to ease the pressure of his mother's fingers on his ear.

“Hush, both of you!”

Marianne found herself propelled back into her seat. Sitting back down so abruptly shook her enough to remind her of her all too recent injuries. The sharp ache in her head kept her sitting down when she wanted to jump back up and push Griselda out of the way and go for King's throat.

“Look,” Griselda said after shoving her son a safe distance away from Marianne, “There aren't exactly a lot of suspects when it comes to who might even know about this research. And we've got a long list of reasons to think it was Fairwood. Besides, who else is researching this bug juice?”

“Don't call it bug juice,” King growled from his corner.

Griselda's arguments were valid, but Marianne just folded her arms and glared at the room at large. She knew she had lost her temper and acted badly and the embarrassment of losing control—and the twinge of shame when she glanced at King's ripening bruises—made her retreat behind the protection of sullen silence.

“Anyway, I believe it,” Dawn said, “You know how dad has been taking a “whatever it takes” attitude.”

“Dad would never--!” Marianne began to object.

“And,” Dawn interrupted, “he's been very careful not to ask too many questions about the researchers’ methods. He's got half a dozen teams across the country working on this, each team headed up by corporate officials that have been given almost complete freedom in their operations. That's a nice sized pool of suspects to work with.”

“Dawn, you're so calm about all this that I'm starting to think they drugged you.”

King flung his hands up in surrender when Marianne shot him a sharp look, “Didn't give her a thing!”

“He wanted to give her something to knock her out,” Griselda said helpfully, “but we didn't want to overdose her or cause an allergic reaction so we called it quits on the idea.”

“You were going to drug my sister?!”

“I didn't!” King insisted.

“But you would have!”

“Only if I knew it was safe!”

“That doesn't make it better!”

“But he didn't,” Dawn broke in, “And I'm calm because somebody has to be! Deep breaths, Marianne, deep breaths. And you too, Boggy.”

“What did you just call me?” King demanded, a murmur of muffled laughter rising up from around the room.

Laughter exploded out of Marianne.

It only increased when King swung around to level a look of outrage at her.

“Now,” Dawn said, taking advantage of the break in the argument, “It seems to me that the best way to confirm if anyone from our company stole the data is to check out the lab. Everything is funneled into the main lab here in the city. Dad likes to have all the information immediately on hand. If your work was taken it would be put into the system immediately.”

“Oh, and I'm just supposed to sashay up to Fairwood labs and ask to take a look at their computers?” Bog scoffed.

Dawn sipped her tea and smiled her dazzling smile, “Both Marianne and I have access to the labs and computer systems. I'll give you my passcodes and you can slip in the back way. When I go home I can say that you made me give you the codes.”

“Delightful. But I still can't just walk in there. Doubtless there's security.”

“Yes, but Marianne figured out how to loop the cameras remotely.”

“For reasons we won't go into now!” Marianne said quickly.

“It's to give her an alibi when she's off dealing out justice,” Dawn explained, “Now, Boggy--”

Marianne tried not to laugh and started to choke Bog scowled at her to no effect. The situation was out of his control and was at the mercy of the sweet little mad scientist who had easily coaxed the facts out of his mother and his crew, then set herself to constructing a solution to their current problems.

Dawn Fairwood was terrifying.

Dawn waited until her sister stopped choking before continuing with laying out her plan, “Now, Boggy--”

Marianne doubled over, wheezing.

“What do you think?” Marianne had put her mask on and tucked her hair under a black knit cap she had borrowed from one of King's people.

“I think you look daft.”

“I'm trying to go the extra mile with disguise. Most of the staff at the lab know me by sight and a mask might not be enough to fool them up close.”

“I thought the idea was to not let them get close.”

“Yes, but you can't be too careful. And might I say your own disguise is magnificent? The baseball cap is a daring touch.”

King folded his arms, pulling his light jacket tight across his shoulders. Griselda had insisted he wear something less suspicious than his usual billowing gray coat and then attempted to forcibly remove it from his person. King had managed to retain custody of his coat, but only for as long as it took the leave and change in another room. The substitute was much thinner, and when the fabric stretched Marianne could see a patterned outlined on King's shoulders, hard edges poking through the jacket.

She must have been staring, because King unfold his arms and shrugged the jacket loose on his shoulders again. He occupied himself with adjusting his baseball cap, which was embroidered with the mascot of some sports team that Marianne didn't recognize except she thought it might be a football team. She kept her gaze on the mascot, keeping her eyes away from King's wrecked face.

“We're going to have to take the van,” King started walking without waiting to see if Marianne was following, “Since we're both down a motorcycle.”

“Mine wasn't wrecked,” Marianne shrugged, “If the police don't hold it as evidence I'll have a friend get it out of impound. This will be the third time this year that I've had to do that.”

“Lucky you. Let's go. Mom!” King called over to his mother who was brushing off his coat, “If I'm not back in--”

“Just keep your earpiece on, honey,” Griselda waved him off, “We'll be listening. Scream if you need anything.”

“The scope of this operation is breathtaking,” Marianne remarked.

King slung a backpack into the van, saying,“Look, princess, I know the concept of a shoestring budget is foreign to you—hey!”

A gaggle of King's people had been passing, scattering nervously at the sight of their boss. King had apparently spotted something that displeased him, seeing as he slammed his fist against the side of the van, shouting as he rushed at the fleeing crowd.

“Gus! Gus, I see you there!”

The unfortunate Gus was snagged by the collar and dragged into the open. King spun Gus around to face him, grabbing the front of his shirt and giving his victim a vicious shake. Gus was at least as twice as wide as King and almost as tall, but only the very toes of his shoes were touching the ground.

“What were you thinking?” King demanded, “Handing me a weapon at the party? We discussed this at length and yet it doesn't seem to have penetrated your remarkably dense skull!” He gave another shake for emphasis, “I could have killed someone! And then where would we be?”

“I thought—I thought it was for dramatic effect?” Gus offered, too unsettled to form a more comprehensive explanation.

“Dramatic—dramatic effect?” King's face screwed up in confusion over this unexpected response to his violent interrogation, “Why would I--? You know what, don't answer that! Just try not to be so ruddy stupid in the future!”

Gus was thrown to the floor and King swung around in a way that would have made his absent coat billow impressively.

King jumped behind the wheel of the van, twisted the key in the ignition and slammed the car into drive, barely waiting for the garage door to be opened before he stomped on the gas. Marianne waited until they were a few blocks away before saying:

“You're going the wrong way.”

King gnashed his teeth together and swung the van around so fast Marianne could feel the vehicle tipping a little.

“So,” she said slowly, “Gus . . . he's the guy who handed you your staff right before you nearly brained me?”

Silence.

“Is this something that happens a lot? You almost caving people's skulls in? As a potential associate I feel like I should know if this is a regular thing or only for special occasions and particularly annoying princesses.”

The only reply was King adjusting the settings on the air conditioner.

Marianne knew she should drop the subject. But there was something uncomfortably familiar with how he had almost smashed her head. If he really had been out of control, just like . . .

A firm shake of her head sent the train of thought spinning off to the back of her mind and also reminded her that she hurt. A lot.

“I'm sorry,” King said, so abruptly that Marianne almost couldn't make out the words.

“I'm sorry?” she asked stupidly.

“For the party.”

“Oh.”

It was hard to come up with a response to that. King had, after all, threatened all their lives, terrorized Marianne's father, kidnapped her sister, and just generally pulled no punches. Marianne rubbed her arms, feeling scales and bruises through her sleeves.

Did she forgive King?

Some small measure of trust had already been built up between them, yes, but that felt like an entirely separate issue. The circumstances had changed so drastically, so completely, Marianne wasn't sure where she stood anymore. For a glorious hour the world had been painted in stark black and white. King was the villain, Marianne was the hero. But the black and white had run together, turning into muddy grays.

“Don't mention it,” Marianne shrugged.

Getting into the lab was straightforward enough. They parked the car a couple blocks away where Marianne kept a stash of clothing and a spare phone. She always ditched her own phone at the lab and switched it out for a burner. She changed the phone regularly and only Dawn was kept apprised of the latest number in case of emergencies. The burners were also installed with the program necessary to loop the cameras and allow her to come and go unseen.

“Can you do that on other systems?” King asked, looking over her shoulder at the footage from the lab security cameras streaming on her phone.

“I'm not hacking bank security systems for you.”

“I wasn't asking.”

“Good.”

The phone streamed the unlooped footage live to Marianne's phone and helped them navigate around the security guards doing their rounds. Marianne located a computer that would give them direct access to the servers that kept all the data backed up and stored, entered Dawn's passwords, then pushed her swivel chair aside, waving a hand for King to take the keyboard.

“You know what you're looking for, have at it.”

King made a hesitant move toward the keyboard, then stopped, curling his gloved hand into a fist and letting it fall to his side, “I can't.”

“Can't what?”

King's fingers flexed, an involuntary nervous twitch that drew Marianne's eye. The gloves didn't fit right on King's hands and before he clenched his hand shut again she could see that the tip of one claw was already working its way through a hole in the tip of the glove's index finger.

Claws no doubt presented a unique challenge when it came to the use of a keyboard, Marianne realized, and the gloves only made it worse. And he would as soon take off his gloves as she would take off her jacket and expose her arms.

“Oh,” she said, “Oh! Okay. Give me some criteria to go on and I'll start digging. I know these systems almost as well as Dawn. Pull up a chair and tell me when I'm getting warm.”

Marianne scooted her chair back in front of the computer, quickly pulling up the research results she had been going over the weekend previously. King sat down in a chair so far away Marianne would have offered him binoculars if she hadn't seen how he was nervously rubbing his hands together, eyes darting back and forth across the room, keeping an eye on the exits.

They found the stolen research under the heading of “Asset BK: Serum Reversal”.

“They really did steal it. And they actually used your initials,” Marianne skimmed through some of the documents while King pulled a portable hard drive out of his backpack in preparation for retrieving the data, “That's pretty bold.”

“It's not a connection most people would be in a position to make.”

“I guess.”

The transfer of the research to the hard drive didn't take too long, but both of them were tense, locked in the dark room with only the glow of the computer for light. Turning on the lights might alert a passing guard or be seen through the window, even though they had drawn the shades.

“Lucky,” King said, wrapping the drive up in a faded towel and putting it back in his bag, “In a weird way. I had just backed up the most recent results, so the loss of my file cabinets shouldn't be too much of a wrench. I don't suppose we could go looking for those?”

“Not on your life! Even if they're here, if we could find them, I'm not helping you carry them all the way back to the car.”

“Fine,” King sighed in defeat.

Marianne pulled her mask off and rubbed her tired eyes, taking a moment to collect herself.

Someone in Fairwood labs had actually stolen King's research. They'd taken a desperate man's hope. A man who appeared to be supporting a large number of people who had also been exposed to the serum. So many people, when Marianne had thought she was the only one. One was a freak accident, two suspicious, a warehouse full of people reduced to robbing banks to finance a cure? That had all the signs of a conspiracy. Somebody was doing human testing off the books.

Someone in Fairwood was rotten.

Marianne should have been filled with righteous anger, with resolve to get to the bottom of this mess and strangle whoever was responsible. Instead, she was just very tired. It had been a long day and she still had to get her sister home safely and put the police off of King's trail.

“I'm sorry,” She said, putting her mask back on.

“For what?” King asked.

“Oh, for everything, really. Let's get out of here while we can still limp.”

“Seriously,” Marianne patted the motorcycle, “This is yours. I owe it to you. Not just for your bike, but because Fairwood stole your research. And Dawn got you this key chain.”

She tossed Bog the keys.

He caught them, finding they were attached to a bright pink plastic flower. He stood there, helmet in one hand, keys in the other, trying to ignore the tempting metallic gleam of the bike, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at Marianne.

“Is this the only reason you showed up here? Just to give me a bike?”

“Should I have another reason?”

Bog raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, fine,” she waved a hand, “I figured you could use some samples of my blood for your research.”

Bog’s eyebrows remained aloft.

“Maaaybe I had a couple questions about your setup here. And just generally discuss who’s behind this whole research theft mess. Dawn’s been making inquiries, but she can only get so far without raising any red flags in the company.”

Bog’s eyebrows returned to their usual resting place, drawn down over his eyes in a frown.

His immediate instinct was to tell Marianne Fairwood to get lost and take her bike with her. He didn't need a spoiled princess and her corrupt business nosing around and messing up his operation.

But he was still marveling that Marianne had come back.

Once Dawn had been safely returned home he expected never to hear from either of the Fairwood sisters again. After they had left he had spent the rest of the night and most of the next day anxiously prowling the warehouse, waiting to hear police sirens wailing their way to his doorstep. Everything important had been packed up and everyone was on alert to make a run for it on his signal. But the police didn't come and by the next evening Bog called off the alert and let everyone rest.

Then Marianne Fairwood came back, ready to continue the partnership they had hastily formed after they finished beating each other black and blue. Bog was oddly glad to see her and loath to see her leave again.

“I can only offer you coffee,” he said, waving for her to follow him into the warehouse.

“As long as there's sugar then that's perfect,” Marianne followed after him, “You taking the bike, then?”

“I'm thinking about it.”

“I'll tell Dawn you liked the key chain.”

“Hmph.”

[kamen-rider-zed]

The Twelves Dates of Christmas Chapter 2

I don’t care that Christmas was almost three weeks ago. I’m going to finish this, dammit.

AO3

Chapter 2: Day 1

Wanna learn how to believe again Find the innocence in me again Through your young heart Help me find a way, help me try

Chloé blindly swatted at her phone as it buzzed across her night stand. She lifted it to her face and blinked at it. 'Christmas Through Your Eyes' by Gloria Estefan. When had she set that as her alarm tone? It was a good song, just...not one she usually listened to around the holidays. In fact, she wasn't entirely sure she'd downloaded it to her phone, let alone set it as her alarm. She shrugged, thinking maybe there was a new update on her phone that set random Christmas songs as ringtones or alarms. No matter. She had more important things to attend to like...

Like putting her plan into action. As she brushed her hair and applied her make-up for the day, she ran over what she would say to Adrien. Marinette was only using him for his name and once Cheng Fashions (or whatever she was calling it) had flourished, she would dump him like a sack of flour. His only avenue for happiness was to abandon that pigtail-wearing, dough-kneading, soul-sucking trollop and join someone with actual means. Someone who knew Adrien resented his father and could take him away from the world of high fashion and modeling rather than drag him back in.

Chloé sneered in the middle of getting dressed. Marinette. Always so talented. Always so charismatic. So lucky. So loved. And she made it look so easy! It had to be something she'd mixed in with the cookies she brought to class at the beginning of every year. Brainwashed everyone into wanting to be friends with the useless daughter of a baker rather than the glamorous daughter of the mayor. Who wouldn't want to befriend someone of status like her? Who wouldn't want to do her homework and secure a place at her side? Who wouldn't want to garner the favor of the one woman who had the city in her pocket? No one in Mme. Bustier's class, that's for certain. She shrugged. At least she had Sabrina.

Had...

'You are easily the worst person I've ever met!'

...must have been one of those brainwashing cookies.

Chloé tied back her hair with a bit more force than she had intended. The restrained strands tugged at her scalp, but she didn't care. Such were the sacrifices made for beauty. She picked out her most expensive white winter coat and a purse to match, then made her way down the hallway to the elevators. In between the rhythmic beats of her boots tapping against the carpet, she could barely make out the music coming from the speaker overhead. She cocked her head to the side and listened. It was...an instrumental version of the song playing on her phone. She rolled her eyes. Hopefully this was just 'Red Car Syndrome' and that song wouldn't be stalking her throughout the next week.

If one were asked how well André Bourgeois had aged in the past seven years, one would be answered with an emphatic 'meh'. His receding hairline had ordered a full retreat and his already salt and pepper hair was now just as salty as his daughter. The lines on his face had succumbed to gravity's siren song and he looked every bit the fifty-year-old man he was, but he had just as much energy as he ever did. It seemed losing the last election about a year previous had done wonders for his health, and for the well-being of his hotel and the staff. A shame the same couldn't be said of his relationship with his daughter.

He had tried to give Chloé everything, and when she had asked for space to study in America, he had allowed it. He hadn't even fought or argued over why she wanted to continue her education over nine thousand kilometers away with no guarantees that she would visit on holidays (which she hadn't). They had, however, promised to call each other once a week, but once a week became every other week became once a month became holidays and birthdays and nothing more. When Chloé stepped out of the elevator and made her way to the hotel's dining room, she had hoped for a joyous reunion. A warm smile, a hug, maybe even tears. But the look André wore on his face was that of a man who had just seen his only child yesterday and not gone nearly four years without being in the same room as her. He didn't even stand when she approached their table, simply smiled his fake politician's smile and gestured to the vacant chair across from him.

“So good to see you doing well, Chloé,” he said. Chloé sniffed at his assumption that she was 'well', but offered up a smile just as counterfeit as his.

“Of course, Daddy. What did you expect?”

“I certainly didn't expect you to come home for Christmas this year. What made you change your mind?”

'Saving the love of my life from a succubus, nothing new.' “Adrien and Ma–” her tongue swelled in her mouth at the girl's name. She cleared her throat and snapped her fingers at a server to fetch a glass of water. “–Marinette are getting married.”

“Ah, yes!” André's eyes lit up in a way that made Chloé jealous. “I'm well aware of the impending nuptials. They came to me almost a year ago requesting my kitchen staff to cater the event. They even asked for Marlena by name.”

Chloé gritted her teeth at the realization that her father was facilitating this madness. “I received the invitation just last week. A little last minute I know, but classes had just let out for the winter, so I cleared my schedule and made my travel arrangements.” She shrugged and snatched the full glass of water from the server's hand. “It's for Adrien, after all.”

“You haven't finished with classes yet?” André inquired. “I thought with your schedule you would have finished just a few weeks ago.”

“One of my teachers got fired for propositioning a student,” Chloé said before she took a sip of her water. “I have to wait until they can find a suitable replacement before I can finish my degree.”

A half lie. Mr. Browning had indeed been fired for propositioning a student, and that student was currently sitting in a Paris hotel contemplating how best to sabotage a wedding. However, the school had found a replacement teacher immediately, but Chloé wasn't about to tell her father that the issue keeping her away from Le Grand Paris wasn't an unfinished business degree, but the plain and simple fact that she didn't want to run a hotel for the rest of her life.

“They're not expecting me to pay them more, are they?”

'I tell you I got stuck in a class with a sexual deviant and your first concern is your bank account. No, no Daddy, I'm fine. Don't worry about me. I wasn't bothered by the middle-aged loser curious as to whether or not 'blondes have more fun', so you can go ahead and worry about your checkbook. I'm. Just. Peachy.'

Despite her internal rant, her external composure held. “You won't have to spend another cent on my education, Daddy.”

“Splendid!” He must have seen something over Chloé's shoulder because his eyes brightened up. “Ah, breakfast is served! I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of ordering Eggs Benedict for you. I remember you mentioned craving the dish earlier this year.”

'It was early last year, Daddy. And not that I'd ever tell you, but after tongue kissing a bottle of Jose Cuervo and puking up breakfast last Christmas, even the smell of eggs makes me sick.'

“I'm actually not that hungry,” she lied. Something on her stomach would have done her wonders, but she found her skin itching just at her father's presence. “It's been nice catching up with you, Daddy, but if it's all the same to yo–”

As Chloé stood, her chair pushed backwards behind her. She heard the chair legs scuff on the hardwood floor, felt the chair pitch to her left with her legs, and felt something warm and wet spill down her back. Her shoulders hitched upwards, her face froze in a disgusted grimace, and she slowly turned to see a server on her knees staring up at the heiress in abject horror. Chloé noticed her seat was coated in a viscous, pale yellow sauce and knew, just knew, that the same sauce now stained the back of her coat.

“I-I-I'm s-so sorry, Mlle. Bourgeois!” the server stuttered. “I'll have this cleaned up in–”

“Hollandaise!” Chloe shrieked. “You spilled hollandaise on an Agreste original winter coat! You won't have this cleaned up anytime soon, because this jacket is ruined! Y-you! You!” Chloé whipped her head towards her father and jabbed a finger in the now whimpering girl's face. “Fire her!”

“Chloé, dearest,” André attempted to soothe as he rose from his own chair. “It was an accident, I'm sure. And I'll buy you a new coat, I promise.” He began to rest his arm across his daughter's shoulders, but pulled away at the sight of the sauce oozing across her collar. “Call, uh, call it a Christmas present!”

Chloé glared at her father, then snapped her head back to the server. “So long as it comes out of her paycheck.”

“I'll...see what I can arrange,” he said, though Chloé can tell from his voice that he doesn't intend to dock her pay. In just the short year since he lost mayorship or Paris, he's gone soft, lost all ability to command respect. For a second, Chloé contemplated accepting a position at the hotel just to straighten out the staff, but ultimately determined that once she started down that path, she would never be able to turn back.

Her destiny belonged to her.

(#)

It took André scarcely an hour to procure a replacement coat. It came from the same line as Chloé's old coat, but looked more like the coat she wore when she was still in collège, yellow with black lining and white fur around the collar. 'Like a bee,' she mused for a moment, then easily dismissed the thought.

After taking a shower and changing into fresh clothes; thick, white, thermal leggings and a matching high-collared sweater; Chloe's appetite had only deepened, despite what happened, but she was too eager to be out of the hotel and left to walk about the city before the growling of her stomach could become too evident. Was this what her relationship with her father had become? Was she willing to starve herself just to avoid him? No, no she wasn't, which was why she was on the prowl for real food, not that foul, greasy American fast food. Granted, foul greasy American fast food had its merits, and had become somewhat of a guilty pleasure to the girl who had once lived off of salads and sushi. But right now, she craved fresh croissants from the best bakery in Paris.

It truly pained Chloé to admit it, but M. Dupain made the most wondrous croissants in the city. Soft, flaky, buttery, you could taste the hours of preparation that went into them. Usually, Chloé would send one of her servants or a member of the hotel staff to pick up an order so she wouldn't have to deal with...certain people herself, but without such resources, Chloé was forced to tend to her own needs. She prayed she wouldn't encounter Marinette today. She prayed she could walk in, grab a bag of croissants, and walk out without having to deal with the one person she hated more than anyone else.

The bell above the door jingled as Chloé entered and a young woman with long black hair pulled back in a loose ponytail straightened up from behind the counter. “Good morning!” she smiled. “Welcome to the Dupain-Che...Chloé?”

Atheism was starting to sound pretty good, right about now.

“Good morning, M–Marinette,” Chloé forced through her fake smile. It occurred to Chloé that every smile she had worn since landing in Paris not even a twelve hours ago was fake. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she had genuinely smiled. Not that she'd had a reason to smile recently. “Three croissants, if you please.”

Marinette blinked, as though the order hadn't processed yet. Then she shook her head and smiled again. “Oh, yeah, sure!” She ducked behind the counter and came up with a small bag and a pair of tongs. “So, when did you get back in Paris?”

'Don't try to play things casual with me, you man-stealing wench!' Not that Chloé would say that aloud. This situation called for subtlety. “Last night. It was a little last minute since I only received my invitation last week.” She hoped the emphasis wasn't lost on the poor baker girl.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Marinette apologized. “We sent it out weeks ago with all the others, but you're the only person we invited living out of country, and we must have gotten your address wrong.” She reached into the display case but bypassed the closest pastries in favor of the fresher croissants towards the front. Chloé sneered at the pathetic attempt at bribery. “We got the invite back last week. Return to sender, envelope was chewed up and had all sort of stamps and seals all over it. We had to have Alya print a fresh one for you and send it out priority mail.” She folded the top of the bag over and passed it over the counter. “I'm just glad you got it on time.”

“Ah, lovely,” Chloé muttered. Marinette was taking this too gracefully. She was supposed to feel guilty. “Put these on my father's tab.”

Marinette waved a hand. “On the house as an apology for inconveniencing you.” The beeping of a timer behind her drew her attention away from the front, so she didn't catch Chloé's snort.

'What petty bribery,' she thought. But when she tore off a piece of croissant an popped it in her mouth... 'Sweet, flaky bribery.'

“Enjoying that, are you?”

Chloé snapped back to reality only to realize she had let her eyes roll back and a satisfied moan escape her. She straightened and said, “Americans can't make decent croissants to save their lives.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “That's depressing. Glad I could give you a proper welcome back.” Another pair of customers strolled in and Marinette quickly greeted them before turning back to Chloé “Hey, um, Chloé, you, uh...”

“Spit it out,” Chloé snapped. “I have places to be.” Another lie.

Marinette didn't seem phased by Chloe's shortness. “Adrien and I were gonna call you later and ask if you wanted to meet us for lunch? My shift ends in about an hour, so...La Belle Rouge at twelve-thirty?”

La Belle Rouge. Not exactly the fanciest restaurant in Paris, but not exactly something one could afford regularly on a baker's salary. No doubt their meal would be courtesy of Adrien.

“Twelve-thirty.” Chloé nodded and turned on her heel. Now that she had something to distract her from the rumbling in her stomach, the cold sting of the winter wind on her face was all the more evident. She looked around her and saw children throwing snowballs at one another, couples walking up and down the sidewalks arm in arm, but it was the statue in the park to her right that caught her eye.

Even while living in America with no reason to do so, she still followed the Ladyblog, so she knew that Ladybug and Chat Noir had added to their team, the additions reflected in the expanded statuary. The original statue had since been retired to make room for an updated work portraying Paris' five heroes as adults.

Ladybug stood in the center with her arms crossed and Chat Noir stood to her right with his fists on his hips. The original pair had really filled out. Muscle definition, longer hair, and slight modifications to their suits that couldn't quite be depicted in bronze. Next to Chat stood Jade Turtle, his hood down and a hand raised in a two finger salute. Volpina stood to the spotted heroine's left, one hand planted on her hip and her lips curved upwards in a wicked grin that exposed her sharpened canines. And on Volpina's left sat the statue of their newest member.

Paon, the peacock hero. Her statue depicted her standing straight with her feet together. Her signature fans sat unfurled in her hands, one held out to the side and the other just barely covering the smirk on her face. Everything about this statue was completely contrary to how she had acted when she first joined the team. Timid, unsure, down on herself. But over time, she became a fierce warrior, unafraid and confident, and it was that Paon that Theo had captured.

Chloé tilted her head as she gazed on Paon's statue. While Chloé had met the other four heroes on multiple occasions, she had never seen the peacock in person. She had joined what the Ladyblog referred to as 'Team Miraculous' shortly before Chloé left for America. Around the same time that...

'I hope I never see you again!'

“No problem there, Sabrina,” Chloé muttered to herself. “I'm just here to stop a wedding and get my–”

“'Scuse me, Mlle,” came a thin, raspy voice from behind her. She turned to see a scraggly man with an unkempt beard and an unwashed face. He wore a threadbare scarf, mismatched coat and trousers, and a ratty knit hat that looked (and smelled) like he'd pulled it out of a dumpster that morning. In fact, he smelled like he'd pulled himself out of a dumpster that morning. He held out a shaky palm and asked, “Can you spare a centimes for a hungry man?”

Chloé made no small show of bringing her hand up to cover her nose. “I have nothing for you. Now leave. You reek.”

“Please, Mlle,” he pleaded, taking a step closer. “Just a little. It's the holidays, after all.”

The heiress backpedaled. “I know what time of year it is.” When he took yet another step closer, she swung at him with her purse and caught him across the face. “Take a hint! Get away from me you...you garbage man!”

She whirled around and stalked off before the homeless man could react, fury in her steps and her eyes. The nerve of some people. Demanding handouts? And using the holiday season to guilt trip people? Christmas is a poor excuse to pick someone's pockets at the end of every year.

...why did that sound familiar?

“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!”

Chloé flinched at the guttural roar and the subsequent screams of terror. Now that did sound familiar.

“Call me garbage, will you?”

She spun on her heels to face what could only be described as Frankenstein's Monster made of stitched together trash–empty soda cans, newspapers, half-torn plastic bags–with a massive battered trash can mounted on its back. It roared again and leaned forward to aim the overflowing mouth of the trash can right at Chloé, but she wasn't about to stick around to see what he did with it. Old instincts kicked in as she dropped her croissants and bolted out of the park, glad that she had chosen flat heeled snow boots rather than pumps. Another roar echoed from behind her followed by slow, thundering footfalls.

In the back of her mind, she lamented the loss of her free breakfast, but the forefront was preoccupied with a more important matter: 'I get to see Ladybug again!' All she had to do was avoid the Akuma just long enough for the heroes to show up and Chloé would reunite with her old friend! Thankfully, the Akuma (who called himself Éboueur) was more concerned with covering the streets in hot, rancid garbage than with capturing Chloé. That is until he used his trashcannon (Chloé cringed at the Chat-worthy pun) to launch a field of rotten banana peels into her path.

She slipped on the first peel she stepped on and wondered if this was it. This was her downfall. Done in by a cheap cartoon gag. She landed hard on her backside and more banana peels fell onto her, one slapping across her face.

“Now, you little priss,” Éboueur hissed. “You'll be garbage just...like...meooooff!”

Chloé peeled the peel ('I've got to stop it with the puns') from her face and saw the Akuma on his back and a man in an pitch black costume standing between them. He whirled his staff around and posed with it behind his back. Chat Noir. It was as though Chloe's puns had summoned him.

“Easy now, big guy. Let's not make any trash decisioooooooohh!” He raised a hand to cover his nose and let out a string of hard coughs. Shortly after, a woman in orange with a long flowing tail dropped from the rooftops and landed at his side.

“Hey, you alright there, Kitty Caeeeaauuugh!” Volpina clamped both hands over her nose and coughed. “Wha *coughcough* whad dah hell is dat sbell?”

“Ad Akuba,” Chat deadpanned, his nose still plugged. “Lid–*cough*–liderally bade of hod garbage.”

“Oh, gouuuuhp.” The fox clamped her lips shut and her cheeks puffed out. She swallowed, then said, “Guh, thing I'b gudda be sig.”

“Yeah, be too.” He leaned over and braced his hands against his knees.

A third figure, another woman, landed in front of them and waved her azure fans towards Éboueur. He was just struggling back to his feet, but the sudden gust blew him backwards and took the fetid stench with it. She turned and smiled at the pair, her dark teal eyes shining behind her cerulean mask.

“So glad peacocks don't have super smell. Better?”

Chat simply nodded, gave a thumbs up, and then sneezed. Volpina drew a deep breath in through her nose and let it out as a contented sigh. “Much better, Birdy. Thanks.”

Paon shook her head, her bright orange-red braid swaying behind her. “Would it kill you to use my actual name?”

The fox lightly punched the bird on the arm. “You know that's my thing, girl. Buggy, Kitty, Birdy, Shelly...” She raised her head and glanced around. “Speaking of, I haven't heard from Ni...uh, J-Jade all morning.”

“O-oh,” Paon stammered. “Oh, uh he's...”

“Hey!” came a familiar voice from the rooftops. Chloé glanced upwards and her face brightened at the sight of Ladybug standing with her fists on her hips and looking just as brave and confident as ever.. “You can socialize later. We've got a city to protect!” She tossed out her yoyo and swung hard and fast down the street towards the towering garbage man.

“You two go help LB.” Paon said. “I'll clean up the civilian.” Volpina and Chat nodded, then took off down the street, leaving Paon to stride over to Chloé and lean over to offer her hand.

Chloé accepted it and took in the new hero as she rose to her feet. The woman's suit was predominantly blue. Darker at her collar, then growing lighter as it moved down her body before it transitioned to black knee-high boots. Her fans hung loosely at her waist, suspended on a green belt that also bore a half-skirt of peacock feathers trailing over her left leg. Her gloves, dark blue at her hands fading into green, stopped at her upper biceps, leaving her freckle-flecked shoulders exposed. What Chloé could only assume was her Miraculous sat on the side of her green headband, just above her left ear: a bright blue pin that looked like a fanned peacock tail.

Paon helped brush banana peels from Chloe's clothes and let out a hoarse chuckle. “That guy got you good didn...” She paused when she removed a peel from the woman's face, her smile falling, then rising back up in an almost knowing smirk. “Chloé Bourgeois. How did I know?”

“You know who I am?”

“Please,” she shrugged, “everyone in this city knows you. And you haven't changed a bit in the past–how long has it been?” She tilted her head. “Four years?”

It was Chloé's turn to smirk. “It's because I take care of myself. Yoga, well-regulated diet, a rigorous beauty regi–”

“That's not what I meant.” Chloé raised an eyebrow and Paon's smirk disappeared. The hero crossed her arms and continued, “Not even a day back in Paris and you're already causing trouble.”

“Uh, that homeless guy wouldn't leave me alone,” Chloé defended. “He kept coming at me when I clearly told him to go away.”

A wavy green and blue aura manifested around Paon's eyes. She looked Chloé up and down, and when she had finished with her scrutiny, the aura vanished. “Yeah, something tells me that's not quite what happened.” Chloé opened her mouth to retaliate, but Paon held up her hand. “Save it. Just...do us a favor and try not to be a total Akuma-triggering brat tomorrow, alright? It's Christmas.”

Chloé could only gape after the peacock heroine who leapt off to aid her teammates. The nerve. The...nerve! Accusing her of being anything but the victim? That homeless guy wouldn't take no for an answer! He deserved her wrath! And it wasn't as though she was the only person in Paris capable of making people vulnerable to Hawkmoth. Why did they have to single her out? And that useless peacock hadn't even finished cleaning up the smelly, rotten banana peels staining her clothes. Ruining her second Agreste coat of the day.

She groaned and pulled her phone from her purse which she had–of course, of freaking course–fallen on when she slipped. Thin spider web cracks distorted the selfie she'd taken with Melissa and set as her background. The touch screen was unresponsive, so she was left without a map to guide her to La Belle Rouge. At least until Ladybug fixed everything, per usual. Chloé gingerly stepped around the scattered banana peels and glanced around in an attempt to gain her bearings. The Tour Montparnasse lay to her left...and she had ran away from her old collége...so she had run east...maybe?...and La Balle Rouge was in the 15th arrondissement...so that was...west...ish? A poorly judged step left her on her backside again, the screen on her phone now completely shattered.

This was going to be a long week.

(#)

Around twenty minutes later, Ladybug's magic washed through the streets and set everything right. Well, that abomination was still occurring in about a week, but Chloé wouldn't hold that against the heroine. The Akuma attack had delayed Chloé for too long, and though she was meeting Marinette, of all people, she still insisted on punctuality for Adrien's sake. A quick call to a cab company had her strolling into La Belle Rouge a mere five minutes late for her lunch date.

The small corner bistro, which had opened about six years ago and was dedicated to Ladybug in theme and décor, held few patrons this afternoon, despite being in the height of the lunch rush, but among the few occupants, Chloé couldn't find a certain model or baker. A server wearing a Ladybug mask seated her and took her drink order: a strong, hot cup of Café au lait.

Adrien and Marinette ended up speed-walking in almost five minutes later, both red in the face and panting. Marinette mumbled some excuse about the Akuma holding them up and Adrien corroborated the story. Chloé forced yet another smile and shook Marinette's hand, only maintaining contact as long as necessary before throwing her arms around Adrien's neck and embracing him perhaps a little longer than she really needed to. He awkwardly pushed her away with a grimace almost as forced as Chloé's (not that she'd notice) and took his seat beside his–yech!–fiance.

The same server came up and took their orders. Chloé ordered something light and noted that Marinette chose a heavy, hearty sandwich, a large bowl of soup, and the largest hot chocolate they had. Of course she would load up the bill. She was eating on Adrien's centimes, after all. She feigned regret at ordering such a meal, claimed she hadn't eaten since she started her shift at the bakery, but Adrien only smiled and rubbed his nose against hers, claiming 'his Lady' could order whatever she pleased.

Were they trying to make Chloé vomit?

“So good to see you, Chlo,” Adrien said. “I'm glad you could make it. Did Marinette already apologize for getting the invite to you so late?”

'Oh, she's got far more to apologize for than that, Adrikins.' “Yes. She successfully bought me off with free croissants.” Marinette giggled and Chloé scowled. “Which I dropped during the Akuma attack.”

“Don't worry, Chloé.” Marinette reached across the table and took Chloé's hand, giving it a light squeeze. It took every ounce of her willpower and self control not to jerk away and gag. Did she honestly think they were friends? After what she did? What she was going to do? “You can come to the bakery any time. Papa insists my friends eat for free. W-within reason, of course.”

“Friends? Us?” Chloé said before she could bite back her tongue.

Marinette fidgeted in her seat and blushed. “I...know we never really...hung out or talked or anything like that.” She paused and slumped her shoulders. “Okay, we friggin hated each other back in lycée, but Adrien insisted that I put whatever petty squabbles we had behind us and try to at least be civil.” She met Chloé's eyes and gave a sincere smile. “I want to make an honest effort. I want to be your friend, Chloé. Not just for Adrien's sake, but for our sake.”

'Petty? Petty? You call cozying up to someone else's man 'petty'?' However, despite Chloé's utter disgust at the idea of befriending Marinette, this did present a rather interesting opportunity. If Marinette did consider them friends, it would be no trouble to get closer to her, figure out her juiciest secrets, possibly even whatever she was holding over Adrien's head, then use those secrets to take Adrien back. The poor girl was doing Chloé's work for her.

“My only desire is to see Adrien happy,” Chloé smirked. “And if that's what he truly wants...” Her smirk wavered, but she maintained it. “We can bury the hatchet.”

'In your skull. But only as a Plan B. Can't be Adrien's blushing bride if I have a criminal record.'

Adrien opened his mouth to speak, but the server chose that moment to deliver their food. They ate in relative silence, filling the gaps between bites and sips with idle chit-chat about holiday plans, gifts the still needed to buy, friends they needed to visit. Adrien dropped some ridiculous chemistry pun Chloé wasn't entirely paying attention to, but she still found herself laughing along. This felt...nice. It felt warm, welcoming. It felt good to be around people who didn't want anything from her. No expectations, no outrageous demands, no probing questions. Just sit, eat, chat. Chloé felt a smile creep up on her face, but it immediately vanished when Adrien leaned in to sneak a kiss from Marinette. It didn't matter how 'nice' this felt. She was here for a purpose.

“...tonight?”

Chloé blinked herself out of her stupor and refocused on Marinette. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

Marinette only smiled. “I asked if you had any plans tonight.” Chloé answered with a shake of her head. “Well...there's a friend of mine who said he'd only come to the wedding if he had a date...and I've known him for a really long time and I really want him to be there...so...”

'Oh you have got to be joking.' “Marinette, are you seriously trying to hook me up with a guy?”

“Not hook you up, per se, but just meet with him and see what happens. I think you'll like him.”

“Who is he?”

Marinette almost answered but Adrien pressed a finger to her lips. “I think it would be more fun if it remained a secret, buga-, uh, babe.”

A blind date. They were trying to set her up on a blind date. She almost said no. She almost turned them down, almost demanded to know who they were trying to set her up with, but an idea popped into her head. Marinette said she'd known whoever-he-is for a really long time. That must mean he knew Marinette well. Well enough to get a little dirt on her. Between Marinette offering her friendship and a window into her past, it would be all too easy to convince Adrien his fiance was nothing but bad news.

“I...suppose I could meet him.” That's right, Chloé. Can't seem too eager. “If I could find something to wear, that is.”

“You're not going to dinner at Astrance, Chloé. Just a small, friendly meal, maybe at Chartier.”

Ugh. Poor people food. But still, it stood to reason that anyone who would call Marinette Dupain-Cheng a friend could only afford such. And if it meant figuring out how to ruin Marinette and win back Adrien, it would be well worth it.

After all, it was only one night.

(#)

The cab let Chloé out in front of Chartier just a few minutes before eight, when she had agreed to meet this mystery man. She still wore the coat her father had given her earlier that day, but had traded in her white leggings for black and sweater for a black off the shoulder dress with long sleeves and gold stitched trim. It was the least fancy dress she'd brought with her, and she had brought quite the selection with her just so she could coordinate something particularly special Marinette's wedding and/or funeral.

She stepped into the dining room and waved off the Maître D. She informed him that she was meeting someone and would find him herself. She wandered, examining every man she passed who fit the description Marinette had given her.

'Black shirt, silver tie. Jeez, Cheng, couldn't give me any more than that? Let's see...black shirt, red tie. Nope. Black shirt...turn around...turn around you son of a...grey tie. Maybe. Ooh, that tie is silver...striped. Is that him? Ugh, god I hope not. I'm not going anywhere near that pedo-stache. Come on. He better be here or I will be worlds of pissed off. Oh, I think that's him. Black shirt...silver tie...red hair oh god is that who I think it is?'

“Nathanaël?”

The red head had been absently flicking his straw around the rim of his water glass and jumped a little at the sound of Chloé's voice. He looked her over, opened his mouth, clamped it shut, then opened it again, as though he were trying to either remember her name or figure out why Marinette had set him up on a date with someone as out of his league as Chloé Effing Bourgeois.

“Uh, Ch...Chloé?” Hmm, perhaps a little of both.

She pursed her lips. “Marinette?”

He huffed and flashed a wan smile. “Marinette.”

Chloé slid into the chair opposite Nathanaël's and noted just how cramped the table was. “Honestly, what was she thinking trying to set us up?”

Nathanaël shrugged. “Maybe she's like Rose. You know, a romantic.”

“Yeah, and maybe, also like Rose, she has no sense of compatibility. Remember how Rose swore Alix and Kim would get together, but Kim asked Max out in première?”

“And Alix ended up being ace?”

Before Chloé could realize what was happening, she found herself smiling. She found herself enjoying reminiscing about their school days. “I swear, did Rose get anyone right?”

Nathanaël crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Let's see...she called Nino and Alya getting together, despite that weird phase where they hated each other.”

Chloé propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Yeah, I never really understood what was going on with them.”

“Nino hated Volpina and Alya hated Jade Turtle.” He shrugged. “They made up eventually, but for almost a year, it was like Team Edward versus Team Jacob.”

“Ugh, Twilight references?” Her lips curled upwards in disgust. “Couldn't you have said literally anything else? Like Zutara and Kataang?”

Nathanaël's eyebrows shot upward. “You watched Avatar?”

She tilted her head and hitched one shoulder. “Adrien got me hooked, the nerd.”

He snapped his fingers and pointed to Chloé. “Ah! Another couple Rose called right: Adrien and Marinette.”

Chloé banished her smile at the mention of their names. What was she doing? Waxing nostalgic? No, losing track of her objective was more like it. She was here to recapture Adrien's heart and have her happily ever after, not talk about 'the good ole days' with a red-headed loser of an artist. Just look at him. He hasn't changed a bit. News flash: that emo 'hair-over-one-eye' thing is so twenty years ago. Knowing him, he probably still had a huge crush on...

...wait a minute...

...fortune smiles.

“Everything alright, Chloé?”

A slow, broad smile bloomed across Chloé's face. Not a happy smile, either. Conniving, cunning, deceptive. “Oh, I'm fine, Nathanaël. Just...thinking about the wedding.”

“Oh, is that why you're back in Paris?”

“In a way,” Chloe cooed. She laced her fingers together and closed her eyes. “Marinette is getting married. Doesn't that bother you? Didn't you have a crush on her years ago?”

He blushed. “W-well, yeah, but then again, I think most of the class did. Nino, Kim, which makes me think he's bi, or something, I think Alya mentioned–”

“I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about you. Don't you wish you could be the one marrying Marinette next week?”

“Marinette made her choice, Chloé.” His voice took on an edge she'd never heard before. 'Hmm, maybe his balls finally dropped.' “And though I don't think anyone truly gets over their first crush, I'm happy for her. I'm happy for Adrien.”

“Oh, I'm sure you are, but are you happy for yourself?” She opened her eyes and took in the look of bewilderment on his face. He still hadn't answered. “I have a bit of a proposition for you that could prove mutually beneficial for us.”

Nathanaël squinted at her, not sure if he should cut his losses and go home, or hear her out. Against his better judgment, he responded, “Proposition?”

Chloé grinned. “Help me put a stop to this wedding. Adrien deserves someone better than Marinette–”

“Someone like you?” The edge had returned, but Chloé paid it no mind.

“You catch on quick.” She leaned in even closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Help me win Adrien back and I'll help you improve your standing in Marinette's eyes. We both end up with who we want, we both go home happy. So, what do you say?”

He sat with his eyes on Chloé, his brow furrowed. Nearly a minute of silenced passed between them, only broken by the ambient clatter of dishes and chatter of patrons. He was overthinking this. All he had to do was use his connections to Marinette and supply Chloé with whatever information she needed to make Adrien see reason, then when Adrien left Marinette at the alter, Nathanaël could be there to comfort her, and she'd realize just the kind of guy she had overlooked amid her blind, star-struck celebrity worship.

'Come on, Nath. Just say the word and you get to have your princess, just like in those stupid little comics you used to draw.'

“No.”

“...what?”

He hardened his gaze and stood, his chair shrieking against the floor. “I can't believe you. I thought maybe after all these years, you'd changed. Maybe you'd learned to let go and realize that Adrien never loved you, not the way he loves Marinette. And maybe you'd matured enough to be happy for your best friend...” He paused, eyes wide, and poured buckets of sarcasm into his next few words. “Oh, I'm sorry. You're only friend, despite whoever he chose to spend the rest of his life with.”

He gathered up the gray coat that had been hanging from the back of his chair and glared down at Chloé. “You know, I was kinda on the fence about going to the wedding, but I think I will now, if for no other reason than to keep you the hell away from it!” He dug a money clip from his pocket, tossed a couple of euros onto the table and stomped around Chloé towards the door.

Silence reigned in the restaurant, though no longer marred by clatter and chatter. Several eyes were locked on her after Nathanaël's outburst. Chloé simply sat in what may well have been shock. How dare he. How...dare he! She comes up to him with a golden opportunity to have what he admitted he still wanted, and he turns her down? Did...did Marinette really have the entire city brainwashed into accepting this? This was madness! Insanity! She was only using Adrien! She didn't know the first thing about him, not like Chloé did! Chloé would truly appreciate Adrien, give him the life he deserved. And she would do it without that obnoxious artists help.

...right after she gave him a piece of her mind.

She swept upwards out of her chair, paused, then snatched the euros off the table. No service, no tip. She stormed out of the restaurant and whipped her head left and right, blonde hair snapping behind her, until she caught sight of Nathanaël waving down a cab just down the street. He must have heard the rapid fire click of her heels on the sidewalk, or perhaps sensed the aura of fury and doom oozing from her every pore, because he turned his head towards her and widened his eyes. He shouted something that Chloé would have registered as 'look out' had her anger-addled brain been able to do so, but before she could get out the first word to tear him a new one, Nathanaël, and the whole city even, slipped downwards in her field of vision.

She never saw the ice. The ice Nathanaël had slipped on just a few seconds ago. The ice he had tried to warn her about. The ice that sent her legs flying forward from underneath her and her head crashing backward into the concrete.

She never saw the CT scans that showed internal hemorrhaging in the back of her skull. She never saw the surgeon desperately trying to save her. She never saw her heart monitor flatline, the aide who performed CPR for almost fifteen minutes, the nurse who placed his hand on the aide's shoulder, assuring her she had done all she could. She never saw the surgeon glance up to the clock and call her time of death right at midnight with a wry mutter of 'Merry Christmas.'

She also never saw the bright green wave of light that originated near Notre Dame and washed across the entire city.