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beatlesdumpsterfire · 3 years

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For @pushmipulluridesagain's prompt:

The Beatles go to Target

Brian should have known better than to give the boys the day off, completely unsupervised. Even John, Paul, George, and Ringo were shocked. In fact, they were so shocked that they couldn’t think of a single thing to do to fully take advantage of Brian’s huge mistake.

So, they found themselves in the sitting room of George’s flat, staring around at each other with blank looks plastered across their faces. Finally, John was the one to break the silence with a suggestion:

“Why don’t we go to Target?”

It wasn’t the most exciting option out there, but it sure was something, and it was a lot better than sitting around like their wax figures at Madame Tussauds. None of the other boys had any better ideas to offer, so that was that. Before Brian could change his mind, they all piled into George’s car and sped off to their local Target.

“Are we looking for anything specific?” Paul asked the car. Ringo turned around from the passenger seat and grinned back at Paul.

“It doesn’t matter if there’s something specific we’re looking for, we’re bound to walk out with a cart full of things we didn’t even know we needed.”

“I once went to Target looking for a screwdriver and I came out with an inflatable lawn decoration,” George mused. “I don’t think I’ve even taken it out of the box though.”

“There’s something about Target, it just sucks you dry,” Paul thought aloud. He paused for a second and quickly turned to John, who was obviously on the verge of making a bad joke. “Don’t you dare say it,” Paul warned him.

John luckily listened, which saved him from a hefty slap from Paul, and instead shared some wisdom he had picked up from a TikTok he saw the other day.

“You know, I heard somewhere that you can steal a certain amount of stuff from Target and they won’t stop you. They keep track of what you take, but they’ll only pull the authorities in when you’ve surpassed a certain dollar amount of stolen goods. It’s so they can charge it as a serious felony, I think.”

“Huh,” Ringo thought aloud. “So I could steal just under that amount and waltz out of the store?”

“I doubt it’s that black and white,” Paul interjected. “If they catch you taking something, they’re bound to stop you, right?”

“Why don’t we test it, lads?” John grinned. Paul let out a groan; he should have seen where that conversation was going. He had been a fool to assume they were going to take an innocent trip to Target.

“I’m game,” George said from behind the steering wheel. “We were bound to do something stupid today, I’m glad we figured out what that was.”

“Sounds like fun,” Ringo chirped happily. “I’ve never stolen anything before.”

“You haven’t either, have you, Paul?” John teased Paul.

“I have too,” Paul murmured. He had pocketed a single bean from the grocery store when he was 5 and, while his mom made him return the bean to one of the employees working there, he still felt it counted.

John could see straight through Paul’s fib, but he was confident that his mate would participate, as much as he acted like he was against it. Knowing that they were all on board to rob a Target got John feeling especially energized: he couldn’t wait to kick capitalism in the shins.

“Let’s make a competition out of it, Lads,” he announced, clapping his hands together. “30 minutes on the clock, whoever comes out with the most impressive collection of items wins.”

“What’s the prize?” George asked.

“Bragging rights,” John decided. None of the other boys were especially happy about that but, considering they were going to rob a store, they were all already kind of winning something in a sense.

“And one last thing,” John added, “if you get caught, you’ll be disqualified.”

“That’s straight-forward enough to me,” George nodded as he turned into the Target parking lot. “We’ll meet back at the car once our 30 minutes is up then?”

“Yeah,” John said.

“You’re going to get your asses handed to you!” Ringo cackled, unbuckling his seatbelt and rushing into the store before anyone could even set a timer. Paul, John, and George all exchanged tired glances; they knew Ringo was about to do something stupid.

And, of course, they were right. Ringo tore into the Target, the bell dinging above his head as he scanned around the store, his heart beating up into his throat with a wild look in his eyes. He needed to prove to his mates that he could be the best thief out there, one that was bound to earn their utmost respect. Ringo hadn’t really listened to the rules all that much, but he felt that he got the overall gist of the competition: he just had to take the biggest and most impressive thing and not get caught. That was a piece of cake because he, Ringo Starr, was the Master of Deception.

Ringo sprinted for the electronics department, nearly taking out an older gentleman and a mannequin in the process. The mannequin slowly toppled over, flattening the older gentleman behind Ringo, giving him the most action he had received in well over 50 years.

“Ooh!” the older man squealed.

Ringo made it to the section with the really big televisions and felt his pupils dilate tenfold.

“Yes,” he breathed out. Sure, there were three Target employees on the floor nearby, but Ringo was the Master of Deception. He had this in the bag. He managed to slow his breathing down to a pace that didn’t make him look like a rabid animal, and sauntered to the biggest TV in the store. Ringo looked it up and down and then smiled. He was gonna win this thing so hard. He looked to the left, making direct eye contact with one of the employees, and then looked to the right, making direct eye contact with the other employee, and then turned back to the TV. And, in one big grunt, he dislodged the TV from the wall and proceeded to shove it down his pants.

Both employees probably would have made more of an effort to stop him if they hadn’t been so thrown off guard by the fact that he had just put an 80 inch TV down his rear. It was a mystery how he was able to fit that screen in there, but somehow he did it.

Well, Ringo was the Master of Deception after all, I guess he was just doing what he did best.

While the TV was semi-concealed, the latter half of it stuck out of the seat of Ringo’s pants and rose well-above his head, so there was no denying what he was doing. Ringo had grossly miscalculated how heavy the TV was going to be; he was obviously struggling as he attempted to shuffle his way to the front doors. The two employees who had just witnessed this entire shit show exchanged an uncertain glance and shrugged their shoulders. They weren’t paid enough to deal with shit like that. Let the weirdo shove a TV down his pants if he wanted to.

Somehow, by some miracle, Ringo managed to make it to the front doors without being stopped (although he did attract a lot of strange looks). It was only when the metal detectors started to blare through the store that Ringo was surrounded by seven employees, two of which body slammed him to the ground. In a matter of seconds, the TV was removed from his pants and Ringo was sitting against the Starbucks counter by the front door with his arms shackled behind his back, moping not only because he had been eliminated from the competition and arrested, but also because he could no longer confidently say that he was the Master of Deception.

After Ringo powered into the store, Paul, George, and John synced their watches and agreed to meet back in the parking lot to determine the winner (they already knew that Ringo was going to be disqualified, it was only a matter of time before they found out exactly what he had done to eliminate himself).

George was the second to enter the store behind Ringo. As if he was going on any old Target run, George casually strolled through the front doors and made his way directly to the food section. The second John had initially mentioned theft, George’s stomach growled since it had officially been 20 minutes since his last meal. From that second onwards, George could only think about one thing and one thing only: filling the apparent goddamn void in his stomach.

So, in that food aisle, George went to town, carefully packing his shopping cart to the brim with crackers, cookies, sandwich-making materials, and lots and lots of candy. Satisfied with his load, he retreated to the back of the store where he very quickly found the employee break room and settled there, seated eagerly in front of his stuffed cart. A few employees filed in and out of the room as George worked away at his feast, but none of them bothered to stop him because they could care less. This was just an average day at Target: some guy had shoved a TV down his pants a few minutes ago, so George’s spectacle wasn’t even the worst thing they’d seen all day.

In ten minutes, George had consumed well over 50,000 calories and patted his extended stomach with content before letting out a belch that rattled the whole establishment for well-over 10 seconds.

Across the store in the women’s lingerie section, Paul snapped his head up from a rack of nice bras and scanned around in a panic. When he realized that the shaking wasn’t coming from an angry guard storming up to him, Paul’s shoulders relaxed and he returned back to sifting through the silk fabric, trying to find the flashiest bra available.

George collected all of his empty packages and started to shove them into a plastic Target bag that had been discarded in the breakroom so he had evidence of just how many things he had stolen that were now sitting in the bottom of his stomach. But, George wasn’t going to stop there; as impressive as his feat was, he knew that he was up against some tough competition (aka John, Paul didn’t count), so he really had to step up his game.

As he scanned around the store trying to find something good to snag, it occurred to George that he was wearing a red shirt and a pair of khakis (he was long overdue to do his laundry). He was basically an employee at Target, so George knew that he really could take things the extra mile. And oh boy, did he. He approached a cash register where there was an apron and an employee’s scanner sitting loosely around and tugged the apron over his head, adding the scanner to one of his front pockets. To be an incredibly huge nuisance, George went out of his way to unscrew the credit card reader (with his Target screwdriver, of course) and packed that into his apron as well. He checked his phone and, when he saw he had two minutes to spare, he decided that he had had his fun, and returned to the parking lot.

For Paul, when he first entered the store, he was a nervous wreck. Since the bean incident, he had vowed to never do a wrong thing ever again in his life. But, deep down, he knew that he would much rather become a criminal than let down his mates. He especially didn’t want to see the look of disappointment on John’s face if he came back empty-handed; that just wasn’t acceptable.

So, he decided to go the conservative route and start off small. After sneaking a pack of Trident Layers into his coat pocket without so much as a blink of an eye from those in the vicinity, Paul felt his heart rate slow. It was okay, this was fine, he totally had this. So, from there, Paul started to get more of a feel for the sticky fingers, sliding a pack of soap up his sleeve and a daily planner down his shirt. Now he was really feeling the groove of things, so he boldly made his way to the gift card section and grabbed a $20 Applebee's gift card. He was really going wild now. He was yet to face any consequences for his actions, so he booked it to the best part of Target: the electronic section, where Ringo had just been fucking shit up five minutes prior. Attempting to keep all of his stolen goods concealed, Paul strolled up and down the aisles, trying to decide which items on display were the best to grab (aka what would impress John the most). After checking to see if the coast was clear (which it was, since all the staff in the area were busy dealing with Ringo in the front of the store), Paul slid a Nintendo Switch inside his coat and hustled away from the crime scene, giggling to himself.

Now he was on a high. He was bound to win the competition with his impressive level of skill; the rest of the boys had probably already been caught because they were nowhere near as sneaky as him. As Paul hustled past the home goods aisle, he caught a glimpse of a Rolling Stones poster and turned back around with a smug look. The poster immediately went down his pants, where it belonged, so Mick’s face was pressed up against some stuff I’m not going to list out here. To top off the successful day, Paul made his way to the lingerie section to pick out an especially nice bra to give to John as a joke, to really rub in his victory. With the exception of the quick period of shaking that nearly made Paul crap himself, he was poised with a confidence he had never felt before, like he was immortal. Paul crept his way out a side door and returned to George’s car with his head held high and his pockets completely lined with goods, making it to George and John with three seconds to spare.

John knew exactly what he was doing from the get-go. He knew that his mates would all fall for a friendly competition and get so consumed by it that John could do his dirty work undetected. He knew that Ringo was bound to create a distraction big enough for him to do what he set out to do. He wasn’t sure if Paul and George would get caught too but, if they did, that would just be an additional bonus. After watching George and Paul hurry through the front doors, John stomped out his used cigarette on the pavement and ambled in behind them.

“Hey, Ringo,” he calmly greeted his mate as he made it through the front doors, where Ringo was still handcuffed and swarmed by employees and police officers.

“Hi John,” Ringo attempted to wave back, failing miserably. With a satisfied smirk, John moved to the front registers and, one by one, popped them open with a screwdriver that he himself had stolen from Target just the previous week. You’d think that alarms would have gone off, or someone would have noticed, but no, John was the true Master of Deception. He opened his coat to reveal a large, holographic fanny pack (also stolen) and started to fill it with the 1s, 5s, 10s, 20s, and 100s in each cash register. In under a minute, he had emptied out every register in the store, right under the cops’ noses. It was practically a miracle.

While George and Paul were still trying to make their way around the perimeter of the store, finding the best things to take, John was out the front doors in under three minutes, his fanny pack stuffed to the brim with cash just like George’s stomach was about to be with food.

“Fools,” John couldn’t help but laugh to himself as he lit a new cigarette and took out a long, satisfied drag. And, with that, he let himself back into George’s car and reclined backwards in the front seat, his feet kicked up on the dashboard. He kept an eye out for any commotion if someone caught on to his crime, but the store was incredibly peaceful and still, like a lake on a cool summer’s morning. John found that to be oddly beautiful, so much so that he knew he could write a decent song about it, called “Hey Target I Just Robbed You Blind, Suck It”.

After what felt like ages of waiting, George finally emerged from the store and, not too shortly afterwards, Paul trailed out after him.

“Did you see they arrested Ringo?” Paul asked as he plopped in the back seat, his pockets swishing this way and that and a loud, papery crunching noise coming from his pants.

“I was able to get in a quick word with him,” George told Paul. “Turns out he tried to steal the biggest TV in the store by hiding it in his pants.”

“Classic Ringo,” Paul rolled his eyes. “You’re awfully quiet,” he turned to John. “Nervous to lose?”

“You wish,” John snapped back to life, reclaiming his role as the leader of the competition. “Well, let’s go then, boys, shall we? Show off what you were able to grab.”

George was the first to go, and Paul and John’s eyes widened as he emptied out the opened food packages from his stolen bag. He had enough in there to fill half a trash dump.

“I ate all of that in under 10 minutes,” George proudly shared, before letting out another loud burp. “And, I took this.” George untied his apron and threw it in the pile, adding along the scanner and the credit card reader. “They thought I was an employee,” George couldn’t help but laugh as he looked down at his red shirt and khakis.

“What are you gonna do with a credit card reader?” Paul couldn’t help but ask. It seemed like the stupidest thing George could have taken. Well, actually a toilet plunger from the bathroom would have been stupider, but Paul had come to that conclusion earlier after taking the toilet plunger from the men’s room and talking himself into putting it back.

“Dunno,” George shrugged. “It seemed like it would be hard to take, so I took it.”

“That’s admirable,” John admitted, impressed with his younger mate. “Alright Paul, show us your booty.”

Paul couldn’t help but grin in anticipated excitement at his seemingly inevitable victory as he first retrieved the pack of gum and soap, followed by the daily planner and $20 Applebee’s gift card.

“Hold up,” John stopped him. “You’re disqualified.”

“Disqualified?” Paul nearly shouted in shock. “Why?”

John pointed at the Applebee’s gift card.

“That’s a foul right there. No one in their right mind would steal an Applebee’s gift card and consider themselves a winner. That just spoiled whatever else you took, I don’t even want to see it.”

“But I took a Nintendo Switch!” Paul tried to protest, reaching into his coat to grab it.

“I don’t care,” John held his ground, “you’re disqualified.” George watched onwards in excitement; he loved it when he did better than Paul.

“Now how’s that fair?” Paul protested. “We’re all judges here, your word isn’t above ours!”

“It is when I already know I’ve won,” John retorted. Before Paul could fight against this, John unzipped his jacket, displaying his fanny pack. Both Paul and George broke into fits of laughter.

“You can’t be serious, John,” George howled, “You think you won with that?”

“That’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Paul added in, relief washing over him that John might have just been giving him a hard time. That theory was quickly abandoned, however, when John, sporting the strongest poker face ever seen in the history of mankind, unzipped the fanny pack, revealing the stacks upon stacks of cash inside.

“I counted it all while you were in there wasting your time,” he explained to George and Paul’s gaping faces. “It’s near $20,000.” George recoiled in shock.

“John,” Paul’s voice was shaking now, “I don’t think that was such a great idea…”

“They haven’t caught me though, have they?” John tested Paul with a raised eyebrow, nodding towards the store.

“But I don’t think you should be sitting in their parking lot with the $20,000 you just stole, John,” George told him, trying to keep his cool.

“I’m not worried about it,” John waved George off. “Ringo’s got them all busy. Meanwhile I’m gonna buy me a new car to celebrate.”

“John,” Paul deadpanned, “you already own three cars. And you don’t have a driver’s license.”

“You really do need to consider other ways to live lavishly,” George agreed.

“What matters is that I’m $20,000 richer and you’re not,” John snapped back at them, growing frustrated that they weren’t as in awe of his achievement as he had hoped.

Right as Paul was about to suggest that John go back inside and return the money before they got into any serious trouble, Ringo knocked on George’s window, accompanied by two cops, making them all jump. After glancing back at John to make sure his money was hidden, George rolled down the window.

“They’re taking me to the sin bin,” Ringo explained, nodding at the two cops who were holding him in a deathlock. “Apparently putting a TV down your pants is considered a crime.”

“No kidding,” Paul told him.

“My bail is supposed to be posted at about $20,000,” Ringo continued, ignoring Paul. “Can you help set old Ringo free?”

Paul and George slowly turned to face John, who was scowling downwards.

“Yes,” George answered for him, “in fact, I think we’ve got $20,000 we can spare.”

Ringo smiled.

#I wrote a novel with this one #sorry #beatles ask #beatles fanfic #john lennon #paul mccartney #george harrison #ringo starr #target #ringo really tried his best

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skiimmiilk · 4 years

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A/N: Another long ass ride timestamp. I’ve been a little too inspired by the NCT 127 seasons greetings and the new YouTube video they posted X_X. Will this be my first full series? Who knows :”D

[7:41PM]

“Absolutely not.” Doyoung doesn’t even look up at you from his computer which he is noisily typing away at.

“Why the hell not Doyoung?” You raise your arms incredulously, “I’m not going to sit around and watch you put your life in danger all the time. Especially in the name of our trash excuse of a father.”

“But you? Joining the Underground Services?” He raised an eyebrow at you, “I’m not letting you get involved in the black market.”

“Please, you already know I’m better than half of the other useless employees in the circuit.” You roll your eyes, “I can’t just sit here and get a regular job knowing all of this.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, closing his eyes in hopes that you would stop talking, “I shouldn’t have let dad tell you about it..” He mumbles under his breath. Doyoung closes the laptop before shoving it into its holder, “This is the last time we are discussing this.”

You raise your eyebrows incredulously, letting out a scoff of disbelief. You follow him out of the office and down the hallway, “You’re kidding.”

“Don’t you get it y/n? You get a chance of a normal and safe life.” He looks at you, almost enviously, “Mom wouldn’t have wanted either of us in this business but our ‘trash excuse of a father’ left us with his position that needed to be filled.”

“Then why not both of us shoulder that burden? You don’t like it either.” You protest, hopping into the elevator.

“...I’m fine with it.” Doyoung says in a clipped voice.

“More like you tolerate it.” You mumble.

He sighs, “Fine, I tolerate it, but I don’t think you can. You already know what the black market is known for. Do you really want to put yourself at risk?”

“If it means that you don’t shoulder all the unresolved business our dad left us with, then yes.” The elevator doors opened once again and you two step out.

“Look, I appreciate it y/n. But as your brother, I literally can’t let you.”

“Smells like bullshit.” You roll your eyes.

“Then don’t stick your nose in places you don’t have business being in.” He chuckles, flicking your forehead, “Take out tonight? Or do you want me to cook?”

“Our fridge was empty last time I checked it so let’s do take out today.”

“Alright, I’ll order it. Can you pick it up and get some groceries on your way home?” He asks, flipping open his phone to answer some texts.

“Yea I guess so.” You sigh, “You’re not gonna come with?”

“I’m being called into HQ. We have a big transaction coming up so..you know.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head in disappointment. Your brother greeted the clueless workers on the floor that you walked out on. The office that your brother worked at was a set-up by the mafia group he worked with. NCT was just a highly successful electronics company in the face of the general public, but behind closed doors, they were one of the big names in the Underground Market, otherwise referred to as the UM. Your father was one of the founders of this company and a member of the Underground Services, Unit 127, so upon his death, it was natural for Doyoung, and eventually once you convinced Doyoung, you would shoulder his position. Doyoung walked you to the exit before waving goodbye to you.

“Do you have your mace y/n?” He asked and in response you dangled the neon green cylindrical device in front of him.

“All good Doie~” You teased, to which he shoved you playfully in response.

“I’m still at work y/n..” He groaned, feeling the stares of the other floor members on his back.

“Yea, yea.” You smirk, shooing off his cries of displease, “I’ll see you at home!” You turned around, shoving your hands into your pockets with a little jump in your step.

“Text me when you get home!”

“Yes MOM!” You yell back, rolling your eyes at his antics, “I swear, it’s like I’m still 2 years old in his eyes.”

You squish your arms closer to your body, feeling the bite of the winter night against your skin despite wearing a jacket. It was decently lit with a couple people walking about along the streets, probably returning home from work or getting take out like you were. As you walked down the lit path, your hairs on the back of your neck stood for a second and you turned around only to find the street empty as you left it.

Weird..I thought I heard someone.

You gripped the mace in your pocket a little tighter as you sped up your pace. You reached the outside of a plaza you and your brother usually ordered from when you widen your eyes in realization.

“The idiot never told me what or where he was ordering from.” You groan and shake your head as you whip out your phone to call Doyoung.

~Back at the Office~

“Alright boys, so we have a couple candidates for possible new members to join the unit.” Taeyong, leaned across the long conference table at his members intently, “Doyoung, pull up the files on the screen.”

“Taeyong, I don’t really get the benefit of adding someone else to the team.” Yuta leans back in his chair, clearly not pleased with the idea of a new member, “I thought we were handling things just fine here.”

“Just listen to me. We need to have fresh faces every so often in our unit to keep our enemies guessing. I have two people I’m keeping an eye on right now.” Taeyong pushed himself off the table, “Show the first candidate Doyoung.”

Doyoung stood in the corner at the podium with a laptop shining in front of him. With a couple clicks, the first profile blows up on the big screen.

“Lee Haechan. 20 years old. Agile, quick on his feet and thinks even faster. Originally associated with local low tier gangs and was known to be the best of the best when it comes to strategic fighting.” Doyoung clicks through the presentation, showing Haechan’s profile and some videos of him fighting.

“What’s stopping him from going back to those gangs?” Jaehyun asks, his chin resting on his hand in thought, “How do we know where his loyalties lie?”

“All his previous gangs are dead. No associations or ties as far as my team knows.” Doyoung answers, “He doesn’t have any other ties currently, which would rule out the idea of him betraying us for an alternative group that he’s apart of.”

“It’s like he has a curse of death following him..” Mark whispers over to Jungwoo, still not entirely convinced either. The group murmurs amongst themselves as they let the idea of Lee Haechan in their unit.

I thought there was only one candidate.. Doyoung thinks to himself as he stares at Haechan’s profile and then back at Taeyong. What are you planning..?

“Now,” Taeyong clasps his hands together as he walks across the floor, “I know your waiting anxiously in your seats to see who the second candidate is..” His eyes flicker to Doyoung briefly before, setting down a manila folder from his bag on the table, “Kim y/n.”

“What?” Doyoung raises his voice, almost dropping his laptop, “Taeyong..I never approved of this.”

“You didn’t need to. She came to me herself with the proposition.” Taeyong shrugged, flipping through your files, “She’s pretty skilled herself. Her only flaw is lack of experience in this field but she’s a quick learner and smart.”

“I’d like to keep it that way.” Doyoung walks up to Taeyong, almost getting too in his face, “Take her off the list.” He growls.

“I agree with Doyoung here.” Taeil speaks up, sitting back in his seat after looking at the file, “She doesn’t know what she’s getting into. I’m pretty sure she only knows surface level information about what we do and the risks we take. Can she handle the potential consequences that we face whenever we step on the field?”

“Thank you!” Doyoung gestures to Taeil in exasperation, “She’s not meant for this.”

“I like her ambition and her anger.” Taeyong knocks the table before leaning back from the table, looking Doyoung in the eyes, “Gentlemen, look at the screen.”

Everyone’s attention is diverted to the screen as it switches to grainy CCTV camera footage of a dark street near a small plaza. To Doyoung’s horror, you walk onto the screen, stopping at the corner before the plaza.

“Taeyong, you are overstepping the line.” Doyoung hisses, grabbing the man by the collar, “What are you doing?!”

Taeyong’s eyes lazily make its way to meet Doyoung’s furious ones, “Relax, I’m simply testing something. Just watch the film.”

~Back on the streets~

You speed dial Doyoung’s number on your phone and you place the machine to your ear, waiting for him to pick up. You look at the call screen, curious as to why he hadn’t picked up already. Usually his hyperactive ass would pick up in half a ring, but maybe he was in a meeting? Your thoughts were interrupted when you felt a dark presence behind you and your first instinct was to elbow whoever or whatever was behind you. To your surprise, you felt someone’s ribs and the sound of someone’s breath escaping their lungs registered and you immediately ducked and swung your feet at his heels. Your perpetrator, however, dodged and jumped over your legs, landing a foot away from you.

“Do you..” The stranger groans in pain, “always leave people breathless when you first meet them?” His face finally shone in the light when he lifted his face into the streetlight.

You whipped out your defensive items and clicked a button that turned a small metal tube into a long staff, “You need to fuck off right now before I turn you into shades of blue and purple.”

“Ooo~ They gave me such a feisty target. I like it.” He grins, cracking his knuckles, “I like a challenge, so let’s last more than 5 minutes please.”

“Who..” You charged at him, swinging your staff at his direction, “are you?! And who the hell do you work for?” He neatly dodged your first swing, narrowly shifting out of range of your second one.

He tsks, jumping in place a little before diving for your mid and knocking you down to the icy concrete, “Classified information, sweetheart. I just gotta bring you in.”

You curl your feet beneath his abdomen and shove him over your head as you tumble over into a crouching position. You blow a stray strand of hair out of your face, pursing your lips in annoyance. He stops his fall and lands almost gracefully on the street. You go after him again, swinging all your strength at him and like a dance, he mirrored your moves easily dodging your moves. You purse your lips, wanting to get him off your ass quickly. A nice blow to the head should do it, but he was predicting you too well.

“Alright, it was fun playing with you but I have a deadline to uphold.” His eyes change and it’s his turn to attack. He flicks out a switch blade, the light reflects into your eyes off the shiny silver coating as you barely dodge his swipe. You wince, feeling the cold air meet the fresh cut on your temple. Your senses heightened and a wash of fear came over you as you dodged and weaved his blows. The fear of getting stabbed and getting hurt scared you because you didn’t want to leave your brother alone. If you were going to get out of here, you’d have to think of something and quickly. As you dodged his blows a blinking red light caught your attention from the corner of your eye and you glanced up at it.

The cameras are never on usually. The fleeting thought came to you and you almost shook it off when realization knocked into your thoughts.

“Come on, sweetie. I don’t have all day, let’s just get on with it~” The stranger giggled as he slashed forward to you. You bumped into a trashcan, knocking it over as you dodged his blow. He quickly turned around and dashed towards you, a determined look on his face. You made no move to dodge until the very last second. His breath hitched in his throat as he crashed into the knocked over trash can, tumbling on the ground. You slammed your pole onto his wrist, making him yelp in pain and let go of his knife which you kicked away in one full swing. The stranger growled, angry now that you pulled such a trick on him, but as soon as he looked up to face you again, he was met with an obnoxious green tube and a horrible burning sensation to his eyes. He screamed in pain as he doubled over, rubbing his eyes.

You relax a little letting out a shaky breath of relief and shoving the mace back into your pocket, “Rubbing makes it worse, idiot.” You hop on top of him, securing his hands with your belt and using your weight to keep him down on the ground.

“Taeyong! If this is some kind of sick joke, I don’t really get the punchline.” You yelled out in the seemingly empty streets. You heard a vibration coming from your captive’s pocket as he squirmed around underneath you, still groaning from the burning pepper spray that he received to the face. You pulled out the sleek black device and answered the number.

“y/n~ You make for good entertainment.” You could hear Taeyong’s amusement through the line, “We ordered some food already and had it delivered, so you and Haechan can come back to the office. We need to discuss some matters.”

“What-”

“What does it look like?” He glared up at you, eyes bloodshot and wild.

“See you in five.” He hangs up and you scoff shaking your head at the dark screen. You get off of who you could only assume to be Haechan.

“Are your eyes okay yet?” You ask blankly.

“You heard Taeyong, gotta go back to the office now. You dragged him up and started walking, “The red brings out your eyes. It’s a nice look, sweetheart.” You mock his tone of voice with the previous nickname he gave you.

“The hell.. Take your damned belt off of me.” He ran to catch up to you, trying to rip the fabric.

“No-pe” You pop the P at the end of your response, “Not gonna happen. I don’t really trust you to not jump me.”

A dark car pulls up next to the two of you and flashes its headlights at you. You stop watching the passenger door window roll down to reveal Johnny in the drivers seat and a very pissed Doyoung in the passenger seat.

“Both of your asses. In the back. Now.”

“Sheesh alright.” You open the back door and climb in, Haechan following suit.

Johnny glances back at the two of you, both ruffled and battered with an amused smile, “Looking good back there two.”

You both roll your eyes and Doyoung interrupts, “I don’t want to hear it.”

You turn to Haechan and nudge him, “My name’s y/n by the way. I don’t think I got the chance to introduce myself.”

Haechan raises an eyebrow, dryly laughing at your horribly timed self-introduction, “Haechan. I would say it’s nice to meet you, but I can barely see you right now.”

“Good.”

#nct #nct127 #nctu #nct haechan #nct haechan x reader #nct timestamps #nct imagines #nct mafia au #nct haechan au #mafia au #kpop imagine #kpop timestamp

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refinedbuffoonery · 4 years

Text

Flawless (1)

A Heist/Ocean’s 8 AU // Masterlist

This story has been rattling around in my head for months now, and I’m so excited to finally share it with you! I’ve been describing this as an Ocean’s 8 AU, but it’s based more on the concept of the movie than the actual plot, although a few of the basic scenes are the same. Regardless, I have big plans for these girls. Content warnings for this fic are listed on the masterlist (link above).

*****

“Good morning,” the parole officer said. “Please state your name for the record.”

“Riley Davis.”

“Thank you. Miss Davis, the purpose of this hearing is to determine whether you are likely to break the law again if released. According to the record, this is your first conviction, and you have never been suspect in another criminal investigation. During your time in prison, you kept to yourself and were well behaved.” The man looked up from her file. “As you know, parole is not a right. Parole is an immense privilege, Miss Davis, one you should not take lightly.”

“I agree,” she said.

“Good. What would you do if released?”

Riley paused, thinking through her answer. “I would settle down, find a good job, fall in love, maybe have kids. I’ve learned my lesson, sir. It was a mistake. Now all I want is to lead a simple, happy life.” She placed one hand over the other, crossing her fingers on her covered hand.

He squinted at her for a long time, like he was trying to read her mind. Riley painted her face in remorse. After several minutes, the parole officer relented and, apparently satisfied with her answers, said, “Very well.”

Riley breathed a sigh of relief. By the end of the day, she’d be free.

The officer continued, “The following are the conditions of your parole. You will report to me, in person, every two weeks until your parole period has ended. You may not cross state lines without my express permission. You must find and maintain steady employment. You may not use drugs or alcohol, nor enter any drinking establishments. You may not possess firearms or other weapons, and you may not associate with other persons with criminal records. In addition, you must obey all federal, state, and local laws, and generally be an upstanding citizen. If you do not follow these rules, Miss Davis, you will find yourself back in custody. Do I make myself clear?”

Riley nodded. So close. “Yes, sir.”

Extending his hand, the parole officer said, “Congratulations, Miss Davis. You are now a conditionally free woman.”

“Thank you.” Riley shook his hand.

The rest was all a blur. One minute she was sitting in a cold, metal chair with her wrists cuffed to a table, and before she knew it, Riley found herself changing out of her atrocious orange jumpsuit and pulling on skinny jeans and her buttery soft black leather jacket. Wearing real clothes didn’t hide the fact that she looked like shit, but in that moment Riley didn’t care. She was getting out of prison.

After two years, one month, and four days, she was finally being released from prison.

Two officers walked her to the exit. Opening the door, Riley squinted in the bright afternoon sunlight. She found herself in one last cage of chain-link fences with coils of barbed wire arching over the tops, and Riley quickened her steps through the open gate in front of her.

A familiar face waited in the parking lot, perched on the back of a motorcycle. “Welcome back,” Nikki Carpenter said. The pair shared a conspiratorial grin.

Riley hadn’t known who the officers called to pick her up, but perhaps her best friend coming to take her home was the universe’s repayment for the last two years. Nikki handed Riley a helmet before putting on her own and swinging her leg over the sleek, white bike.

Riley started to put the helmet on and hesitated. She turned, looking back at the concrete cage she’d spent the last two years of her life in. Even though her sentence was only three years, the nagging voice in the back of her mind had reminded her every day that she might not make it out. Taking a shaky breath, Riley vowed to herself that she would die before finding herself on the wrong side of those fences and walls again.

Never again. No matter what.

Nikki must’ve noticed her hesitation, because she rested a hand on Riley’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Still facing the prison, Riley couldn’t form the words to respond.

“Hey. Thank you,” Nikki added softly.

Riley didn’t want to deal with the implications of that ‘thank you.’ Not yet. Finally tearing her eyes away, she said, “Let’s get out of here.”

*****

“God, I need a drink,” Riley said as soon as they entered Nikki’s cozy two-bedroom apartment. Located in the heart of downtown LA, it was on the top floor of her building, so Nikki wasn’t subject to loud overhead neighbors stomping and dropping things in the middle of the night, but the elevator moved at a glacial pace and descending twelve flights of stairs was a bitch. Riley preferred residences that were easier to vacate—in case of emergency or unfortunate run-in with the feds—but it was nice enough.

Nikki raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t avoiding alcohol a condition of your parole?”

Riley shot her a withering glare and strode into the kitchen. She opened the white-painted cabinet above the stove, revealing Nikki’s extensive stockpile of wine and hard liquor, and dug around until she found the mason jar full of moonshine hidden in the back. Taking a big swig, Riley held Nikki’s gaze, daring her best friend to try to stop her.

Nikki simply opened the fridge, pulled out some sort of leftovers, and put them in the microwave. While she waited, Nikki studied her. This is what it feels like to be an animal at the zoo, Riley thought as she squirmed under her friend’s scrutiny, crossing her arms over her chest. Riley took another big gulp of moonshine, letting the clear liquid burn her throat and make her stomach churn.

The microwave beeped. Nikki grabbed a fork and the food and held it out to Riley. Content to doom herself to the worst hangover of her life, Riley shook her head in dismissal.

“Eat,” Nikki commanded. She tugged on the waistband of Riley’s jeans. “You and I both know those weren’t mom jeans when you bought them.”

Riley blinked. She’d eaten less while in prison, but it never seemed like a big deal. But the way Nikki was looking at her...she might as well have turned into a skeleton. Suddenly self-conscious, Riley obediently traded her drink for the food—lasagna, she realized—and settled onto the couch.

After two years of cardboard-flavored prison food, the lasagna tasted like heaven.

Riley waited until Nikki was mid-gulp before announcing, “I’ve got a plan.” Her best friend nearly choked. “Want to help me get the gang back together?”

“What’s your plan?” Nikki ground out between coughs.

Riley grinned. “I figure it’s time we go on that little trip to Paris we’ve always talked about.”

Nikki shook her head. “Damn, you’re one crazy bitch, Riley Davis. You know that?” She paused, contemplating. “I’m in.” Handing back the moonshine, Nikki added, “But tonight, I say we get drunk and celebrate your freedom. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Thirty minutes in, they’d finished the whole jar of moonshine, and Riley’s head spun. She stumbled into the kitchen in search of water, suddenly grateful Nikki had made her eat a substantial meal before drinking.

“So,” Riley slurred. “How’s it going with that boyfriend of yours? The cute blonde one.”

Nikki groaned. “You mean the big fat liar? Fabulous.”

“So it all blew up in smoke.”

“You have no idea.” Nikki shoved a handful of popcorn in her mouth. “Anyway, I’m back to being single, but Sam and Desi are still as insufferable as ever.”

“Think they’ll get married?”

“No way. That’s just one more thing they’d have to deal with if they ever have to fake their own deaths.”

“On the contrary,” Riley drawled, “they should take out disgustingly large life insurance policies and then take turns faking their deaths every time they run out of money.” The idea sounded flawless to her drunk brain. “I’ll help them with their new identities for a cut.”

“How big?”

“Twenty percent.”

Nikki snorted. “Like they’d ever agree to that.”

Riley snuggled up to Nikki as they settled in to watch a movie, ducking under Nikki’s arm and using her boobs as a pillow. As Riley’s eyes caught Nikki’s laptop charging on a nearby table, her friend’s babbling about what chick-flick to watch faded into white noise. Riley’s fingers twitched. It’d been too long since she had the comfort of a keyboard beneath the pads of her fingers—since she felt powerful, the way Riley always did when armed with a computer.

Too long, in fact, since she’d had any agency at all. Riley banished the thought before Nikki could notice where her attention had wandered.

The movie turned out to be one they’d seen a thousand times, but Riley didn’t mind. Honestly, she needed the familiarity, not that she would admit that to Nikki. Even drunk, Riley loathed to reveal any sort of weakness, no matter how small and insignificant.

Nikki pinched her side. “You’re brooding. Stop it.” Riley grumbled, but she let the movie distract her all the same.

When the credits rolled, Riley glanced up at Nikki and found her friend already staring down at her as she rubbed Riley’s head. That caged animal feeling resurfaced. It was moments like these when Riley hated how well Nikki knew her, making it that much harder to hide everything going on in her head.

In an attempt to escape, she said, “I’m thirsty. Let’s celebrate.” Riley forced a giggle as she walked back to the kitchen, grabbing two wine glasses from the cabinet. Everything in Nikki’s kitchen was exactly where it was two years ago, the layout as familiar to her as her own. Did she still have her own? Riley was too drunk to remember what happened to the spacious penthouse apartment of a convicted felon.

“Riles, nooooooooo,” Nikki whined. “We are so drunk already. We cannot drink any more.”

“Relax.” Riley rummaged through the fridge, pulling out the milk and a bottle of chocolate sauce. She filled the wine glasses with milk, then added an ungodly amount of chocolate, giggling again when the bottle made a fart noise. Riley didn’t mix it very well, but she was too drunk to care. “Your chocolate milk, milady.” She held out the better mixed of the two, keeping the worse one for herself. Nikki accepted.

Riley held up her glass in a toast. “To freedom,” she said. “And doing whatever the fuck we want.”

*****

“Phone,” Riley demanded the next morning. Nikki handed hers over without even looking up from the scrambled eggs she was making. Riley unlocked it on the first try. “You haven’t changed your password in the last two years? C’mon, you know better than that!”

“My password is twenty-nine characters long! I don’t think anyone is going to…Wait you still remember it?”

Riley scrolled through Nikki’s contacts with one hand, the other busy stuffing her face with toast. “Obviously,” she said through a mouthful of cinnamon swirl bread.

“Damn,” Nikki muttered, turning back to her eggs.

Riley found the name she was looking for. Desi Nguyen. The call nearly went to voicemail before the woman on the other end snarled, “What?”

Riley couldn’t help her grin. “I’m out, and I’ve got a job.”

“Good for you. Let me know how long you last living the clean life.”

“No, you jackass. A job. You in?”

Desi didn’t even hesitate. “Hell yeah I’m in.”

“Great,” Riley said, “and since I’m assuming Cage’s mouth is too occupied to answer, tell her I say hello.”

“Fuck off,” Desi growled, but it came out just a tad breathless. She hung up before Riley could make a snarky comment about being right.

“So,” Nikki asked. She dumped the scrambled eggs on two plates. “Are they in?”

“They’re in.” Riley smirked, gratefully accepting her plate. She sat down at the kitchen table and resumed scrolling through Nikki’s contacts. Riley reached the bottom of the list, but the name she was looking for wasn’t there. Riley checked again to make sure she hadn’t overlooked it.

“Why isn’t Leanna’s number in your phone?” Nikki kept eating. “Nik,” Riley pressed. “Why don’t you have her number? What happened while I was...gone?” If Nikki noticed how she’d stumbled over the last word, her friend didn’t let on.

“Leanna got out. Got clean. She’s CIA now.” Nikki’s cold stare was clear. Do not ask me about this again.

“Oh.” Riley hadn’t seen that coming. “How the hell did she pull that off?”

“She’s good at making people disappear,” Nikki said matter-of-factly. “Guess she finally used her skills on herself.” There was more Nikki wasn’t saying, but Riley didn’t push her.

They ate their scrambled eggs in silence.

As she cleared their plates, Nikki said, “So tell me about this plan of yours. Are we really doing it?”

“If by ‘it’ you mean the heist of a lifetime, then yes. We are absolutely doing it.” Riley swung her feet onto Nikki’s now-vacated chair. “I had two long years to figure out exactly how to pull it off. All I need now is my team.”

Nikki raised an eyebrow. “Your team? Last I checked, the Five Eyes were our team.”

Rolling her eyes, Riley snarked, “Semantics.”

“Whatever.” Nikki was clearly upset, but Riley couldn’t bring herself to care. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Don’t drown,” Riley replied automatically.

As soon as she heard the rush of water moving through the pipes, Riley snatched Nikki’s laptop. Once again, the password was still the same. Nikki took long showers, so Riley figured she had at least thirty minutes to find the information she needed.

Hacking into the CIA’s employee database was all too easy for someone like Riley Davis. She practically had the secrets of the universe at her fingertips, but Riley didn’t waste time snooping. All she cared about was one name: Leanna Martin.

#beth writes #flawless au #macgyver #riley davis #desi nguyen #nikki carpenter #samantha cage #leanna martin #macgyver fanfiction

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archangeldraws · 3 years

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Jet Jaguar-A Visit in Crimson

Zilla Jr., Komodithrax, and the Heat Seeker left New York harbor bound for Jira and Ghidora's nest. The Heat Seeker was loaded up with all of it's combative ordinance including The Heat-chopper, the Angurius Spear, and Koji. Koji was small enough to fit on the heat seeker, she wasn't growing fast like her father did. Jet was fully suited up when Monique come out to chat with him.

"I fail to see the importance of this visit, our job is to deal with out of control kaiju or humans exploiting kaiju." Monique said "Tourists asking the local friendly dragon for a ride is below our paygrade."

"Is securing the compliance of temperamental, but useful ally unimportant?"

"I hardly see the relevancy of the statement."

"Ghidora has given us the ability to call on him whenever needed if we pull this off."

"oh, oui, that is important."

"Attention, all passengers we are coming up on the nest, I think our Ambassador should announce our arrival, as to avoid being blasted." Randy shouted over the PA

Jet took to the skies and rocketed forward through some fog, clearly Ghidora tried hiding the Island before ask the favor. Jet slowed down just in time, right before he collided with the "dragon" spoken of earlier.

"Ahh! Ghiji!" Jet yelled before regaining his composure "Sorry little one, you surprised me."

"little? don't you mean young?"

"Already got into that argument with your father, speaking of which is he or your mother around, and if is around can he get rid of this dang fog?"

"Mom's that way," Ghiji gestured while flapping, and Jet went off in that direction

"but dads didn't make that fog, Gra-" Ghiji tried to warn Jet

"Ahh!" Jet Screamed, finding out for himself

"Nevermind" Ghiji sighed, and went to find his cousins or dads.

Jet Jaguar went from one hydra to another, right before him was The Crimson Empress, Ghidora's Mother. Now, Jet had tangled with Ghidora's dad, even gave him a funny nickname, but that was so he would avoid Soiling himself. He had read monarch's file on The Empress, so he activated his suit emergency airtight mode to neutralize her most deadly attack. Should she decide to, at the moment she was peering at him, curiously.

"Should we eat him?" Isah asked

"No, he should be a gift for Ghidora." Mahri answered

"Something about this human reminds me of something" Rana said

Jet grew to maximum size, which made his atoms unstable, so he could only stay this way for five minutes safely, any longer and gene therapy was required afterword.

Jet saw Jira over Crimson Empresses Shoulder. "You should've told me the In-Laws were over"" Jet joked and Jira Shrugged.

"Are you the one who battled our mate?" Mahri asked

"I did battle Shadow Chaser, in defense of your son" Jet asked "The question is, Is that gonna be a problem?"

"Not for me" Rana said, nursing a grudge

"Perhaps" Isah growled

"Grandmas leave him be!" Ghiji said flying in with Zilla, Komi, and Koji right behind him, Jet shrunk down to a more stable size with only seconds to spare.

with the appearance of the grandchild, the situation diffused, even the fog cleared. giving Randy and Monique a clear view of the blood red kaiju. Randy ran to the Comms.

"Jet, Who is that?"

"Ghidora's mother, I think we're good. At least half of her is good with me, I think."

Everyone got comfortable after a while, Jet even deactivated airtight mode as a show good faith.

"So, I must ask, do you trust Ghidora?" Jira asked

"On one hand he's been a valuable ally" Jet said "On the Other hand he tried to take over the world, and..." He said pulling a metal claw out of a compartment on his arm "On the third hand, he is duty bound to answer my call."

"Where did you get that? Jira asked

"So basically, Junior's dad? Killed by the military, his body was then taken by that military. After the whole Muto attack, they decided they needed a kaiju under their control, but since Jr, Komi, and Koji were off the table, and my armor was still a prototype, they used the one thing they had. So they Cyber-necronized Zilla, giving him rockets on his back, fire breath, a titanium skull, and a new arm." Jet said waving the arm up and down "So when they decided to unveil their new Anti Kaiju weapon, HEAT was smelling somethin fishy, and it wasn't Junior. So when they activated "Project Kiryu", it turns out it hadn't been tested because it attacked everything in sight. A real Comma where their need to be a dash situation. Zilla was able to return his dad to the grave, but not before Cyber-Zilla killed our leader Nick Tatopoulos, So now I use the jerk's arm as a prop" Jet Looked around the faces of everyone around him "Ahem, sorry, loaded question."

The Awkward silence was interrupted by Familiar Screech, or whatever you call that "Bidibidibidi" noise.

#King Ghidorah #Crimson Empress #Jira #Ghiji #Jet is right though #It's better to keep Ghidorah happy to keep him as an ally #If he's not happy with you... well you know what he's capable of #submission

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thethistlegirlwrites · 4 years

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“Numb”-Whumptober Day 27 (Extreme weather)

Since torrential storms are definitely extreme weather for LA, here’s some vigilante Kira on a hunt during one! (Note: this one’s a little more violent because...well...vampire hunting)

Kira waits until the prescription sleep aids her mom's been on since the attack take hold, then pushes open her window. Her back muscles scream in protest as she scrunches herself through the frame and swings over to reach the fire escape. A vampire threw her backward into a brick wall last night. Her messy bun cushioned her head, but her shoulders and back took the impact pretty badly. But if the posts are right, the vampire who hunts the corner by Jose's bodega does his prowling on Tuesday nights. So this is her only shot. Rain splatters her hood and hands the moment she's on the wet metal of the fire escape. There's been a drastic increase in storms in the city this year. Some people on the online forums are claiming it's because a strong vampire has moved into the city, one with Dracula's powers over the weather. They claim he's using the weather to stalk the city and prey on humans, or to help his coven move contraband cargo. Instead of going up, to the roofs, she climbs as carefully as possible to the ground and hops off, boots splashing in the collected puddles beside the dumpster.

She's used to navigating a rain-soaked city. The weather has pushed her off the roofs, but the streets are less crowded than usual anyway. She makes her way along them, a forgettable shadow. If this had been an ordinary day, she'd have worn her raincoat. But the bright blue would have made her stand out. Made her memorable. So she trudges along, water soaking through between the laces of her ankle-bracing boots and through the shoulders of her sweatshirt and the tank top underneath. The rain's slowed the city down, and this time, it's slowing her down too. People move slowly, heads down. She has to be careful not to bump into anyone. No one needs a reason to remember her. Becoming invisible was a survival skill in mainstream school. The fewer people who paid attention, the fewer who bullied her behind her back. She could make herself vanish even with the interpreter following her from class to class. It's almost too easy when she's alone. Mom used to call Kira 'her little ray of sunshine'. Back when they still lived in Portland, when Kira danced to the thumps of the radio shaking the thin walls of their little apartment. Before LA. Before the Mainstream school. Before the...before the vampire, and the sleeping pills, and the stakes and the parkour and the sleepless nights. She's not sunlight anymore. She's a shadow. By the time she reaches the corner, it's too late. The body, hastily tucked behind a couple newspaper vending boxes, is pale and still. She doesn't bother to check for a pulse. She can't leave her prints, and if she put on her gloves she couldn't feel one anyway. Not that her numb fingers would be much better. She stands up and walks away, blurring into the storm before anyone realizes the unmoving figure isn't just a passed out junkie. She has one option left. This vampire doesn't just feed and go home to sleep it off. According to the information she's painstakingly gathered and cobbled together from multiple users of the online forums, he seems to get a high and ride that for a while. He's been spotted going into some of the local dead-only clubs on the nights bodies are found. One of which is only a block away. There's a line at the door stretching out into the street, and even with her hearing aids out (she can't risk them in this weather), she can feel the pounding bass of speakers. Kira steps into line and pulls her sweatshirt off, tying it around her waist, tensing her jaw to keep her teeth still and her muscles to mask the shivers. For this to work, she has to have more than just some cold fingers. The line moves at a reasonable pace, but by the time she's at the door, her muscles are aching from holding back the shivers. She holds her breath and prays her cold skin will get her past the bouncer's wrist check. The hand that latches onto her arm doesn't press into her pulse, there's too many vamps waiting in line for the check to be anything more than a formality. She's waved past, and forces herself not to let out a sigh of relief. She pulls her sweatshirt back on and takes short, shallow breaths of the air that smells like alcohol and chemical-sharp fake blood, 'Synth-blood', apparently, to those in the know, and glances around the dimly lit space. Vamp clubs are something out of her nightmares. Full of danger and so dimly lit she'll never see a threat coming. She makes her way through the fringes of the crowd until she sees what (she hesitates to ever say who, it makes using the stakes ten times harder) she's looking for. A vampire leaning on the bar, shirt sleeves dripping water onto the floor. A single piercing, a gold ring at the top of his ear. Her contribution to the myriad of information in her makeshift file on this vampire was the swiped security hard drive from Jose's. She felt bad about that, she really did, but the footage of the vampire walking across the street with his victim that she pulled off last month's video was worth it. No one else on the forums knows what he looks like other than vague descriptions. Now she has to get him somewhere where driving a stake through his heart won't immediately get her killed. She knows the moment she speaks her warm breath will give her away. So she doesn't speak. She just steps up beside him and leans in toward him, making a low growl in the back of her throat. Just like a real vamp would at the scent of fresh, real blood. Then she holds her breath and waits. He moves away from her. Just like she expected him to. He doesn't want attention drawn to himself. Now it's safer to speak. "Hey, there more where that came from?" She keeps her voice quiet, feeling the faintest slip of air through her lips. She knows how much force and pressure her voice can have. More so than most people. She also knows how to control that. "None of your business. I'm not a dealer. Scram, fledge." She does. Her lungs are screaming for air and she can feel her pulse throbbing in her temples. If she can feel it, she's sure he can hear it. But she's done her job. He's unsettled, she put attention on him. And five minutes later he gets up and walks out a side door. She follows him, pulling on her leather gloves. "Wasn't kidding, where'd you get that?" She calls. He stops. She reaches for the stake in her pocket, fumbling with numb fingers to pull it out. There's going to be a split second window. He turns back toward her, his eyes turning crimson as he prepares to call on his vampire powers. She just made herself a threat, and he's going to get rid of the problem. Or so he thinks. He lunges, suddenly, to tear out her throat. And her hand, holding the stake tightly in her grasp, comes up under his ribs. There's a sudden groaning gasp, and then he topples forward. She lets him fall, the impact driving the stake home. She leaves the body in the rain and vanishes into the alley. It's not until she gets home and peels off her sodden sweatshirt that she realizes not all of the dampness was the rain. Two long gashes, starting at her collarbone and ending at her shoulder, have ripped open her hoodie, shredded the strap of her tank top, and carved a pair of sluggishly bleeding gouges in her chest. She patches them up in the light of the flickery fluorescent over the bathroom mirror, tucks her hoodie out of sight to dry on the back of her closet door, and barely remembers to pull on a t-shirt that covers the bandages before she topples into bed, pulling the covers around her shoulders. A hot shower is out of the question, that much noise would definitely wake Mom up. But she doesn't exactly even feel cold anymore. Nothing really hurts. She's just...numb.

Taglist: @nade2308 @cmvorra @bands-space-and-monsters-oh-my @catwingsathena @asloudasalone @anguishmacgyver @flowing-river24 @myhusbandsasemni @floh673 @teddythecat1234 @bkworm4life4 @viawrites-andacts

#whumptober 2020 #day 27 #extreme weather #magic & silver #kira burke #my oc #vampire hunters

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chronicbatfictioner · 4 years

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Exchanges and Compromises - Chapter 11

Details, details, details. For someone looking like a pro-wrestler, complete with the dress-up gimmick, Jason Todd - the Red Ghost - turned out to be a very good listener and paid attention to details. He listened quietly as Oracle put out the proverbial lay of the land.

"So to make it clear and recorded redundantly, Talon was an enforcer with the Court of Owls; supposedly the entity that controlled all of Gotham, consisting of the 'builders' of Gotham as well as the 'money' that built Gotham. This guy Bane just out of the blue came to Gotham and killed the members of the Court and Talon's teammates. And now he claimed to be Dr Thomas Wayne's son, and therefore Bruce Wayne's half-brother." Jason recited. "Are the Waynes a member of the Court of Owls?"

"Not according to the database Talon gave us." Oracle replied. "Evidently, the Court had... harassed them to join, but they have repeatedly refused. And by 'repeatedly' I mean over like, three generations of Waynes."

"Yeah, I didn't think so, either. Talia wouldn't have... well, associated herself with Bruce Wayne, otherwise." Jason agreed. "Ra's didn't like to share control with a random group of people who have assassins as doormen. The public disruptions would have been too overwhelming."

"So the Waynes have made an actual tangible alliance with the Al Ghuls, I presume..." Tim commented. "Corporate-wise, the Al Ghuls owned almost half of Gotham, while the other half belonged to the Waynes. Yet they were in different lines of businesses that if the two families were to unite by means of - say, marriage - it would definitely fit the description of a monopoly."

"You're a corporate goon, aren't you?" Jason remarked. Tim preened a little.

"Kind of. I run a much-smaller family business." he admitted.

"I'm... not sure if I should consider it cool or horrific." Jason commented. "What's the business line?"

"Generic meds." Tim replied, and then stopped himself. There were a mere handful of generic medication companies in Gotham, and he might have given away his own identity.

"Ah, cool, then. Generic meds for poor people? Did you leech off the prices?" Still, Jason's disarming smirk and seemingly innocent questions were too inviting to not be answered.

"Of course not! I'm a hero, aren't I?" Tim replied coyly. Jason seemed satisfied with the answer.

"Cool, then. Anyway, to answer your question, yes, there were business deals between the Al Ghuls with the Waynes that are limited to the form of businesses either parties would do. And yes, you're right. If or when Bruce Wayne passed without any other heirs, Damian would own both conglomerations and would have been a form of monopoly. There were... contingency plans to avoid that." Jason elaborated. "But if Bane is a son of Thomas Wayne, he would have inherited half of the Wayne Enterprises, regardless."

"I sincerely hoped that Bane was not Ra's 'contingency plan'," Oracle intoned.

"I've never heard of his name until now." Jason clarified. "And I know all of Ra's associates and agents. Visible or otherwise. And Talia's. But for the issue with the Court... you people think that the Waynes bankrolled Bane to eliminate the Court of Owls."

"We suspect. We haven't found evidence to support or deny it." Oracle said. "You're quick."

"I'm not slow just because I came from Crime Alley, thanks." Jason retorted. "And I'm starting to realize... if I - on behalf of Damian - am staying at the Wayne Manor, I might be able to look for evidence thereof."

"Really quick, I wasn't even going to suggest that yet," Oracle replied glibly.

"And if they were innocent - because of course, we all believe in the 'Innocent 'til Proven Guilty' adage - then you can ally with the Waynes to indict and/or remove Bane out of the equation." Jason continued.

Well, Tim was impressed.

"That's it, in a nutshell."

"I hope you have a contingency plan in case your plan goes sideways..." Jason sighed.

"...you technically have nothing to lose," Tim assured him. "You'll have an escape, where you can bring Damian to a place that is both reinforced and semi-publicly visible; you'll have the Birds of Prey as your backup. And if - in a scenario where Bruce Wayne did not accept Damian, you'll still be welcomed here."

"Why? Just because I'm a Gothamite or what?" Jason challenged.

"Because..." Tim sighed. "Okay, look. I see it more as for Damian's sake, right? If he's accepted, and you don't want to help us, that's fine. We'll figure out something else. But if he's... denied his father..." he shook his head, pushing out the images of himself as a 12-year-old who'd just received the news of his parents' death. "...I know what it's like to lose a parent through violent means, alright. I don't... I'd rather Damian not take the path I took."

Jason's smile looked more like a snarl. "Now that's noble, Stray. You don't want Damian to be a thief like you, but you forgot who you're talking to. I grew up here, in Crime Alley, until my mom died. My dad was gone years before. I lived on the streets, had a box for a bed for weeks. That's the kind of life you won't want a ten-year-old to have to face."

Tim chuckled uneasily. "Okay, that's fair. But considering he's the only heir of the Algol Enterprises, I doubt he'll end up on the streets, am I wrong? Not to be insensitive, but there's a reason why Talia chose you to take care of him, and that wouldn't be the muscles or the pretty face."

That was a logical explanation, so Tim thought, but he could swear that Jason was blushing - even under the tanned skin. He shook his head lightly, and said, "No, I'm also his legal guardian unless his biological father files for custody; and am in charge of the Algol Enterprises," He scowled lightly. "...in spite of the fact that I don't like the corporate world in general. Damian is actually more than smart enough to supervise the companies, but he is still a minor. His signatures should always be accompanied by mine."

"Good system," Oracle commented. "I don't see you as someone easily persuaded if you don't believe in the matter."

"I believe in fairness and assisting those in need, not feeding those in power," Jason muttered. Then sighed. "For now, though, I'll need your help to fend off the League of Shadows. There won't be any steps taken toward your goal if Damian is assassinated."

"That, I believe, I can help. It's not gonna be pretty, but..." Dick remarked, stepping out of the bedrooms. "Boy's sleeping like a log. I mean, literally like a log: on his back, straight-backed and all." He added when Jason's eyes found his.

"You know how to contact your... uh... friends?" Tim tried, cringing, knowing how Barbara felt for violence.

"You thinking about rising the other talons?" Barbara must be cringing, too.

"Unless you can think of utilizing Superman or something, I don't see any other way..." Dick argued.

"Wait," an epiphany suddenly hit Tim. "I... hold up, let me think..." he raised a hand, stopping the questions he knew would be coming out of both Jason and Dick's mouths. A half a minute later, it hit him in the full picture. "Wasn't Green Arrow trained by the League of Assassins, too?"

"Oliver Queen, you mean. Yes, he was." Jason confirmed. "Funny dude, all sass and pretending to be no-brain. Shiva trained him--" Jason suddenly stopped.

"Does he know you?" Tim asked.

"He should... he got in just about a while after I did. I'd trained with him before Talia sent me training elsewhere..." Jason replied, and then his face brightened. "You scary-scheming little shit..."

"Green Arrow opted to use his skills as a hero, protecting those who can't protect himself. I know he's good - a little unfocused in a hand-to-hand and more reliant on his bow and arrows, but he's good." Tim pointed out. "And he has his own group of 'family' - all fighters for good. I'm sure he'll be happy to help us." he hinted to Oracle, deliberately pointing to Oracle as the decision-maker of the 'group'. With the way Dick was glaring at him, Tim knew that he was following Tim's hints - and not mentioning that Tim could have asked aunt Dinah for Oliver Queen's help. Dinah has been dating him for a good long while, after all.

"I'll put out feelers," Barbara stated. "Jason, do you have inklings or list on who we might want to chase after? You mentioned they're covert, and about half of the identity of people rounded up by the GCPD earlier were locals."

Jason shrugged helplessly. "They don't usually trust digital stuff for this... membership thingy. Not especially for foot soldiers."

"I think I can figure out how to sift them out..." Tim commented, ideas after ideas churning through his mind. "Want me to come over and powwow, O?"

"Yes, sure. That'll be great." Oracle replied, even with the metallic voice modulator, Tim could sense the relief.

"Okay, you wanna come with?" he asked Dick.

Dick shook his head. "Not that I'm guarding you or anything, 'cause I'm sure you can figure out how to get out without me noticing, anyway. But I'm... I'd prefer if the boy wakes up, he'll still see me, you know? So he's convinced that he's not... being abandoned or anything."

"That's sweet, but I agree. Do you mind, Jason?"

"Having another body to stand guard? Not at all. I'll need to shut my eyes for a few, anyway." Jason replied with a small smirk. "Would've been nice to shut-eye with a warm body next to me, but hey, beggars can't be choosers," he added blithely just as Tim got up and walked away.

Tim paused, turned, and blew him a kiss. Because that's what mama Selina said you should do when someone openly flirted with you if you also want to flirt with said someone. Jason's smirk just got bigger but didn't give any more reaction.

Tim continued his exit, his mind partially mapping out his plan to clean out the League of Assassins from Gotham; the other part mapping out his plan on to figure out if Jason was as compatible as he suspected.

#Batless!AU #Tim Drake #Jason Todd #JayTim #stray!tim #RedGhost!Jason #Dick Grayson #Talon!Dick #Damian Wayne #Barbara Gordon #Oracle!Barbara #Birds of Prey #BatFam

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roswelldetails · 5 years

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Episode 202: Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space - Details

EPISODE SUMMARY:

Liz (Jeanine Mason) is forced to put her latest experiment on hold after Rosa (Amber Midthunder) begins to struggle with her new life in Roswell. Reluctant to face the truth about his mother’s past, Michael (Michael Vlamis) turns his attention to helping Maria (Heather Hemmens), who is dealing with her own family crisis. Elsewhere, Isobel (Lily Cowles) agrees to join her mother for a day of spiritual healing to keep herself distracted. Finally, Rosa turns to Kyle (Michael Trevino) to learn the truth about what really happened the night she died. Tyler Blackburn and Trevor St. John also star. Lance Anderson directed the episode written by Eva McKenna (#202.) Original airdate 3/23/2020.

DETAILS:

Secret lab is in an Indian Boarding School that was shut down. The Air Force bought it. It's been empty for 40 years (i.e., since approx. 1979). Part of Alex's job is to monitor it.

Security was set up by Alex’s team. They follow orders and don’t ask questions. (But that also means other soldiers know about it.)

Max's password was password. 🙄

Liz lies to Rosa. "It was beautiful. The whole town came. Everyone joined in the rosario. Mom sang Las Golondrinas. Dad wanted you in a white dress but I insisted on your Live Through This t-shirt."

According to: https://blog.sevenponds.com/cultural-perspectives/tradition-spanish-funeral “Nine days after the death, the family holds a ceremony known as a “rosario.” It consists of candles, flowers, prayers and sharing memories of the person who has died. The rosario also takes place every year on the anniversary of the person’s death.”

Las Golondrinas

Rosa Nightmare #1… unclear when it started since it flowed directly from her on the couch, doing graffiti around town, seeing her dad. Assuming it starts when she goes to the Wild Pony, pours herself a drink, hesitates, and then Max appears.

Max and Rosa's exchange:.

"What are you waiting for? You have to stop Liz. Tell her she can't bring me back, Rosa."

"Why? Why don't you want her to save you?"

"I can't take it anymore. Just end it."

"They'll figure it out. They'll save you."

"I can't wait that long. It's like burning alive from inside."

"She's never going to stop trying."

"Then you have to stop her. Please!"

Rosa wants her sketchbook from the bookshelf in their room. (Later in the episode when she breaks in we see that the bookshelf is empty. Liz cleared out Rosa's things in 1x07.)

Rosa's old email [email protected] (90s music reference to the band Everclear).

Michael is experimenting by blow torching a piece of alien ship.

Apparently it was Lindsay (of Hank and Lindsay) that Michael made out with. Seeing as it's only been a month since Hank died (2 weeks passed in 2x01, Maria says in 2x02 that her mom has been missing for 2 weeks), and the big guy was pissed about Michael making out with her, she moves on pretty quickly!

Maria is meeting with a private detective.

Science babble! "Human tissue can obviously regenerate from stem cells. With the right methodology I could use your blood (Isobel) to make adjustments for alien physiology. I have to monitor exactly when cell degradation begins, down to the second. I can't miss it. Eight hours before I need to be back.

Michael is developing nanotechnology to make the transplant possible. "It's like replacing parts in a broken machine."

They harvested all of Noah’s primary organs. "I have his body parts in jars."

Isobel steals what looks like an empty syringe. But at the end of the episode she has the serum in it.

New brand of fake beer! (Last season it was always Copper black lager. Now it's Hunks and Heroes Lager! Broken bottles were on the ground in the cemetery, Wyatt Long is carrying a bottle at the beginning of the scene when he and Michael fight (which could tie him to the graffiti on Rosa's grave), and also has a bottle in front of him on his YouTube video.

Michael is holding a bag from Milikan Value Hardware Store.

Flint's report on Caulfield: "Shepherd Protocol was activated. Bodies were disposed of without incident. Local papers ran an item confirming that the long-scheduled demolition of the prison was a success."

Exchange between Jesse and Flint:

"Dad, I don't think we should have covered it up. People should know."

"Do you have any idea what would happen if we confirmed that alien specimens were once housed at Caulfield but are now suddenly gone? It'd be dismissed as fake news. Buried by a racist tweet within seconds. No, we need to make a bigger statement."

"'Cause justice can't be served until after disaster has struck."

"That's right."

Really don't want to transcribe the racist rant from Wyatt Long that Rosa watches, although I will if y'all demand it. I don't think it's relevant beyond Rosa learning the truth. However as a detail I want to note, the video is titled BUILD THE WALL! IN MEMORY OF KATE LONG and it's dated September 3, 2010 (so 2 years and a few months after they died). Amusing side note. The comments on the video. Great fake usernames:

fayhuman: Kate Long didn't deserve what happened.

Curious Murphy: I just donated to the cause!!

thecyberwitch48: is this really the best solution?

Isobel’s baby is at 5 weeks, the size of a lentil.

Isobel calls Ann "Mama". Good note for fic writers! 😉

Maria's class: "Woman as Warrior: Strength Training for the Mind, Body, and Spirit."

Under the Bridge - same location as in 1x03 where Liz finds Rosa's paint canister.

Maria's cards:

Maria DeLuca

Psychic Reader

Spirit Leader

Social Media Revitalizer

Great line: "The infinite reservoir of strength and healing within us all" 😂👏

Rosa's chart…

"What's this error here?"

"Must be a contaminated sample."

"No way. I'm meticulous."

Steph says regarding the error on Rosa’s test “Congrats. Looks like you just discovered a protein never before found in the human body. Or you didn't get the Flamin' Hot orange dust off your hands when you scrubbed in. Whichever's most likely."

Michael to Liz, "I was working. I went home to find formulas I worked out years ago…"

Rosa is reciting Niebuhr's Serenity Prayer, which is commonly used by AA and other 12 step programs.

Noah was struck by lightning directly in the heart.

Isobel’s moment of epiphany:

"Using your newfound goddess strength I want you to get up and throw your fear into the fire. Set yourself free. You're a warrior. You aren't afraid of anything. Draw upon your feminine power. Why are you hesitating, Isobel? The sooner you throw your paper in the fire the sooner you can leave."

"Look, it's not that simple, okay? I can't just throw this into the fire." Maria gasps and rubs her chest, similar to how she did when she realized her necklace was missing at the beginning in 1x10) "I'm trapped.

Ann: "This is my fault. I put too much pressure on you."

"It's nobody's fault. It's just here."

Maria: "Whatever it is, you can choose to set yourself free. Say it. 'Say I choose to set myself free.'"

"I choose to set myself free."

Maria: "Louder."

"I choose to set myself free."

Rosa breaks into the Crashdown. It mirrors her first nightmare in 2x01, but it's not a dream. She goes to her room, sees the empty bookshelf, goes to the closet, and snags a hidden bottle of tequila.

Camera lingers on Steph stuffing a bottle of nail polish remover in her purse. Note: she was actually doing her nails.

Michael and Alex's conversation mostly mirrors the information we learned from the file in last week's episode. She wasn't caught until October 1948 and the crash was June 1947. She was the last alien captured and admitted into Caulfield. Alex thinks people in Roswell might have known her.

Liz says that the accident never made sense to her because when Rosa was 12, Mamma Ortecho drove drunk with Liz and Rosa in the car, hit a bike, and flipped the car. Rosa told Mamma Ortecho that she would kill her if she ever drove drunk with Liz in the car again.

Rosa's tequila brand: Blistering Rose.

Rosa’s 2nd Nightmare: Rosa runs into the cave and starts beating on the pod. When she hits it, it sounds like metal (which doesn't seem like it would make sense given what we know about the pods).

Her conversation with Max:

"Leave me alone, you dick!"

"I am so much pain, Rosa."

"Oh really? So is everybody. Man up."

"Have some mercy. I saved your life."

"My life is gone. My mom bailed, I can't talk to my dad, my entire town hates me, and my sweet little sister is somebody that I don't even know. But I do know that she'll save you. She's gonna fix you and until then, leave me alone."

"I'd Liz won't stop then you have to do it. Go to the pod, pull me out, and walk away. You won't be killing me, Rosa. I'm already dead."

"I said no. Leave me alone."

"As long as that handprint is on you I can reach you."

"Fine. I'm an expert at quieting voices."

"No. Rosa, wait. Don't do anything stupid."

"I never dreamed when I was using."

MUSIC:

1. Oasis "Wonderwall"

2. Gord Bamford "#Rednek"

3. Hamish Anderson "Trouble"

4. Radiohead "High And Dry"

#roswell new mexico #rnm season 2 #long post #episode 202 #ladies and gentlemen we are floating in space #rnm music #episode details #submission

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ladyseaheart1668 · 5 years

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Endless Summer Book 4 : Daughter of Vaanu (Chapter 46)

Description: The captive Catalysts struggle to keep it together. Tahira fights a battle of her own. Meanwhile, Zahra receives a break in the case.

Tagging: @endlesshero1122 @mysteli @xo-endlessmayhem-xo @feartheendlesssummer @whatmcsaid @tigerbryn11

Jake

I don't know exactly what to expect after I feel the wheels touch down and the plane slows to a halt. I guess I'm not surprised when the armored goons who stomp into the bathroom gag us and shove our heads into dark flannel pillowcases before dragging us upright. Makes sense that they don't want us to know where we are—or call out to anyone who might be passing. But that doesn't mean I'm not keeping alert. The landing was rough. Rougher than I would have expected on a sky-worthy private jet. The angle we landed at was steeper than expected, too.

The staircase getting us down is narrow. So narrow that my armored escorts have to move into file ahead and behind me, and I can feel the handrails on either side if I just lean one way or the other a couple inches. The goon ahead of me must be taking the steps backward, because there's something sharp pressed to the soft flesh just under my sternum, just hard enough for me to feel its point. There's also what's unmistakeably the barrel of a pistol at the nape of my neck. They don't say anything. They don't have to. The warning is clear: don't try any shit.

After the bottom step, I set my food down on a surface that doesn't feel like tarmac or asphalt. It's soft. Dirt. Or grass. Explains the steep-angled landing—and it tells me that the plane transporting us has to be smaller than I was originally imagining. The air on my exposed skin is warm. Humid. Unfortunately, I can't notice any distinct smell to it. There's not much penetrating whatever fruit-scented detergent this pillowcase was washed in before my head was jammed into it. ...Which is either coincidence, and whatever pillowcases they grabbed before starting just happened to come straight from the wash...or there's actually a distinctive smell to this place that they're purposely hiding.

Wherever the plane landed, it isn't far from where they plan to hold us. It's only about ten minutes of being shoved along before I hear a door creak and the heat and humidity is replaced by the sudden icy chill of air conditioning turned on full-blast. I lose track of myself for a moment, but before long, I'm shoved hard from behind. My knees buckle under the assault and connect sharply with a cold concrete floor.

I'm almost surprised when I hear a key click, and the cuffs fall from my wrists. I immediately yank the pillowcase off my head and go for the gag at my mouth, but by the time I've gotten both off and oriented myself, I realize that Sean, Michelle, and I have been locked inside what appears to be an industrial tool cage in a warehouse somewhere, lit by a single lightbulb directly above us—and the goons who dragged us in here are all on the other side of the bars. They don't seem to be leaving immediately, so I stand and turn slowly to face them, glaring.

“Where is your boss?” I growl. “I have a couple questions for him.”

“Yeah, Wolf. Kinda figured you would.” Lundgren's voice hits me like a fist in my gut. He appears first as the cherry-red tip of his cigar gleaming in the dim light beyond the cage before emerging where I can see him. He pulls the cigar from between his teeth and blows a pungent cloud in my direction. I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to cough.

“Where are Mike and my wife, you piece of shit?”

“Darwin's around. Behave yourself, and maybe I'll let him say goodbye before I beat your brains out.”

“What the fuck is this, Lundgren?”

“What the fuck do you think it is? It's revenge. Everything you boys did to me, you think I haven't been dreaming of this moment for the last five years?”

“You got what you deserved, you rat bastard!” I snarl.

“And you'll get yours soon enough, Wolf. I can guarantee that.”

I step up to the barrier between us, the fence of thick wire. I grip at the links, locking eyes with Lundgren.

“I know you aren't in this alone, Lundgren. You died and left a body behind same as Rourke, but that wasn't you. That wasn't the you that's here right now. You're not nearly smart enough to pull that stunt on your own. I know Jeanine was the one who took my wife. So I gotta figure you're both back in Rourke's pocket.” I lean forward slightly, my voice low. “Where is she, Lundgren? Where is my wife?”

“Ahh, right. Alodia. Cute little blonde cunt. Pretty face hides a goddamn superweapon living in a devious bitch. Rourke's beautiful 'mystery,' the key to everything. I'm impressed you managed to knock her up. She looks human enough, but I wouldn't have been surprised to find her kind had crystal teeth down there.” He takes a long drag on his cigar and exhales luxuriously before grinning at me. “Don't worry, Wolf. You'll see her again. I want you to have a front row seat when Rourke cuts the brat out of her. ...I want to watch you watch her die.”

The rage that surges through me is white-hot and blinding, and it swallows my conscious self. I can hear myself screaming, an animalistic howl as I rattle the bars with all my strength, beating the sides of my fists against the metal frame of the locked door. I throw my whole weight into the door again and again until something drags me off, holds me back, pins my arms to my side.

“Easy!” Sean hisses in my ear, holding me firmly. “You're gonna hurt yourself more than him like that!”

I slowly settle, my breath quivering. He's right. As my rage cools to a controlled simmer, I can feel the throbbing at various points where I connected with a metal support pole or the door frame. When he's satisfied that I'm in control, Sean releases me, though he keeps his hands steadyingly on my shoulders. I raise my head to find Lundgren grinning like a kid who's found the cookie jar.

“Thing is...you and Mouse are the only ones Rourke promised me. He might have plans for the lovebirds in there, but I doubt they're gonna be anything but leverage to keep your baby mama in line. And he might not need 'em at all. Maybe I should check. ...Maybe he'll let me kill 'em in front of you as a warm up.”

“You put us in a room together, asshat,” I snarl. “That means you'll have to fight me to get to my friends.”

He shrugs. “That sounds like it could be fun.” Without another word, he turns and marches out of the room, leaving four armored goons standing guard with rifles ready.

There are tears coming to my eyes. I scrub at them furiously with my forearm as I pull away from Sean and look around desperately for something to kick or punch in this room. The only thing here is a metal bucket. Probably our piss bucket, but it's empty at the moment, so I kick it viciously into the wire wall, making the cage rattle. Then I sink to my knees.

“...Rourke isn't going to kill Alodia,” Michelle says softly.

“Damn straight, he's not!” I growl through my tears. “I won't let him. I'll find a way to get to her. I'll protect her.”

“Of course. But I actually meant that I don't think killing her is in his plans.”

“You don't?” Sean asks.

“Think about it. Sure, Lundgren's out for revenge, but from everything we know, isn't it more likely that Rourke's going to try to restart Project Janus? We don't know exactly what kind of power Alodia has in her current incarnation, but I find it hard to believe he's just going to kill her when she's probably more useful to him alive.”

“That doesn't exactly make it all better,” I mutter. “Alive is better than dead, but it doesn't mean she's not suffering right now. And River...and Mike...”

Sean kneels to put a hand on my shoulder. “...Jake's right, Michelle. We gotta find a way out of here, ASAP.”

Bernadette McKenzie

The local time is about 5:30am when the plane from Louisiana touches down in California. The flight is virtually empty. Frank and I meet our daughter at the baggage carousel with fierce hugs, collect our meager luggage, and pile into her car to make the trip to Laguna Beach.

“How was the flight?” Rebecca asks.

“Smooth,” I reply softly. “No troubles.”

“What's the latest news on your brother?” Frank asks.

“They've got various coast guard ships scouring the Caribbean for the yacht he took off on. Apparently, he made it to La Huerta and he and his friends set sail from there okay, but then the signal got lost about an hour north of there.”

“...What about Alodia and her friend?”

“...Everyone's looking into ambulances that have been reported missing in California in recent weeks. There are a couple promising VINs, but there's always a possibility that the license plates were switched.” Rebecca shakes her head. “...I think we're dealing with pros here, Mom. ...No one really looks at an ambulance speeding by with its lights on. No one wants to delay them in case there's a real medical emergency they're dealing with. Procuring one wouldn't have been easy, but once they had one, it was the perfect way to transport captives.”

“I don't understand,” Frank murmurs. “I don't understand why. Why Jake? Why his partner? Why their friends? And why all at once like this? Did they really think none of them would be missed? Or are they trying to send some kind of message?”

“I don't think the why matters, Frank,” I say softly. “...I just want my boy back. I want him back, and his partner, and our little granddaughter, and all their friends.”

“That's all I want, too,” Frank assures me. “...But I also want to know why.”

* * *

The house in Laguna Beach is unlike anything I've ever seen in person before. Under normal circumstances, I would be intimidated—even put off—by the obvious wealth put into such a place. But not today. Today, I don't see the house as containing folks with millions of dollars more than me. Today, I see it as the house containing scared parents—or legal guardians as the case may be, but the point stands. In this gleaming mansion are the frightened family of the woman my son loves—the people who raised the mother of my unborn granddaughter.

Rebecca lets us in. Apparently, they gave her a key, at least while she's staying here with them. The house is quiet, though there are faint sounds coming from a room near the back. We drop our bags in the front hall and Rebecca shows us where to hang our jackets before we make our way through the lower level of the house, following the sounds to a rec room. The light from a massive, wall-mounted television flickers across the floor as a news channel with a droning newscaster plays at a volume I would consider slightly too loud. A woman in a bathrobe lies motionless on the pristine French-style sofa, the screen reflecting in her sapphire-blue eyes. I know immediately who she is. She looks so very much like her niece.

“...Molly Fisher?” I venture, hoping I remembered her name correctly. She looks up at me with weary eyes. I think I can see her summoning the will to greet us. I hold up a hand. “...No need to get up. We're all in the same boat here. ...I'm Bernadette MacKenzie. This is my husband, Frank. ...We're Jake's parents.”

“...And grandparents to my niece's child,” Molly murmurs with a sigh. “...The only living grandparents that little girl has.”

“--Next up, an unusual and alarming string of suspected kidnappings involving a pregnant woman, a best-selling author, two former Navy pilots, an NFL quarterback, and his new wife.” The news segment captures everyone's attention as it starts up. “28-year-old Alodia Chandler of Laguna Beach, California; as well as her housemate and long-time friend Diego Soto, also 28, both went missing yesterday afternoon within hours of each other. Mr. Soto and Ms. Chandler—who is currently 36 weeks pregnant—intended to meet for lunch in Riverside, where they both grew up, and where Ms. Chandler is working as a dance teacher, but they never made it to their rendezvous. Around the same time, Ms. Chandler's partner, 33-year-old Jacob MacKenzie, as well as their three friends, Michael Darwin, aged 32; Sean Gayle, aged 28; and Michelle Nguyen Gayle, aged 28, were all reported missing in the vicinity of the Caribbean islands. Now, details are still emerging on all of these disappearances, but it does appear that Mr. Darwin and Mr. MacKenzie were escorting Mr. and Mrs. Gayle off the island of La Huerta, where they had spent part of their honeymoon. All six victims were part of the infamous Vacation Gone Wrong in 2017, involving La Huerta and the island's owner at the time, Everett Rourke Senior. Police have stated that the close connection between the victims does suggest a personal motive. They have also stated that the disappearances were almost certainly orchestrated by a large, and very organized group. They are asking for the public's help in locating the victims. Any information anyone can provide will be greatly appreci--”

“I hate the language they use,” Molly whispers. “'Suggest a personal motive'. As if it isn't obvious to anyone with half a damn brain.”

She slowly sits up, letting her slippered feet meet the floor. She makes a vague gesture towards the armchairs with one hand, nodding. No one needs a translation. Frank and I both sit down.

“...I'm glad you're letting us stay here while this is sorted out,” I tell her. “It's so much easier to have support at a time like this. People outside of yourselves who understand what you're going through. ...I wish we had known each other five years ago.”

Molly's lips quiver just a little before she draws them tightly together, but I can't help seeing the sparkle of tears in her eyes, even as she ducks her head.

“...I'm scared it will be like last time,” she confesses hoarsely. “...That everyone will come back except Alodia. Everyone will get their kids back except me. ...I never even wanted kids. But she was my little sister's baby. Cassie was gone so damn fast and I...I couldn't just...”

“...Of course you couldn't.”

Molly looks up at me. “...She was a good kid. High-spirited. Rob and I just weren't ready, no matter how much I wanted to keep that piece of my sister. I thought if we hired a nanny, I could have my cake and eat it, too. Keep Cassie's kid around without having to really parent her. In so many ways it worked. ...I never really had to answer the hard questions about who her parents were, because she mostly didn't ask them. I don't think she trusted me enough. I got to spoil and indulge her and dress her up like a little doll and feel proud of her accomplishments when I knew what they were...but she figured it all out. She's smart. She knew we weren't great parents. She knew we couldn't really handle her. She got to be a teenager...she got rebellious...by the time she went to college, it was like she was just a tenant in a boarding house who came to stay with us over summer, Christmas, and sometimes a week or two in the spring...”

“No one's teenage years are easy to parent through,” Frank says soothingly. Molly gives a short, bitter bark of laughter.

“But we didn't parent! That's my point! We punished when she broke our rules and ignored her when she wasn't making trouble. ...We lost her for five years, and we swore we'd do better with our second chance, but it's all been the same shit! We throw our money at her, buy her expensive gifts, but we don't know what's really going on! We've never asked her about how her pregnancy is going. We only know she's having a girl because Jake told Rob at work after they found out! We didn't think to ask. We've never thought to tell how proud she's made us or how much of a wonderful person we think she is or how much we lo-love her...!” She gulps and lets out a sob, covering her face with her hands. “...I'm sorry. I shouldn't be pouring my regrets out onto complete strangers who are guests here...”

“Oh, shah!” I can't help myself. I go over to the couch and sit down beside Molly, drawing her into my arms. “We're not strangers here. We're mothers. Mothers and fathers. Now, don't argue. You're that girl's mother, no matter who gave birth to her. Every mother has regrets. I'm not here to judge you for what you could have done better. I'm here because right now, we don't know where our kids are, and we're scared out of our heads.”

It takes a moment, but Molly melts into my embrace, winding her arms around me like a child with a teddy bear.

“I can't do this again!” she sobs piteously. “God, how can I do this again?!”

Alodia

The small portion of the sky that I can see from the bed is still dusky when I'm wrenched from my sleep by a loud noise. Vague images from my dreams—a plastic doll swaddled in my arms, a brightly lit stage wooden stage, the darkness beyond the polished lip, and the dark, narrow staircase that impeded my path up to the stage where I was supposed to be dancing--linger in a cloud on top of my brain, the fog pierced by footsteps, and finally by hands that yank the blankets back and drag me upright by my arms. My baby twists in my womb, no doubt agitated about being suddenly jostled. When Diego yelps, I finally come fully awake.

Arachnid goons have us both by the arms, and we're being dragged to opposite sides of the room while Fiddler stands in the center of the bare wooden floor, looking between us with a smug, predatory smile.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I manage to croak.

“I intend to make sure you remember who is in charge here, my little blonde brat. Don't think no one noticed that you puked on one of my friends last night.”

“I was motion-sick,” I protest. Even as I do, I realize that she probably doesn't really care. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that what's happening right now is a power play, nothing more or less. The problem is that I have a sinking feeling that I know how she plans to assert her authority. “It wasn't something I did on purpose.”

“You're probably telling the truth,” she concedes. “But, it was still nasty and smelly. And in the event that you're lying and you did do it on purpose...”

Before I can react, she whips around and drives her closed fist into Diego's gut. His knees buckle as he doubles over in pain, coughing. The Arachnid goons hold him upright as I struggle against my own captors, crying out angrily. Fiddler crosses the room and grabs my chin, pressing the walls of my cheeks into my teeth.

“That's me going easy on you,” she hisses, bringing her face close to mine. “If you don't do everything I tell you to do, I'll go harder. Understand?”

I can't really talk with her fingers squeezing my face, but I nod as much as I can. This seems to satisfy her, because she releases my jaw.

“Good girl. Now, you and me are gonna go downstairs. You try fighting me on it, I'll give your buddy a beating he won't forget.”

I'm not going to fight her. I don't have it in me to test her right now. The Arachnid soldiers holding Diego let go of him and he sinks to his knees, clearly trying to swallow a grimace as he looks up to meet my eyes. I can't think of anything reassuring to say. My vision blurs with tears as I turn and move dazedly toward the door.

I'm quiet on the stairs, concentrating on taking each step without falling. I'm not blindfolded this time, but late pregnancy has me prone to weakness and dizzy spells, even without the added stress of being goddamn kidnapped by someone I watched die five years ago.

The downstairs of this cottage or cabin or whatever is just as sparse as the room at the top of the stairs. The curtains over all the windows are heavy and drawn, no doubt to keep us from seeing out—and possibly to keep anyone else from looking in. But what I find myself really fixating on is how clean everything is. Like someone swept and scrubbed in anticipation of our arrival. That feeling is only compounded when it turns out that Fiddler is leading me into a rustic but pristine bathroom where hot, clear water is flowing out of a polished tap and crashing into a clawfoot tub. Steam rises off the surface of the water, nearly halfway up the tub. A washcloth and towel hang on the bar beside the vanity. A pair of gray sweatpants and sweatshirt sit neatly folded on the closed lid of the toilet, along with a pair of cotton panties and plain white socks.

I can't stop a faint, “What the fuck...?” from passing my lips. Fiddler snorts.

“Are you blind? It's a bath, blodie. A healthy fucking bath, heated to 98 degress.” She goes to turn off the tap. “And a change of clothes. I told you my employer wants you and your parasite healthy.”

“...You can say 'Rourke',” I mutter. “We all know who's greasing your palm. ...Am I going to be permitted some privacy?”

Fiddler snorts. “And risk you trying something stupid? I don't think so.”

I roll my eyes. “What exactly do you expect me to do? Climb out the window with this belly? You think I'm just going to abandon Diego?”

She shrugs, but she doesn't move, nor does she attempt to argue her point. She doesn't have to. She's got the power here, and she knows it. I sigh and start to undress. I'm still wearing the sweat jacket and unitard that I left the studio in yesterday. I peel them off and fold everything neatly and deliberately before stepping carefully into the tub and lowering myself into the water.

I can't deny that the water feels amazing. But the fact that it feels good only serves to upset me more when I remember that I'm a prisoner here. I find the soap in a dish beside the tub and start to scrub resentfully.

“...This isn't going to end how you want it to end,” I inform her flatly.

“Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better,” she replies, which I might have expected.

“My baby will not be born in captivity. ...This isn't La Huerta, Fiddler. This isn't Rourke's territory. We're not isolated on an island while the rest of the world is burning.” I turn a sidelong gaze on her. “And my husband is still out there. Do you really think he's going to rest before I'm home safe?”

The slow way she smiles makes my blood freeze. When she speaks, her voice is a purr. “Oh, I was so hoping you would bring him up. I absolutely wanted you to find out this way.”

My heart drops like a stone, splashing into something icy in my stomach. “...Wh-what are you talking about...?” I ask, my voice thin and breathless.

“Rex Lundgren's got Wolf now. Oh, don't panic. I can pretty well guarantee he's not dead yet. No, it's too soon. And I'm pretty sure he and Rourke want to make sure you see it when he does die. But he probably isn't having a whole lot of fun right now.”

The soap slips from my numb hands as I grip the edges of the bathtub, struggling to breathe. I stare into the rippling water between my bended knees. On the edges of my vision, my submerged thighs are a strange shade of gray, starkly contrasting the pink kneecaps that peak up above the surface like islands. My panicked thoughts chase each other through the storm in my head, tackling, wrestling each other for dominance.

Jake...oh, god, Jake...He isn't dead! He can't be dead. Even Fiddler says he isn't dead...Yet'! Not dead 'yet'!...And he might be suffering...he might be in pain...

“...Why...?” I whisper. Fiddler rolls her eyes.

“Jesus, do you really have to ask?” she sneers. “You said it yourself. He'd only be getting in our way if we left him to his own devices.”

I glare at her, feeling my expression twist into something ugly with sorrow and anger. “Why do you hate him so much?” I snarl. “Did he dump you or something?”

Fiddler raises an eyebrow. “Now why would you assume that?” she sounds irritated.

Her question actually catches me off guard, but only for an instant. Just enough that I can get the tears under control. I fish the soap from the water and rub it between my palms. “Your hatred is clearly more than professional. It's personal. You were glad to turn him and Mike in all those years ago.”

“I was thrilled,” she agrees. “But why do you assume it's because we were lovers? Because I'm a woman, any hatred I have for a man has to be because he scorned me?”

That actually gives me pause for a moment. “...I just can't imagine Jake doing anything else that could possibly explain why you hate him so much.”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “You're his perfect 'princess', and he's your dashing goddamn rogue hero. You're a fucking fairy tale, and neither of you will ever be anything except perfect in the other's eyes. I could tell you why I hate him, but it won't make sense to you because he'll always be a paragon to you!”

“...So what did he do to you?”

“He showed me up!” She practically spits the words. “Five years I had been fighting and clawing my way into the elite ranks, and then suddenly this scrawny kid from the fucking swamp just comes in and is immediately the best pilot in the whole goddamn Navy?! Everything I worked for was just snatched away and handed to someone else?!”

“...That's the way life goes sometimes,” I reply softly. “There's always someone better, Fiddler.”

“Yeah, well. Sometimes you get the chance to tip the scales back in your favor. You know the only reason I don't just kill you right now is I'm sure whatever Rourke is planning for you is worse. And whatever it is, I hope Wolf lives long enough to see it.”

* * *

When my bath is finished and I'm dressed in the unflattering gray sweatsuit provided to me, I'm hustled back to the attic room. Diego isn't there when I get back, and I almost panic. But within a few minutes, he reappears with damp hair and wearing the same plain gray sweatsuit that I am. He smiles mirthlessly when he sees me.

“...Guess this is the uniform for prisoners here. Gray is the new black, anyone? ...Doesn't really have the same ring to it as 'orange,' but it also goes with more...”

I don't answer. I'm crying again, and all I can do is run to him and throw my arms around him. I press my face into his shoulder as he winds his arms around me.

“I'm sorry...” I whimper. “I'm so sorry...”

“Oh, Allie...this isn't your fault. None of it is your fault.”

I pull back to look at him. “Are you okay? It looked like she got you pretty bad before.”

He winces a little. “Well, I won't say it didn't hurt. But I'm undamaged. I'll be okay.” He puts an arm over my shoulders, leading me over to the bed. “C'mere. Come sit down.”

I go where he leads me, sinking down onto the bed. I scrub at my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, sniffling.

“...Do you remember back on the island, when we found the game room in The Celestial?”

“You mean when we still thought the Vaanti were trying to kill us?” he says wryly.

“Yeah. And we found the dossier with my name on it?”

“Right. The one with like, zero information on it, except your birthday and your birthplace.”

“...I didn't understand it. At that point, I still had this whole timeline in my head. The one where you and I grew up together. The one we're living now. I couldn't understand why I was the one with the highest threat rating, the one no one could figure out. I thought I was simple. Nothing special. And if I didn't know what I am now, I still wouldn't understand.”

“...What do you mean?”

“...The people I love most in the world are all smart and successful. Geniuses, athletes, revolutionaries. You write books that make the best-sellers list. My husband was an ace pilot in his day. Raj is a world-famous chef. Michelle is a doctor. Quinn is changing lives. ...I'm a dance teacher who didn't even finish college. To the casual observer, I don't really seem to fit in with the rest of the family.”

“...But you know none of us would be where we are without you, don't you?”

I know. Of course I know. It's the whole reason I was born, and it's the cause of all the existential angst I've been experiencing for the last ten months. But I'm not up for rehashing all my insecurities right now. Not even to Diego. In any case, my mind is only leaping to them in an attempt to distract me from much more pressing fears. ...It isn't working. I look up at Diego.

“...Lundgren is alive, Diego. He has Jake.”

Diego's expression crumbles as the color drains from his face. “...Oh, god...Oh, Allie...” He pulls me into his arms and holds me hard against himself, rocking me just a little forcefully. I didn't think I had tears left, but here I am, soaking Diego's gray sweatshirt with them. His hand trembles at it strokes my hair.

“...Fiddler says he's probably alive. ...But just because Lundgren wants him to suffer.”

I feel his grip on me tighten. “...We're getting out of here. I don't know how yet, but we're getting out. Either we get ourselves out, or someone will come for us. All I know for sure is that we have the best family anyone could ask for, and they have never let us down.”

In spite of myself, I feel the weakest smile tug at my lips. “...Aren't the inspirational speeches my thing?” I mumble.

“Yeah, usually. But it kinda seemed like I needed to step up here.”

A sound escapes me that might be a mix of a cough, a whimper, and a half-hearted laugh. I feel like I'm back on the mountain pass leading to the La Huerta Observatory, helplessly dangling miles above the rainforest with the rope knotted around my waist and a failing grip above me as the only things keeping me from plunging into the arms of the open air and oblivion. I grip Diego more tightly.

“...Stay with me, Diego. Whatever happens, just promise me you won't let me be alone.”

“...I promise, Allie.”

I don't know if it's a promise he'll be able to keep. But I appreciate him making it.

Kenji

I get to the hospital early the morning after the attack. I didn't sleep very much, but I don't feel tired. I'm anxious and agitated and a single cup of black coffee doesn't really help matters. I have to stuff my hands in my pockets to hide how much they're shaking.

Eva is waiting in the hall outside Tahira's room when I arrive. Seeing me approach, she pushes herself off the wall she was leaning on and comes to meet me. Her expression is one of grim determination that makes my heart twist painfully. That's not a good news expression.

“...How is she?”

“Stable. But still unconscious.”

“Is that normal?”

“For anyone else? I don't know. Doctors are being kinda vague about that. All I know is that it's not normal for her.”

“What are the doctors saying?”

“Very little, according to Rochelle and Grayson. Just that the damage wasn't as bad as it could have been and her vitals are strong.”

I sigh, and pull my hands out of my pockets without thinking to rub them over my face. When I pull them down again, Eva is frowning at me.

“You okay?” she asks. “You're...kinda shaking like a leaf.”

I shake my head, stuffing my hands back into my pockets. “It's fine. Coffee jitters. Plus I didn't really sleep last night.”

“Yeah, me neither,” she admits. After a moment, she reaches out to put a comradely hand on my shoulder. “...She's gotta be okay. They can't just...they can't just take her down...”

“No,” I agree, my voice grim. “They can't.”

I feel the tingling on my fingertips a moment before it registers that my phone is going off in my pocket. I groan, pulling it out to glance at the screen. I don't recognize the number, and I tap to ignore, stuffing my phone back in my pocket.

“Who's calling?” Eva asks.

“No one I know, and no one I care to talk to.” I lean back against the wall. “...So, can we see Tahira?”

“Yeah, I think so. I was in there for awhile before you got h--” She cuts herself off when my phone starts to buzz again. I groan, pulling it out of my pocket to read the screen.

“Same number.”

“You should answer.”

“Probably some over-enthusiastic telemarketer,” I grunt, tapping ignore again.

“...You sure about that?” Almost before she's finished her sentence, the buzzing starts again. I swear under my breath and finally raise the phone to my ear.

“Hello, who is this?” I snap.

“Katsaros,” a familiar voice grumbles back. “About time you answered, you shiny bastard.”

“...Caleb?! What the fuck?! Where the hell are you?!”

“Never mind that.”

“How did you even get this number? Did Tahira give it to you?”

“No. Never mind how I got it. ...How is Tahira?”

“Stable,” I answer flatly. After a brief hesitation, I add. “But...still unconscious.”

“...I gotta tell you something. Something she said when she was in my van. It didn't register at the time, but it might be important. ...She said, 'I think there was something on the knife'.”

“...What does that mean?”

“The fuck do I know?! Maybe it means she was poisoned somehow!”

I feel the blood rush out of my head. It makes sense. Too much sense. “...Shit...” I whisper, my voice weak and hoarse. “...If you're right...”

“...Look, I'm gonna do what I can to track down her attacker. Or at least the weapon. If I can get that back to your brainiacs, maybe they can do something with it.”

I don't mention that the only medical doctor we could actually trust with the secret side of Tahira's biology has been kidnapped from her honeymoon. I guess Dax's biologist friend at Prescott Industries could be trusted with a sample of Tahira's blood...but that would mean acquiring it...

“Caleb, be careful,” I murmur, lowering my voice. “The...person that attacked her...they aren't human.”

“Aww, you worried about me, Katsaros?”

“Fuck you!” I snarl. “I don't give a shit about you! I just care about getting hold of whoever hurt Tahira!”

“Okay, okay. Calm your tits. Seriously, relax. Remember I can conjure fire. ...But you mind telling me what this thing is, if it ain't human?”

“They're...like a hyper-evolved human. Superior strength, speed, and super senses.”

“...So it's like us.”

I sigh. “...Superficially, yes. ...You get your hands on them, or on the weapon, I'll explain in more detail.”

“...You saying that'll make you trust me?”

“I'm saying that if you help us save Tahira, it will be a huge step in the right direction.”

Tahira

I'm not conscious. I'm sure that I'm not conscious. The last thing I remember was the bright florescent light in the operating room and a face in a surgical mask hovering over me. I was cold. But the right side of my torso felt like it was on fire. Neither of those two sensations have altered, even as I open my eyes to a familiar fuschia sky. I roll my head carefully from one side to the other. The world takes a moment to catch up and slide into focus, almost like I'm drunk. But I see what I was expecting. Crystals. Giant crystals sprouting from the landscape. I'm back in the crystal dimension. The planet where I was born.

I roll carefully onto my uninjured side. The pain remains suspiciously steady. The motion doesn't cause it to flare. There's no tugging sensation to warn me that I might be about to tear whatever stitches they put in me. I sit up slowly and lift my shirt to examine the wound. But there is no wound. Just a red glow, as if there's a flashlight lodged in my torso. It burns. But the rest of me is cold. But I'm not shivering. I press a hand to my chest, and feel the steady throb of my heart under my palm. I raise my hand to hover under my nose and deliberately push out a hard breath. The rush of air tickles my skin. I'm breathing. My heart is beating. I hurt. I don't think I'm dead.

Tahira...!

The voice fills my head and spills out into the air around me. I look up sharply to see a shimmering figure floating among the crystals. I squint. Only three beings I would expect to appear to me this way. Its shape is vaguely masculine, which narrows it down to two.

“...Dad?” I venture to guess. But immediately I realize that isn't right. “No...Vaanu. Uncle. What's happening? What am I doing here?”

Wake up, Tahira. There is desperation in the voice in my head. You must wake up. I cannot reach my daughter.

“Alodia? What's wrong? Is she in trouble?”

Your enemies are moving against you. I cannot reach her. You must wake up.

“Of course. Right away...” But even as I say it, I am aware that I can't. “...Wait...I don't think it's gonna be that simple...”

Wake up, Tahira.

“I swear I'm trying! ...I think they poisoned me, Uncle. I felt so strange before I slipped off. Like I could feel a fog filling my head...” It had all come on too fast, I remember thinking. With my enhanced strength, I shouldn't have collapsed so quickly. I shouldn't have gone into shock. I should have been able to hold out longer.“...Am I dying?”

Though the thought does bring on a twinge of anxiety, I'm not nearly as scared as I probably should be. Still, Vaanu's next words are comforting.

You will not die. But you must fight.

“Right. Fight. ...Um...how?”

...Wake up, Tahira! WAKE UP!...

I grit my teeth as I struggle to my feet. The pain doesn't change with the motion of my body, but it still hurts enough to be hindering. Still, Vaanu has told me what I need to know. I'm alive. But I'm trapped. Trapped in my mind. And I am not going to escape lying in the dirt. I gather my strength and take a step. My bare foot sinks into soft purple dust. It supports my weight, and I raise my other foot to place it in front, leaving behind a neat impression in the dust behind. That's the hardest part over. I don't know where I'm going, but I've taken the first step. I'm coming, Alodia. Wherever you are, I'm coming.

Zahra

I spent the night on the floor of the office. Iris has been plugged into our systems since the news broke. Her hologram has mostly stayed off, but the lights flickering on the surface of her drone assure me she's staying vigilant. Craig came by sometime after midnight to bring me food and coffee—and an extra-large sleeping bag and pillow for us to share. I didn't get a lot of sleep, but that's par for the course. And it was nice to have Craig spooning me all night, feeling his breath against my neck. I catch a little sleep around four in the morning, waking up a couple hours later to find him gone, the heat fading from his spot in the sleeping bag. I check my phone and find a text alert:

P2: Gone to get breakfast! BBS! <3

I smirk, tapping out a reply: Better b donuts

P2: So many donuts!!! I R best bf evar!

An email alert scrolls down at the top of my phone screen. At the same time, Iris' drone chimes, her hologram flickering to life.

“Zahra, an email message has come through, marked high priority.”

“Thanks, Iris. I got it.” I double-tap the alert with my thumb and my email opens. I don't recognize the address—a string of apparently random numbers and letters—and there's an attachment. I would brush it off as a phishing scam or a virus attack, except for the message that accompanies it:

To find Cassandra Sullivan's daughter, consult her first baby. Everett Rourke was never above buying what was useful to him, no matter how ill-gotten.

“...Cassandra Sullivan. That was Alodia's mom's maiden name,” I murmur aloud.

“What about Alodia's mom?” I turn to see Craig pushing through the door, balancing a box of donuts in one hand and a dangerously sagging cardboard tray of two coffee cups in the other. I leap up to grab the tray of cups before our precious caffeine fix ends up all over the carpet.

“Jesus, Craig! Put the cups kitty-corner when there's two of them! It's too heavy when you put them both on one edge!”

“Sorry. So, what about Alodia's mom?” I show him the email pulled up on my phone. He frowns. “...What does that mean? And who sent it?”

“No idea. Iris, can you trace the IP address?”

Iris' holographic eyes flicker for a moment. “Email was sent from an internet café in Barcelona, Spain.”

“Internet café?” Craig repeats. “Those still exist?”

“...'ProjectGalatea'...”

“Huh?”

“That's what the attachment is called. ...How's our antivirus software, Iris?”

I swear Iris's smile looks smug. “Useless compared to me, Zahra. That is why you always take me with you when you go hacking.”

“Touché. Well, I'll let you take care of opening that attachment, then.”

“Of course, Zahra. I...oh, dear...” She trails off, frowning.

“What? What's wrong?”

“Observe the screen, Zahra. I believe there is something you ought to be aware of.”

I move to sit in front of the computer, where Iris has displayed a readout of security data. It takes a few times going over it to realize what I'm looking at. When it finally sinks in, I feel the blood drain out of my head. My hands start to shake on the desk in front of me.

“...Shit...oh, shit...how...?!”

“Z? What is it? What's wrong?” Craig comes to grip my shoulders. “Hey, P1, take a couple breaths.”

“...Security breaches on the island. Three of them. They weren't there when I originally went through the data logs. Iris, are these time stamps accurate?”

“I am afraid so, Zahra. These files came from the back-up archives. I was only just alerted to the discrepancy. I don't know why I didn't catch it sooner.”

“I think I know why,” I reply grimly. “Whoever is responsible, they had access to the latest codes or they would have tripped the alarm. And they were able to delete the records from the primary logs, so they have access to the security system. ...The first breech is about an hour after we lost contact with Jake, Sean, and Michelle.” I feel Craig's grip tighten at the mention of Sean.

“So...what's that mean?”

“...We won't know for sure until we look. But I have a hunch that those three at least are still on the island.”

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awake-not-today · 5 years

Text

NamKook The Gifted Hands / Psychometry AU:

Detective Kim Namjoon is investigating the case of a child disappearance. When the child's body is found, Namjoon finds himself trailing a murderer.

During his investigation he remembers a run in he'd had with a graffiti artist one night, and the artwork he'd done depicting the scene in which the child's body was found.

The graffiti which had been painted a month before the discovery of the child's body.

Jeon Jungkook is a small time graffiti artist with a secret, the power to see the memories of any living thing he touches. He hides himself away from the world, ashamed of who he is, that is until he's thrown head first into a murder investigation and becomes the prime suspect.

Part 8 / ?

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Min Yoongi was not an easy man to find.

Taehyung had gone straight to the office, checking the records for anyone with that name. He'd come up empty. And so the search began to trace the phone number, a long and tedious process, but Taehyung had time. And he had determination. He believed in Namjoon, and he believed that Namjoon should be the one to solve the case. Being a junior detective he thankfully wasn’t given many cases of his own, and he hadn’t been assigned to any teams. He could help Namjoon with tracking down the killer, and with hiding what he was doing.

Meanwhile Namjoon had been holed up in the food van with Jungkook and Hobi, rolling his eyes and getting annoyed at the way Hoseok would try to sneakily feed the Jungkook. He couldn’t be too mad, of course. That was just Hoseok’s good nature, but he would still swat at Hoseok from across the seats every time the man snuck Jungkook another fishcake.

Jungkook remained silent, accepting the food gratefully but refusing to answer any questions. He was tired, overwhelmed. The presence of another person being all too much, let alone being sandwiched between two of them. His wrists were beginning to hurt from the cuffs, the metal rubbing irritatingly against the bones of his slender wrists. He just wanted to go home, no, go back in time. Back to before he'd seen the memory, before he'd painted the damn picture. Maybe an anonymous tip off would have been a better idea after all.

Night slowly turned into day, and Jungkook had begun to doze in his seat. Namjoon had fallen asleep against the window, and Hoseok was curled into Jungkook's side. Jungkook had briefly considered trying to make a break for it when the men had succumbed to exhaustion, but he was feeling far too weak to even try and allowed himself to drift off between them. All three of them startled awake when Namjoon's phone rang in his pocket, making Namjoon headbutt the window with a groan.

“Ah, fuck.” He pulled out his phone and slid his thumb across the screen, rubbing his eyes to try to make them focus again. “Hello?”

“Namjoon hyung? I found him.” Taehyung sounded as exhausted as Namjoon felt, making the elder feel a pang of guilt for dragging Taehyung into it. “Do you want me to send over his address?”

“Please.” Namjoon sat up straighter, tilting his head from side to side and biting back a groan at the satisfying crack of his joints. Hoseok looked at him hopefully, Jungkook stared straight ahead. “We’ll head over there now.”

The second he received the location, Namjoon started the van. He felt giddy almost, thrilled. He was another step closer to finding the bastard, and to solving the case that had been taken away from him, but more importantly he was a step closer to finding justice for the girl's mother. Jungkook paled, realization hitting him as they got closer and closer to Yoongi's location. He didn’t want to see him, he didn’t want to hurt Yoongi again.

The apartment building he resided in was across town, nice but not too fancy. A vast improvement on what Jungkook called a home. Namjoon leaned forward in his seat, eyeing it up as he considered his next move. With Taehyung being back at the precinct he was really only left with two options, take Jungkook with him or leave him with Hoseok. Namjoon looked at them considering, biting his lower lip, when Jungkook's eyes widened and he let out a tiny gasp. Namjoon turned to follow his line of sight, seeing a small man throwing some trash into a dumpster beside the building. Jungkook ducked his head low and Namjoon made his decision.

“Hoseok, do not let him out of your sight. If he tries anything, you call me.”

Getting out of the van, Namjoon started toward the stairs where the man had started to ascend, upping his pace to keep up. The man seemed to notice him and walked a little quicker, and so Namjoon did the same. And then the man bolted, taking the stairs two at a time as he glanced back at Namjoon. Namjoon was hot on his heels however and caught him on a landing between floors, pinning him to the wall. The man squeaked, attempting to wrestle from Namjoon's grip but failing miserably.

“Min Yoongi, I presume?” The man stopped moving and huffed, using a leg to push back of the wall, making Namjoon stumble back too. He turned, glaring at Namjoon suspiciously.

“No, but I am his fiancé.” Namjoon blinked, the man rolled his eyes and rubbed his arm where it had twisted in Namjoon’s grip. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Detective Kim Namjoon.” Namjoon fumbled quickly for his badge, handing it to the man to look over. The man sighed.

“You'd better come in then. I'll call Yoongi.” The man turned away to head to another floor before stopping, turning back to look at Namjoon again. “I’m Jimin, not that you asked. Park Jimin.”

The apartment itself was cosy, homely. Unsuspecting. Jimin handed Namjoon a cup of coffee, curling up in an armchair as he eyed the detective warily. Namjoon took a sip, humming in satisfaction as he swallowed it down. He needed it, the night had been far too long. Jimin had called Yoongi on the way to the apartment, letting him know he needed to head back as soon as possible. The silence that fell between Namjoon and Jimin was awkward, making Namjoon cough.

“So uh, why did you run?” Jimin huffed out a laugh, tucking his legs under himself a little more.

“No offence, detective, but I went to put out the trash and suddenly there was a fucking giant chasing me.” Namjoon chuckled himself at that, understanding. Jimin was quite small in stature.

“Tell me about Yoongi.”

“What do you want to know?” Jimin placed his mug down, straightening up in his seat. Namjoon didn’t answer immediately, and so Jimin answered anyway. “He’s wonderful. He teaches music at the local elementary school, I teach art.”

“Is that how you met?” Jimin shook his head, his smile fond.

“We met in high school. I guess you would call us sweethearts.” Jimin was cut off by the sound of the apartment door opening, making him get up to go and grab Yoongi. They spoke, voices hushed, for a moment before Jimin reappeared with a man the same height as him in tow. Namjoon stood, holding out a hand as Yoongi approached him.

“I’m detective Kim Namjoon. I’m sorry to pull you from your job like this but would you mind answering a few questions?” Yoongi nodded, shaking his hand before sitting in the seat Jimin had previously occupied, pulling the latter to sit on his lap. Namjoon ignored that and sat back down on the sofa.

“What's this about?” Yoongi's voice was deeper than Jimin's, gruffer. He looked far more intimidating too, although Jimin was definitely the scarier of the two.

“I wanted to ask you about your relationship with a Mr Jeon Jungkook.” Yoongi say up straight then, Jimin almost falling off his lap. Jimin’s jaw literally dropped, mouth agape as he stared at Namjoon.

“Kookie? You know where he is?” Yoongi looked hopeful, and Namjoon was perplexed. His mind drifted back to the alley, the almost broken way Jungkook had whispered his plea for Namjoon to not bring Yoongi into it. He frowned, scratching just behind his ear.

“Well, not exactly. That’s what I'm here for.” Namjoon lied, assuming Yoongi hadn’t seen Jungkook on his way in. Yoongi slumped, looking every inch the defeated man.

“Oh.”

“When was the last time you heard from him?” Yoongi sighed, and Jimin pressed a soft kiss to his hair, comforting him. Yoongi truly looked upset.

“High school.” Yoongi's voice was lower, quieter. “After the accident he just called me and said he was going to America for a month. I haven’t seen him since.”

“We’ve been looking for him since then.” Jimin interjected, getting up and grabbing a file from the shelf in the corner. “After he went to the US nobody has seen or heard from him at all. He just disappeared.”

Jimin handed Namjoon the file, which turned out to be documents from a variety of private detectives, and a missing persons report that had been closed. Namjoon flipped through the pages, internally wincing at the bills he spotted in there among the different documents. Yoongi and Jimin had spent an obscene amount of money trying to find Jungkook.

“He doesn’t have anyone else. Since his mom-“ Yoongi paused, closing his eyes and tightening his grip on Jimin. Jimin relaxed into it, running his fingers through Yoongi's hair. “He doesn’t have any family and we were all he had. I just want to know he's safe. We both do. We just want him home with us where he belongs.”

"Can you tell me about the accident?" It had been mentioned twice now, and Namjoon was curious. Jimin and Yoongi shared a look, and Jimin took a breath.

"Jungkook was arguing with his mother about something and she stepped back into the road." Jimin closed his eyes, as if reliving the memory. When he reopened them they were glassy, wet. "She didn't see the truck coming. He tried to stop it, stop her, but it was too late. She was gone instantly. She was the last family he had. Well, besides us. That's why we want to find him."

It took everything Namjoon had not to run out of the door and grab Jungkook, to bring him inside to reunite with the two boys in front of him. But Jungkook had disappeared for a reason, and he obviously had no intention of being found. Namjoon closed the file, handing it back to Jimin as he sipped at the now sufficiently cooler coffee. Yoongi wasn’t the killer, he was sure of that. And neither was Jimin. He was back to square one.

Hoseok fidgeted in the van, watching the building carefully for any signs that Namjoon was in distress. He turned to Jungkook, noticing the younger man had worried his bottom lip to the point it was bleeding, and quickly grabbed a napkin from behind him. He tried to reach out, Jungkook flinching away from him.

“Come on, kid.” Hoseok lowered his hand and looked at Jungkook, offering it over. Jungkook watched Hoseok, feeling awfully guilty for what he was about to do to a man who'd shown him nothing but kindness. As soon as Hoseok got his hand close enough, Jungkook grabbed him, wrapping his fingers around Hoseok’s palm.

Jungkook's head flew back for a second, a heavy breath leaving him as his eyes opened wide. Hoseok looked on in horror, watching the deep brown of Jungkook’s eyes turn to a bright blue, a dribble of blood coming from his nose. Jungkook smiled, eerie, as he looked Hoseok in the eye.

“A scam artist?” Jungkook’s voice was unsettlingly deep, his chest heaving as he spoke. “They let anyone play detective these days, don’t they?”

“W-what?” Hoseok attempted to pull his hands away but Jungkook's grip was tight, fingernails biting into the skin of his palm.

“You’ve conned a lot of people, haven’t you 'Hobi'? Not as good as you first seem.” Hoseok used everything in him to rip his hands away from Jungkook, watching the younger gasp and cough as his eyes changed back again. Hoseok tried to open the door, forgetting Namjoon had locked the van. Jungkook used the moment to grab Hoseok’s head and slam it against the car door, knocking him out cold. “I’m sorry, Mr Hoseok sir.”

Jungkook dragged Hoseok along the seat with him as he wriggled over to the driver’s side, winding the window down to clamber out. He reached back in, dragging Hoseok the last but along to slump him over the steering wheel, letting the horn blare as he made his escape. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Hoseok, but now that he had he didn’t want him to be alone for too long.

The sound of the horn outside made Namjoon jump, getting to his feet quickly and mumbling an apology as he raced out of the apartment and down the steps. He was out of breath when he reached the van, fumbling for the keys to unlock the door and shake Hoseok awake. Hoseok groaned, blinking rapidly as he tried to gather his bearings.

“Hoseok, what the fuck happened?” Namjoon tapped Hoseok's cheek lightly, getting his attention. ��Where’s Jungkook?”

“Jungkook?” Hoseok seemed confused for a split second until suddenly he was panicked, gripping the front of Namjoon's shirt with wide eyes. “Joon-ah, there's something not right with him.”

“Wha-“

“He knows things, Joon. And his eyes were blue and he was bleeding and-“ Hoseok took a breath, an absolutely fearful look in his eyes as he recalled what had happened. “Namjoon, he's not human. He's not right. He isn’t!”

“Shh.” Namjoon tried to calm his roommate, patting his hair softly as he pried the fingers from the front of his shirt. “It’s okay, Hobi. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get you home, alright?”

The fingers gripping his shirt relented and Hoseok shifted back along in his seat, face pale. He looked like he'd just seen a ghost. Namjoon shook his head, reaching out a hand to check Hoseok's temperature before starting up the van and heading back toward their apartment. Whatever had happened, he'd get he details later. It was useless when Hoseok was talking crazy like this.

It wasn't like he wouldn't find Jungkook again. He had nowhere else to go besides home.

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junieyes · 5 years

Text

paint me like one of them dead girls (1)

warning: i’m not really sure, but just in case, implications/mentions of potential suicide

----

It’s pouring rain outside, solid sheets hitting hard against the window.

You peek through the blinds, scanning the street and the distant outline of the city. It’s clear. The tension in your shoulders dissolves and you hold onto the relaxed feeling for as long as possible.

It’s been five days since the initial outbreak, and you’ve far surpassed your initial hysteria. Now the fear keeps you composed and alert, and you’ve successfully barricaded yourself indoors. After letting frantic stupidity have its run during the first two days, you’d started organising your stockpile.

Bandages and medicine, a collection of green and red herbs, canned and packaged food – all of it helpfully stolen borrowed from a few corner stores and little grocers you’d come across on the way to your current headquarters. They’re packed in a moderately sized duffle by the coffee table.

Feeling frazzled again because anything could be lurking under the cover of the rain, your paranoia resurging out of nowhere but with good reason, you run your fingers through your hair and pace agitatedly against the carpeted flooring of the small apartment you’ve found yourself in. The butcher’s knife secured to your belt scrapes against the fabric of your jeans with every step. It’s not your apartment – yours is probably on fire, full of zombies and dead bodies. You won’t be going back anytime soon.

Besides your college textbooks, there isn’t anything majorly important left behind that you hadn’t been carrying on you.

The watch your mother bought you is still strapped around your wrist and your favourite, large hooped earrings dangling from your lobes have yet to be ripped out by wandering hands. Other than that, you’ve only got the clothes on your back – and you’ve been wearing them for five days now. It must be magic that you haven’t started smelling musty just yet. Or maybe it’s completely masked itself by the scent of fear.

The only thing you can think of that would be immensely useful right now is the handheld radio that should be sitting on your nightstand. It’s probably broken by now, if not burnt up to a nice, plastic crisp. You’d give up an arm and a leg to hear a local news report. Every time you turn on the little TV propped on an end table in the corner of the room, all it does is replay the evacuation warning from the 24th.

It’s no use. They stopped evacuating as soon as they started, and the police can’t be trusted. They’d started shooting people in the line ups – it’s pure luck and good timing that you managed to evade the massacre, having been in the bathroom at the time. As soon as you were finished peeing you ran right out of there and to the other side of the city in search of a way out.

There isn’t one. Not from Racoon City or your nightmares. The roads are barricaded, contact with the outside world is completely cut off, the streets are littered with the walking dead, and anyone in a uniform or carrying a gun is someone to be wary of.

But you can’t stay here forever. They’ll find you eventually, and they’ll eat you. For real. Without killing you or seasoning you. They’ll eat you raw.

Stopping your pacing which had become more hurried as time passed, breath still coming quick but that isn’t unusual anymore, you peek through the blinds again.

The rain has stopped to a light drizzle, the night looking damp and dreary. You squint against the fuzziness of the window, trying to pinpoint the flickering lights beyond and the general area where you know the police station is. The massive clock is only barely visible, hidden by smoke and other buildings.

Days ago, they’d advised any remaining survivors to seek shelter at the RPD, but you’d refused. Despite telling your friends and several strangers what you’d seen, they took off anyway. You hope they’re not dead. Or worse. But if they are… you hope you don’t ever come across them.

But you’ve got no choice now. You can either sit here and wait until the government sends reinforcements in, probably killing everything and anything left within the city to quarantine it, meaning you’ll die – or, you can, again, try and find your own way out. Even if there’s no help at the station, they’ll have weapons. Guns. Something you can defend yourself with.

But to be honest, your dead either way. It’s just a matter of how you want to die.

You whimper unashamedly.

You really, really don’t want to leave this apartment.

And maybe you shouldn’t? Forget about reinforcements and secret government organisations. Put the conspiracy theories to rest. If you ignore your supplies and don’t eat, you’ll starve to death. If you go out, you’ll be eaten to death. The slower death inside sounds less painful than the one outside.

Yeah, you know what? this sounds like a better idea. Who’re you fooling? Of course you have a choice, and your choice is to stay in this tiny ass apartment until you die of natural causes. You nod your head vigorously to this line of thought, not caring how crazy you must look. Nobody’s alive left to see it.

You’re a coward, you are. You’d rather deal with the hunger pains and delusions, living your last several days lonely, depressed and paranoid.

And no shame about it too – dumb ideas worked the first two days. Not anymore.

Slapping your cheeks for being so stupid, you throw yourself onto the years-weary couch, deeply sniffing the heady scent of tobacco and old beer. You could even sleep until you die, provided no one interrupts you. If only you had some music.

Staring blankly at the ceiling and feeling calm – as calm anyone can be, in this situation–you slowly let yourself drift away to the light pitter-patter outside.

You’ve put yourself into a low doze, absently humming the chorus to Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go over and over because you’ve forgotten the rest of the lyrics. It’s as you get to take me dancing tonigghhhhht again that you hear it.

Terror strikes your heart in the same likeness of lightning striking a tree.

You're up on your feet in seconds, staring wide-eyed at the barricaded apartment door. Your breath comes out harsh and loud, and the fearful anticipation that has been simmering in your veins like chicken broth on medium heat immediately starts to boil. Every nerve in your body is sensitive and alight with fright.

They’re here.

A moment of deadly quiet passes – you strain your ears, stepping backwards around the coffee table. There it is again. The prickling sound of something dragging against carpet. Like a wooden bat too heavy to lift, a small dresser being moved around, or a basket of laundry idly nudge along the ground.

Except it’s not any of those.

You press your lips together tightly, trembling. Fingers brush against the wall, sliding frantically until they meet the sill. Fuck it. Fuck it – fuck it – fuck it!

Your eyes dart to the duffel. Should you take it–?

A belching and groaning screech vibrates the air.

Never mind! You don’t need it. Time to go. You turn on your feet and slide the glass up. The fire-escape is empty and you hastily climb on to it, forcing yourself through the window. It’s awkward and hurts and everything is slippery wet outside – but you get out. You get out.

It seems like fleeing in fear is the only thing you’re good at nowadays.

Down the steps and ladder, metal thudding painstakingly loud in your ears as your feet hit hard against the grating, it takes every ounce of will you still have to stop yourself from sitting your ass down and start wailing.

You’re only nineteen – you still have two years of university left, your best friends are M.I.A, your dog is probably dead by now and you just want your mom. If anyone is too young and pretty to die like this, it’s you!

At least the rain has stopped.

Sniffling as you lower yourself down, hands holding onto the fire escape – you refuse to unlock the ladder because if there’s one thing you know, it’s that it’ll be loud, and these thing flock to noise the same way serial killers flock to useless girls in horror flicks – you close your eyes for several seconds before letting go of the landing. Your sneaker-clad feet thud against the pavement, knees bending to absorb the impact.

You made it.

Wiping your wet palms on your jeans, you squint down the street in the direction that’ll take you to the RPD. Despite knowing everyone inside could very well be dead by now – or that no one had made it there to begin with – it’s the safest bet there is now. You refuse to risk walking on the highway out of here. It’s too open, and the walking dead are fast.

Swallowing audibly, you take your first hesitant steps forward, pause to settle your nerves, and start again. On a normal day it should be a twenty-minute walk from hereabouts. But today isn’t a normal day, and it’s night time, and you can’t accurately recall the closest route. It’s too messy and unorganised in your mind’s office – all the filing cabinets are open and the little workers in your brain are too anxious to do their job properly. The archive files have flung themselves all across the floor. You’re just gonna have to follow the fires and hope you’re going the right way.

Breaking off into a light jog, you think how convenient it would be if you could jumpstart a car.

Maybe you’ll learn if you get out of here.

[--]

When you finally stumble within sight of the station, a light drizzle has worked itself up again.

There’s blood on your hands and up your right arm, trailing across your entire front in a horrific splatter. It’s sticky and thick and looks like black tar against the vibrant neon of your jacket. This isn’t even mentioning the dried stains from days ago.

Killing is a lot harder than you’d expected. The first zombie you’d seen on your way here you accidentally flung the butcher’s knife at it. Not stab it, or butcher it – you fucking threw a knife at it. Didn’t do anything except make you lose your only weapon.

After some ninth-grade acrobatic maneuvers you managed to skirt around the zombie, retrieve the knife with only a little bit of fumbling, and started hitting it as hard as you could.

Only when you’d dug it deep into the brain did it finally shut up and stop trying to eat you. You got the idea. Go for the brains, because nearly amputating its arm several times and piercing it right in the heart did absolutely jack.

Since then, you’d manage to kill three others and run away from the rest.

The white lights illuminating the giant RPD brings you relief in the same way a flood of water dousing the next-door fire brings. It gives you the same hope of survival that a lighthouse in a thick, rolling fog gives to a lost ship and it’s crew.

But when you’re eyes lower, spotting the crackling fires and abandoned and wrecked cars, zombies navigating around them like ants trying to find a breadcrumb you’d dropped days ago on the floor, you whimper. Your relief falls flat.

This is not good. This is very not good.

They obviously can’t get in through the main gates, so it must be locked and blocked completely. You swiftly crouch-run to a car stationed closer and hide behind it. They haven’t sniffed your scent just yet, so you searching for another way in.

But it doesn’t look like you can go in any other way – both sides of the building are shrouded in shadows, and you’re not familiar enough with the station to know where the visitor’s car park and the main garage is. You’re not willing to risk any more than you have to, and going blind in search of an entrance around the station is a definite no-no. It’s just not worth the possible risk of death. A risk that’s higher than the risk you’re already in, that is.

There’s no other option. You gulp.

Only one way in and one chance to get it right. If you fail, might as well just impale yourself on the fence tops. If you die, you don’t wanna be zombie chow.

Deep breaths. Slow breaths. Hold for seven, release in six, breathe in for another four. You ready your feet, sneakers grinding slightly into the asphalt. Fingers curl around the bumper, body poised and ready. You really need to take a piss, preferably in safety where the undead can’t interrupt you. And that’s a good as a motivator as any.

Three, two, one–

The heady air snaps against your face as you suddenly dash forward, running like your mother is angry and brandishing a slipper threateningly behind you.

A zombie notices you and turns, arms raised. You dodge to the left and slide amongst the length of a car. It screeches behind you, and like that, all of them up against the gate turn. They’re all dumb, little moths and you’re the overheated kitchen strobe light. Can’t afford to think or feel – there’s no time.

You run, and run, and dodge and slide and hop, hauling yourself on to the roof of a car. It’s not out of reach of their hands but it’s exactly the advantage you need. Every time a hand brushes against your ankle or calf, your heart nearly goes into cardiac arrest. It’s hard landing a jump without tumbling down into their waiting arms, so you keep pushing forward, moving from one roof to a hood and onto another roof continuously, not letting yourself pause for even a moment.

There’s only a few yards left till you get to the brick wall sealing the RPD in. You scramble along the top of the two wrecked cars placed perfectly against the wall, and, with a mighty kick off from one foot, your other slams into the wall. The momentum lets you boost yourself upwards. Fingers wet with sweat and blood curl around the steel frame.

You gasp and haul yourself up.

Yes. Yes–yes–yes–no!

A cry escapes your lips as something pulls your foot down forcefully, tugging off your sneaker. You fucking loved that shoe, dammit! Those were expensive! Your back burns with the effort to lift your shoulders above the edge of the wall, but the zombies learn and start climbing the car as well.

Heart pounding and curses falling frantically from your lips, you kick your legs out furiously, battling them away. In the process, your other shoe fly’s off, and your knife falls from your hip. But this time it doesn’t matter, barely even registers. Because you’ve done it – arms quivering like the leaves of a tree in a hurricane, you manage to get your entire upper body above the wall, following it by tucking your legs onto the narrow ledge work.

Panting heavily, you look down. There’s so many of them. Gotta be like, fifty or something. You’d have cried tears of joy if this many people came to your sweet sixteenth.

They’re all moaning and groaning, arms outstretched with a single-minded purpose: to eat you. Periodically, a blood-curling shriek escapes their throats and every time your heart beats a little harder, your fingers clench a little tighter.

God, you did it. You fucking did it. You almost died and you lost your shoes, but you – oh, you did it.

“Hah!” you crow, egging them on. “I made it! I fucking made it! Why don’t y’all just eat each other’s dicks, cause you ain’t getting mine, bitch!”

That feels so good.

You yell out a few more profanities that would have had your mother washing your mouth with soap if she could hear you now, before letting out a final “Woo!” and crawl over the pikes, lowering your body down the wall inside the safety of the front courtyard and drop down swiftly into a crouch. Your sock covered feet slam against the ground. At the same time, your bladder almost releases itself.

“Shit!”

At least you didn’t wet yourself during the run. How humiliating would that have been? Forget about having your intestines falling out and your trachea torn from your throat – you would’ve died right then and there.

You stand up and turn and, for the first time in days, the constant cloud of paranoia and fear that’d been hovering over you dissipates. You’re exhausted, can barely move a muscle now that the crowd of people-eaters is behind you – literally – but damn it all if the sight of the brightly lit Raccoon City Police Department doesn’t make you smile.

You can now pee in relative safety. And, if you’re lucky, you’ll find a working gun and some leftover ammo. You’re nearly certain that it doesn’t require a lot of skill or any skill at all to the point the barrel at your head and shoot.

Starving yourself, really? You’re too much of a sissy to deal with the pain.

Time to get this over with, cause there ain’t any other way out of this hellhole but death.

#re2 #resident evil #remake #leon kennedy #reader #reader-insert #could just be an unamed oc though #leon x mc #leon/reader #leon kennedy/reader #zombies

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gem-blogs-things · 5 years

Text

The Trials Of Himiko Toga

Chapter Two: Three And A Half Inches/Hero

As much Toga hated school sometimes, during her time spent at the police station, it occurred to her that the station wasn't much of an improvement.

Cuffed to a table, in a room with grey walls, and a stiff metal chair. She had absolutely nowhere to run and was starting to get anxious.

It was quite obvious why she was there after all. She had crippled, and stabbed a man; not saying he didn't deserve it, besides, it seemed as though he had some very unsavory plans for her had she inhaled the Chloroform on that rag.

However that didn't reassure her of her 'innocent' status.

She wasn't quite sure how this would go. The man in question did after all assault her; but she did take it to far, even she could recognize that; especially when she used her disappearance technique.

So instead of overthinking her situation, she just sat there waiting for someone to either come set her free or, attempt to put her away.

Nearly an hour had passed before Vlad King himself entered the room holding a fat tan folder, filled with papers.

"May I?" He asked, motioning towards the chair in front of her, on the other side of the table.

Toga nodded eccentricity.

And so he sat, and began splaying out the papers in the folder for toga to see.

"This is Gregu Danvi." Vlad said, pushing forward the mugshot of the man who had attacked toga.

"He's the perpetrator in a series of murders where all the victims were raped, and then burned alive."

Togas eyes widened with disbelief at what she was reading from the file, thirty two victims in the last two years.

"How come he hasn't been on the news?" Toga asked, seeing as how she listens to it every morning.

"Most of these have taken place in other countries; so far only two have been committed here in Japan. And in an an effort to make the murderer think we'd lost him we kept his name out of the news" He answered, in his gruff voice.

"Huh! And I was set to be his third?" Toga asked.

"It appears that way."

There was a moment of silence before Vlad continued.

"Now... Under normal circumstances you would be arrested for what in this case could be viewed as attempted murder, as well as assault and battery" Vlad began.

And even though it seemed as though there was a "but" coming, Toga's stomach still lurched with regret. This was her idol after all, telling her off for nearly killing the man.

"However given the nature of this man, how he grabbed you first, and not to mention your blades all measuring out to exactly three and a half inches... We're going to let you off with a warning and we'll be confiscating those weapons of yours. Which by the way kid, you didn't hear it from me, but nice craftsmanship!"

Toga nodded, happiness practically radiating off of her. Not only was she getting off with a warning, but her idol was admiring and complimenting her handy work.

"Hey kid? Whaddya wanna do with your life?" Vlad asked in that confusing accent of his.

Toga hesitated before answering. Not only was it out of the blue, but, to give her idol the answer to such a personal question... It was an odd sensation to say the least.

She decided to answer honestly.

"A hero... Not one on the front lines though, I want to be a infiltrator, someone resourceful! Someone who pools and collects data so that the other frontline heros such as yourself, can swoop in and save the day without too much injury to anyone else! I wanna be the butterfly that causes the tornado, the tectonic plate that invokes a tsunami... That's the kind of hero I desire to become!"

Vlad gave toga a look of approval, and stood up. "So a stealth hero eh? You'd be surprised at how much those are in demand these days."

"Yes, a stealth hero! And I've seen the statistics, 8 out of 10 agencies In any part of the world are missing a hero who specializes in stealth!" Toga exclaimed, wishing to prove to her idol that she had researched this path before.

"Right you are lass, I'll be back in a few minutes, sit tight."

Vlad left toga alone in the room; the case file still splayed out in front of her.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she began looking through the various cases and decided the man 'Gregu Danvi' was probably going to die alone and crippled; but the heavens know he deserves it!

Searching further through the files she saw that most women were corner workers, and strippers; the kind of people most lowlife criminals would be in contact with.

However, one victim caught her eye.

The photo of the victim said many things. For one she was probably a single mom judging by how the tired look in her eye seemed refined almost to the point of acceptance. Not to mention her messy green hair, tied back in a single bun, with two uneven strands framing her face. I was a hairstyle similar to that of Toga's yet more refined, more responsible.

Further examination of the photo showed an undying kindness in her eyes, toga decided she most likely had a child.

And if so, it certainly was a great pity that this woman's life had been cut short.

Toga examined this case further more discovering her name was in fact...

"Inko Midoriya?" Toga said aloud, just as the door opened.

"Yes, that was an especially tragic case." Vlad said walking back in holding a folder, and a computer.

"She had a child, probably around you're age in fact. He was devastated at the loss! However Inko had already trusted him to one of her friends were something awful ever happened to her. I suppose her planning worked out well..." Vlad hesitated before sitting down.

Toga felt sick to her stomach knowing that man had done all those unspeakable things to so many women.

"Where is he going? The man who attacked me, and killed these women."

Vlad looked up from his computer.

"Currently he's under strict guard at a local hospital, having his wounds treated and figuring out how serious his paralysis is. Afterwards my guess would be Tartarus, though, in my opinion, he deserves far worse."

Toga sunk back into her chair, waiting for anything further from Vlad before asking...

"You were on vacation in Europe recently?" Toga asked.

"Yes indeed."

"You weren't vacationing at all were you? You've been tracking him!"

"Clever girl! It is true I was tracking him through Europe. However he made an unexpected journey here and so I followed." Vlad said, cracking a small smile, flashing those fangs of his.

Toga returned a fanged smile with greater vigor.

"So, girl? Toga, right?" Vlad asked.

"Yes sir!"

"Your file reads that your quirk is called 'Transformation'. You ingest the blood of another person, and depending on the volume of blood consumed; can become them for selective amounts of time?"

"Yes!" Toga answered eagerly.

"That's definitely an interesting Power and an especially good one for the field you wanna pursue! But what interests me most lass... Is how you never even used it against this man and still won!"

Vlad turned his computer around so that toga could see the screen.

It was footage from this morning! During the fight Toga hadn't even noticed the security camera.

"I watched this footage a good seven times and I still find it shocking, scary, and intriguing how a school girl like yourself is so well versed in combat." Vlad gushed.

"You started only after he had engaged you; making sure that you were only attacking in self defense! Not to mention you hit him in an area that would have caused some serious pain, alas he 'healed' those wounds. However before he attacked again you still gave him ample warnings not to continue his assault!" Vlad critiqued her further.

"But then after that you disappear... And then reappear only a few feet behind him and managed to throw a blade at his spine with such precision it crippled him!" Vlad looked as though he couldn't believe the very words leaving his mouth.

"And then you called the police once you were sure he was subdued, all without using your quirk! Not to mention you were cooperative to every officer who questioned you!" Vlad exclaimed. He took a deep breath and held up a slip of paper.

"Himiko Toga?" He asked.

"Yes sir?" Toga answered.

"How would you like to become my apprentice?"

Toga felt as though she knew that question was coming. What, with him gushing and smiling like he had found his lost puppy. However, it still took her by surprise.

She knew that this was far beyond anything she had ever hoped to her from her idol, and that this was a once in a lifetime chance, and so without further hesitation screamed...

"Yes! Yes of course!"

In that moment Toga felt a sense of euphoria so powerful, that when she jumped up to hug Vlad, her cuffs and the table broke.

It was definitely a happy moment for our soon to be hero!

But alas with every good action, there is an equal opposite reaction.

And as Vlad and toga discussed a plan for getting her into UA high, dark forces were at play, germinating a seed of destruction, one that if nurtured with care... would bring about the fall of the most esteemed school in all of Japan.

And that seedlings most prominent feature was a streak of black slicing it's way through his shoulder length golden hair.

#toga himiko #Hero!Toga_AU #vlad king #my hero academia #mha #boku no hero academia #bnha #villain kaminari

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mrs-hollandstan · 6 years

Text

Undercover {3} || Undercover Cop!Reader x Mobster!Bucky

Warnings: smut (18+), oral (female receiving), spanking + hair pulling(both brief), also brief knife use, fingering, language, more gun use, brief mentions of domestic violence, more church talk, talk of borderline stalking, talk of previous sexual stuff

Word Count: 4,903

Author's Note: yay yay yay, I'm loving writing this even though it takes like a century😂. I did warn that there might be some smut and I can guarantee it'll get deeper. I hope you guys enjoy and lemme know what you think! Also, when it mentions Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, I was listening to “Blue Moon” and “Ain’t That A Kick In the Head.”

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"Forgive me father, for I have sinned." Bucky sighs out, adjusting his tie uncomfortably in the confessional. He was the type to convince people he'd burst into flames stepping into a church. At least six out of the seven deadly sins he committed on a daily basis and staring up at the marble statues of the holy man made him remember all the times he'd stare at a similar statue in the church he and his family used to attend. His mom would sit beside him and ramble prayers while he looked up at the statue of God with his eyes closed, hands pressed together, hair draped over his shoulders and wonder why his mother even believed in him when he'd done nothing for them.

"Obviously you have Mr. Barnes, why else would you come to me?" The older man rasped out with a chuckle. Leaning back against the jagged wooden wall behind him, both it and the bench beneath him creaked at his weight. Bucky played with the end of his suit jacket, wondering what his next words should be. He shook his head,

"I fucked up. I think I'm turnin into my dad."

"James-"

"No I know, language, I just... I'm seriously... I'm terrified." The father beside him shifted in his chair, waiting for Bucky to continue on his own demise,

"I... I... hurt her." He muttered under his breath, his gaze drifting down to the warped wood of the floor, his stomach tearing away at itself. Picking at his nails he sighed,

"She's a cop and I can tell she's got...somethin for me. I brought my arch nemesis to her apartment and she let me touch her, she let me... kiss her and then she teases me. And when she came back I just... grabbed her and I hurt her. She cried and I let her walk away and she's probably got bruises and she's probably terrified." Bucky hung his head,

"What do I do?" He spoke low. He knew what Father Slater's question would be. He knew damn well where his own question would lead but he was desperate. He'd never fallen so hard, so fast. He let himself stumble over you and now here he was not knowing what to do with himself. He was so focused on the little cat and mouse game you'd been playing that he didn't realize how bad it'd get when the cat captured the mouse and dove back into the carnivorous ways of life.

"Do you love her?" Father Slater quizzed. The silence bouncing between them answered the question. Father Slater smiled to himself, leaning forward to look through the small gate separating them,

"All you have to do is show her. Apologies are just words. If you hurt her unintentionally you'll have to show her. Make her see that everything you've put her through is your way of coping with what you went through as a child. You're not your father James. You're stronger and I can feel how much you love her. You don't have to say it. She's different. There's nothing wrong with liking that." Looking up, he found Father Slater's strangely calm blue eyes,

"How? How do I...?" He held his hands up, gesturing to the air around them. The father's smile didn't fade, his face going unmoved when he responded,

"Give her time. Give her enough time that she can heal. But don't give her enough time to move on. You'll know when the time is right." Bucky stared back at him, his brain processing everything Father Slater had just said. Without meaning to, he nodded, his heart far ahead of him. He desperately wanted to chase you down. Drop to his knees and confess his apologies. Pour his heart out and maybe play a sympathy card. But if he needed to give you even a glint of time, he would.

Davis watched you tear yourself apart. You didn't have to say anything when you walked in Monday morning. Stark in a cell and the yellowing bruises around your wrists told him all he needed to know. He could see when he caught your eye how bad it was. He had been right. You were in love with Bucky and now that he'd hurt you, you were stuck between a rock and a hard place. You wanted Bucky to hold you but you didn't want him to touch you. You wanted to come home to him but you wanted him to stay far away. The decision was hard and you were constantly at war with yourself, unsure of where you stood now that everything had unfolded the way it did. The worst part was how bad you missed him. Curling yourself around a pillow on a nightly basis, you cried yourself to sleep, chest heaving and struggling to breathe. Davis didn't dare ask but he was more than curious as to how something that seemed so strong could widle away to nothing in less than twenty four hours. When you came into work every morning you monitored calls and skimmed through case files, your eyes dark and haunting, cold even, bags under them telling Davis you hadn't slept much in the two weeks no words had transpired between the two of you. He loved the sound of your voice. He loved the jokes and the smile and the laugh omitted from your cotton candy colored lips, but he wasn't hearing any of it. He realized then how hard Barnes had done you in. He didn't need to know the gory details and he wasn't sure he even wanted to know, but he wanted to help you get through it. He wanted you happy again.

Bucky was contemptuous of the relationship you and Davis had. He watched you from the alley across from the precinct. When Davis stirred up conversation finally, the two of you were close in proximity, Bucky's blood boiling whenever Davis reached forward to trace your arm, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb. The look in your eye didn't tell Bucky anything but the smile was deviously flirtatious. You were never one to favor being alone and now here you were, trying to get back into the swing of living without Bucky. But Bucky wasn't going to give up on the both of you. He felt territorial over you and he wasn't going to let the feelings die down. He wanted so badly to walk you home when you left the precinct. Most times it was dark and he didn't want you getting scared or captured. Not that you would with a gun tucked in the waistband of your pants. But if he wanted it to go well, he needed to listen to Father Slater and give you time. But only a few more days. So he did.

Another week was checked off on the calendar and Davis found that you grew more anxious, neither of you knowing why. You weren't expecting anything. You weren't waiting for a date or another night to progress into going down to the dark side of town where Bucky's club was the heart of nightlife. Maybe it was just the thought of him in general. Either way your nerves were through the roof and it couldn't be explained. Almost two weeks after the bruises had appeared you found yourself returned mostly to normal. You were a cop on duty and that was that. Pulling gang members in cuffs in and throwing the local drinks in the tanks to listen to them whoop and holler and sing old hymns all night. If you'd throw them a metal cup they might rap it against the bars of their cells and share stories of prostitutes and losing all their money. But something was off and the only thing you could think about was how high wired you were. Carefully walking through the lobby of your apartment building, you were aware of all the neighbors you'd seen waltzing the hallways but only shared an elonged glance and a curt smile when spotted. As a cop it was your duty to survey the surroundings and know everyone without knowing them. Some of the older folks had figured you out and when you'd give your usual kind smile, they'd crinkle their noses and a rumble would rise in their chest at the bulge of a glock 22 at your back. They figured that at any moment you could pull it and turn bad, ending their lives behind some yellow caution tape and some fingerprinting from the local crime lab. But you walked away, taking your hair down in the elevator most of the time.

Climbing into the elevator you snort, remembering the comment Davis had made about you looking like Lara Croft with your hair tied up and your outfit. You could see it now. You hair was pulled back into its usual braid, but like always there were a few hairs that framed your face. Your typical outfit was a white tank and some black cargo pants paired with the usual black magnum response boots. And you carried a duffel bag with your cuffs, pepper spray, taser, and standard coat with the precinct's badge on it. Plus whatever personal belongings you decided to bring along from your locker.

Stepping off of the creaky elevator, the smell of cooking food wafted from one of the apartments making your stomach groan in anticipation. You cocked your head when you stepped closer to your own warped door, Frank Sinatra softly playing just the other side of it. Pulling you gun out, the door clicked open with no resistance, the smell from the hallway striking you in the face, the music louder with no barrier between it and your ears. Following the commotion to the kitchen, Bucky looked up, staring down the barrel of your gun for just a moment before looking into your eyes and then back at the stove,

"That's one hell of a, honey I'm home, doll." Keeping the weapon pointed at his head, you drop your bag,

"What the hell are you doing here Barnes?" As if it was the most obvious thing in the world, he lifted the pan in his hands,

"Makin dinner." You clench your jaw, taking a weary step forward,

"But why? Didn't I tell you to fuck off last time we spoke?" He scoffed,

"Hardly. I just grabbed ya a little too hard. Like you could keep me away." He speaks low, the speaker in the corner now chiming out Dean Martin. Bucky hums to it, rolling his fallen sleeves back up. Rather than the casual all black suit, he's wearing a similar outfit of a floral shirt and a similar tie, his slacks as black as the coat draped across the chair behind him. The same, polished oxford shoes clinging to his feet. You had yet to see Bucky's arms, veins protuberant beneath his tan, calloused skin. His shoulders stretched the silk tight across them with each movement. Especially when he turns to look you over, his eyebrow cocked,

"Lost in that pretty little head again doll?" Sighing, you set the Glock on the table before you, slumping into the hard chair,

"How do you keep getting in my house?" Turning away from the stove, he cocks his head like a puppy struggling to understand,

"Its not that hard to pick a lock babe."

"Quit calling me all of your pet names Barnes. You're lucky I don't want my neighbors thinkin I'm a killer. I'd lay you out right here, rid this world of your sketchy ass. " Raising his hands in surrender, he turns the flame off, pouring the delicious smelling chicken into a large bowl. Bowing down to open the now freakishly small oven before him, he crumples himself to drag a tray of vegetables from it, scraping them off into the same bowl,

"What are you making?" He glances your direction for just a moment before tending to another pot, steam billowing from it as he lifts the lid from it, the flame snuffing out as Bucky determines the mystery food cooked enough,

"Chicken stir fry. Green beans, sweet peas, asparagus, cashews, mushrooms, red peppers, and onion glazed in a garlic ginger soy sauce with honey, chicken, boiled in the same sauce, and noodles... just to add some more starch to it." The idea of the dish has your mouth watering despite never having had it, and Bucky can tell you're intrigued. Straining the noodles of the water, you watch Bucky carefully add them to the bowl, pulling out two wooden spoons to stir it all together.

"I- I don't have that stuff... where'd you-"

"I brought it. I figured you're probably sick of microwave food and takeout so I flipped through my ma's old recipe book. When I was a little kid this one was my favorite. She stopped making it around the time my dad left. I think it was his favorite too and the idea of making something so familiar to him left a bad taste in her mouth. So I figured I'd try it out for myself." With a shrug, he scoops some of the mixture up, guiding it over to your mouth. You stomach flips the second it hits your tongue, the taste like nothing you've ever experienced before. He's completely right, you've grown so used to, and sick of TV dinners that an actual homecooked meal is the best thing ever. The corners of Bucky's lips twitch when you moan in satisfaction,

"Good?" You nod, watching as he opens creaky cabinets, a range of emotions crossing his face until he finds what he's looking for, pulling two bowls from a musty smelling compartment. Rinsing the dust out of them, he scoops some of his concoction into one, sliding it across the table to you, dishing some up for himself. Stooping to pluck two beers from your fridge, he sits across from you, the old banquet chair beneath him creaking from the weight of his muscular figure. He nearly breaks the dark bottles as he twists the caps off of the beers with his bionic hand, sliding one across the table with no words said. Sipping his own, his eyes flick to your face when you take your first full bite, your own eyes trained on the bowl before you. After a few warm spoonfuls, you look up, watching Bucky pick at his food.

"Why did you come here?" Your soft, silken voice makes his heart skip a beat. He looks up, your eyes dark under the low light in the dingy kitchen. He licks his lips, leaning back in his chair with a sullen sigh,

"I've never been one to be... moved by a woman before. Girls come in and out of that club and no one's struck my eye. But you. When you walked in all those weeks ago, I didn't know that I'd be so... affected by you. You're all I can think about most times. I mean hell... I went to church over you."

"You went to church?"

"Well," he smiles when you cock your head curiously, "I uhh... no. The priest at the church my ma used to take us to gives me advice in one of those confessionals. I swear he thinks I'm like a celebrity. All the drama he hears me talk about." There's a wheeze in his chuckle as he twirls his fork in the center of his bowl. He crosses one arm over the other, the soft looking fabric of his shirt stretching taunt across his biceps. Finally he raises his fork, a noodle gyred around the worn metal, a small piece of chicken speared at the end which he brings to his perfect mouth. You watch his jaw constrict each time he chews,

"So... what did you tell this priest about me?" Bucky found your eyes transfixed on the bowl before you, a sure sign you were nervous. He wasn't sure if it was because of what he would've said or what he wouldn't have said. He swallowed his own nerves,

"I uhh... I just told him everything that had happened. He told me that I needed to give you time. Enough time that you can... heal but not enough that you'll..." He trails off, your eyes finding his face, his eyes averted this time,

"I'll what?" He doesn't respond, twirling his fork again. You set your own aside, clasping your hands together, "Bucky... what was said?" When he looks up, you can see the uncertainty in his eyes. He's at war with himself like he always is when it comes to you and he can't stand it. Everything that he's said about you is true. He's a different man when you're there. He feels like he's working towards something, for something even.

"He... he said that I need to give you time to heal but not enough time to fall out of love with me." He speaks up quietly like a child prepared to get scolded. You stare back at him, his eyes averting back down to his nearly untouched food.

"He said that?" Bucky nods with a sigh, piercing another piece of chicken and lazily bringing it to his lips.

"What makes him think I'm in love with you?" He rolls his eyes like it's another obvious thing,

"Because his father was the original priest and when my ma would take us kids in there he could tell no one loves me. My dad used to beat the shit out of all of us and he could tell that I was so angry, I'd never focus on something like this. I don't wanna bring kids into this fucked up world. And we all thought that I'd never even find someone willing enough to BE in love with this but here you are. If I keep comin up here, and you don't kick me out and you feed into me, then you've got somethin for me too."

"Wait... are you sayin that you're... in love with me?" He looks up through slanted eyes, clearly annoyed even though he'd just practically admitted it. Slowly his head bobs in a nod,

"I think so." You scoff,

"So you're both fucking insane." When Bucky looks back up, he looks confused and hurt,

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Bucky Barnes doesn't love anyone but himself. That's the point." He scoffs,

"Fuck you. I pulled my ma's recipe book out of the back of my fucking kitchen cupboard for you. What does that mean to you?" You shrug,

"Seems like you're tryin to get fuckin arrested to me." His laugh is labored, yours truly humored,

"I'm being serious."

"So am I! Bucky... you just said that you'd never love anyone-"

"But I went to fucking church over you! I'm not even sure I fucking believe in God and I went to church to talk about my feelings for you. That's harsh." His eyes coruscate, darting between your own, watching you purse your lips,

"So you think that breaking into my house and shaking me up and going to church means you're in love with me?"

"I break into your house for all the right reasons. And as far as shaking you up... I should never put hands on you. I get angry and ahead of myself and I'm sorry. And as far as going to church goes... I go to get advice and I went to get advice on you. Ever since that first night you walked in my club, it wasn't about the money or the guns, or even Stark... it was about you. And this cat and mouse game is pretty sexy. I like gettin the run around, but I do want you." Picking at the leftover noodles and vegetables in the bowl in front of you, you sigh,

“I’m still not convinced.” His jaw clenches when he finds your eyes. You can see all the raw emotion he has yet to control course through them,

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You shake your head, an eyebrow quirking in jest. His jaw clenches and unclenches, his nostrils flaring,

“Nope, I don’t believe you. I think you need to do something to… prove it to me.” Cocking his head, he finally realized where you're going,

“Oh yeah?” You nod, the corners of Bucky’s lips twinge, his now lust blown pupils following you as you stand and round the table, throwing your left leg over his broad thighs. Scooting his bowl out of your way, you sit on the table in front of him, his lips turned up in a demonic smile. You bat your lashes, resting back on your hands,

“You said you wanted me didn’t you Barnes?” He slowly nods, an aroused grunt leaving his throat when you bite your lip. Reaching up, you loosen your hair, shaking out the creases from the hair tie. Licking your lips and leaning forward, you slide into his lap, tingles breaking out across your skin,

“Show me.” You purr, Bucky’s breath catching in his throat. Shifting his head, he looks down at your lips before the algid metal of his hand is rested on your neck just over your hair, holding you in place as he leans in, his lips dancing against yours. You reach up, your heart pounding as you caress his stubbled jaw. Without breaking the steamy, passionate kiss, he sets you back on the table, pulling away for a brief moment to tug your tank top over your head. Just then, you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into, vulnerability raking over your body. But Bucky doesn't seem to mind. Molding your soft hips in his hands, he growls, leaning in to kiss the skin of your exposed breasts. Reaching behind you, a new burst of goosebumps breaks out across your body as Bucky unclasps your bra, pulling it off and tossing it aside.

“Ah fuck.” Bucky gasps out, his eyes wandering the supple skin of your exposed torso. Glued to an aged scar across your ribs, he finds your eyes again,

“What’s this from sugar?” With his lips tickling your skin, you suck in a deep breath,

“Knife. Tac Force 809. Asshole pulled it on me my first week on the job.” He chuckled,

“Wanna meet my 119 Buck?” You groan when he reaches in his inside coat pocket, drawing the six and a half inch bladed knife from it, he chuckled darkly, dragging it around one of your hardened nipples. Throwing your head back, you moan, spurring Bucky on. He reaches out, popping the three buttons on your pants open and drawing back to drag the material down your legs, disregarding your underwear trapped in them,

"Fuck you're gorgeous dollface." He's never seen anything more beautiful. You're laying, sprawled out before him, your legs spread around his wide body, your pussy glistening for him. If he's completely honest, he's convinced you're an angel. Picking the knife up again, he listens to you squawk as he drags the cold metal against your thighs,

"So beautiful baby. You want me to prove I'm in love with ya?" You nod vigorously, his eyes twinkling in mischief. He quirks an eyebrow,

"Naughty, naughty girl. Didn't you wanna arrest me? Look who you're sprawled out for now. You're being a very bad girl... what would your superior think."

"Bucky please! I need you." He chuckled, reaching up to rub your shoulders before laying you back across the table, standing between your spread thighs. He molded your breasts in his hands, taking his time to explore your bare chest, heaving under his touch,

"Barnes, this isn't convincing me." He shrugged,

"I wanna get accustomed to this perfect body babydoll. For next time."

"Assuming there is one." You gasp out, the contrast of Bucky's right hand, rough, calloused flesh and his left, smooth, cold metal breaking your body out in a new fit of tingles as he runs them down the expanse of your bare skin. He nips at the flesh of your bellybutton before sitting in his chair again and licking his lips. You anticipate his next move, biting your lip as he runs his hands down your legs, grasping them tightly and tossing them over his shoulders, dragging you closer. You practically scream when he dives in, grasping the table beneath you in your hands as he slides his warm tongue across your clit and back down to your entrance. Bucking your hips up into his face, you whimpered, a growl bubbling up from his throat, his hand coming up to rest in your abdomen,

"Hold still baby." Glancing down at him, he quirked an eyebrow, leaving your thigh draped over his shoulder and slipping his right hand between your legs, rubbing his thumb across your clit. The way you reacted to him, he could tell it'd been a while since you were touched. You were so focused on your work, dedicated to bringing the bad guys in that you hadn't been with anyone in a long while. Slipping two fingers inside you, you squealed, arching your back off the table. Bucky's heart fluttered, his fingers curling to find that spot inside you while he leaned in to suck your clit into his mouth,

"Oh fuck Barnes." He growled when you reached down to tug his hair, your fingers gliding through the long strands effortlessly. You moaned and purred beneath him, your head thrown over the other side of the table, your thighs trapping Bucky's head in between them. Darting his fingers in and out of you quickly, you panted as the pressure in your lower stomach grew and grew, your orgasm fast approaching now that the beast had laid dormant for so long. Growling, he shook his head, his teeth grazing your clit causing a squeal to leave your mouth, your hand flying back to grasp the table but swatting your beer bottle in the process, the dark brown bottle shattering against the floor. Neither of you paid mind, the waves of your orgasm growing to crash against the shore. Bucky focused on getting you there, his eyes locked on your blissed out face when you brought yourself to your elbows. Taking one in his hand, he drug you into his lap, the rough polyester of his pants giving you the extra rush, propelling your orgasm forward as you grasped both of Bucky's arms in your hands,

"Bucky!" You whined, his thumb roughly brushing over your clit as two fingers hastened inside you.

"You gonna cum for me babydoll?" You nodded, digging your nails into his arm,

"Yes, fuck!" He chuckled, leaning in to suck a dark mark into your neck,

"Cum for me." You panted, rocking against his hand. He growled, rearing back to swat at your bottom,

"Cum for me now." Tipping your head back you moaned, your eyes squeezed tight as he gripped your ass in his palm, molding it into the metal for just a moment before slipping up your back to grasp your hair. Giving a gentle tug, he latched to your breast, nibbling at your bud,

"Now!" He growled again, your body responding immediately as the coil in your belly snapped and your orgasm spilled over like a tsunami. You buried your face in the silk shirt smelling of the same sweet, tangy cigars you would imagine hefty businessmen smoking when they went to spend thick stacks of cash at a strip club. You practically screamed into him, a satisfied hum leaving your throat,

"Good girl." His metal hand rested at your back, smoothing over the skin as he cuddled you into him, your orgasm ebbing away. He laid his head against yours, reaching up to stroke your hair. He felt odd. All of the other women that he'd help get off wouldn't do anything for him. He'd either tell them to leave or go do paperwork right after. A quick fix was all he needed most times but now here he was, your bare body in his lap, having not gotten off, and a rock hard cock straining in his pants and he could care less. Your face, completely blissed out comforted him and he wanted nothing more than to walk you up to your bedroom and fall asleep with you in his arms. No matter how dangerous it was. He needed you like air in his lungs and he didn't care how formidable he was of losing you to an enemy. He was more afraid of you leaving on your own demise. But sitting in his lap, you knew you couldn't go anywhere. Not with how your heart pounded out against his own broad chest. How protected you felt in his presence.

Taking your face in his hands, he glared deeply into your eyes, his pupils blown black as night in the leftover lust coursing through his veins. Reaching up to hold his wrists, he brought you down to kiss his lips softly, your hands slipping to the back of his neck to taste more of him. He held you close, hands pressed tight against your shoulder blades. When he drew back, you leaned in to kiss his jaw, sucking his fingers into your mouth. His eyes darted from your lips to your own dark eyes, his tongue coming out to wet his own before he spoke up,

"Believe me now?"

Permanent Taglist: @embrace-themagic @mmeeggaannn @spiderman-n @winters-beauty @smexylemony

Series Taglist: @mullinhore @ddaengboi @avengersassemblee @vogueworthy-barnes @teawithbucky @imnotcoolmasterrr @whaddaputa @akamaiden @slender--spirit @wantonmeep @kali-mav @roxytheimmortal @buckysrcse @letaliabane @gravewalkerray @the-thighs-of-betrayal

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