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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 9 months

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Day 7: Needles

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Azalea here. For more information about Caliban, go here. For more information about K.O., go here. For my personal headcanons on Murdock, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, go here. And if you’d like to learn more about the mob these guys all work for, go here.)

(Additional Note: I got some partial inspiration for this story from this lovely drawing by the extremely talented @rebar2042. Please go give them a follow and share their awesome art!!!)

(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of illegal business, physical violence, abduction, blood, syringes, poisonous substances, torture, implied dismemberment, implied cannibalism, implied murder, talk of death/dying, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

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Unless you counted his tinted glasses, Murdock looked absolutely nothing like himself right now.

In the place of his currant-colored turtleneck and black overcoat was a pale button-up and a half-zipped fleece jacket that was the same shade as a cornflower, complete with a screen-printed logo (an orange circle outlined with white) to match the cap resting atop his head. His raven hair was hidden, tied-back and pulled-up, though some of his bangs peeked out from beneath the rim.

Murdock understood the importance of disguises; any hitman who didn’t was a moron who could look forward to a career that would last a couple years at most before ending in humiliation rather than mystery.

Yes, he was more attached to his usual work clothes, but he took satisfaction in that particular sentimentality being more fucked-up than one would probably expect. Aside from that and the business angle of things, costumes really were just a fun concept to play around with. Even now, as he pulled into the cul-de-sac and parked near the curb, the adrenaline that’d already been slithering around his lungs spiked when he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror.

He hopped out, stepping around the decoy mail truck to hoist the back door up. After pulling out the dolly and loading a larger-than-average box onto it, he tucked a much smaller package and a clipboard under his arm and strolled up the driveway of the nearest house.

Murdock rolled his shoulders, taking a quick, deep breath. He went over the script in his head for what was probably the eighth time today, then reached out and rapped his knuckles against the front door.

Five seconds or so passed, and then the telltale sound of muffled footsteps approached from the other side.

Murdock put on a polite, well-rehearsed smile as the door was pulled open.

He immediately had to bite his tongue to keep that smile in place as he registered the man now hovering in the threshold.

He was the same height as Murdock, appearing a bit older. . .well, that was Murdock’s best guess, at least. The amount of tattoos on his skin was truly shocking. Only a few patches of his natural skin were left in between each of them.

For the most part, Murdock didn’t really have an opinion on tattoos. He was aware of how painful the process tended to be: therefore, when any of his victims happened to be inked, he tended to take that as something of a personal challenge for interrogation and the like. He knew it was best to avoid getting any himself, and he knew whatever body art anyone else decided to get was none of his business.

But he also knew how the lines between good body art and bad body art were not fine.

At all.

It seemed his latest target didn’t have that same understanding.

“Delivery for Mr. Abbott Tudye?” Murdock announced, willing his tone to sound lighter than usual.

“Right on time,” the target replied with a nod. Glancing at the larger package, he backed up a few paces, holding the door open. Murdock took the invitation, dragging the dolly along and leaning it against the nearest wall as the door was closed behind him.

“I’ll need—” Murdock cut himself off, just barely managing not to swear in surprise at the discovery that his target was among the ranks of people who’d gotten famous online for having actual pictures of faces permanently drawn on the backs of their heads.

The target turned to face him, casually raising an eyebrow.

Murdock cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh, need a signature for both packages, please,” he amended, holding the clipboard aloft.

The target blinked at this, but simply shrugged and took the offering into his hands. “. . .Y’know you don’t have to keep that act up in here, right? Suppliers are the last people to tattle on in my book.” He then outstretched his free hand, patronizingly gesturing for Murdock to fork over the smaller package

“Look, those papers are part of the contract. I just want to be thorough” Murdock reported, giving up the box like a good little boy and biting back a grimace at the sight of the back of the target’s hand.

(Was that tattoo seriously supposed to be depicting a lion’s head? If so, then it was proof of miracles, because it would’ve made the damn Gripsholm Lion look natural!)

His sudden surge of disbelief and disappointment was quickly calmed by smugness. He could tell when he was being lied to, but that didn’t really bother him right now. The pack of lies he’d personally help to set up for this job were much more clever.

“Besides,” he added, ever-so-slightly raising his voice, “you can never really tell when there’s some extra eyes or ears around. Not until it’s too late, I mean.”

The target snorted, rolling his eyes and shaking his head with a smirk. “Okay, calm down with the conspiracy, buddy.” He walked past Murdock to set the clipboard and pen down on his coffee table, his focus now consumed by the package. He fished a small knife out of his pocket, pushing the blade toward the thick line of tape. “Since you bring up eyes and ears, though. . .have you heard anything about my trigger? It’s been a good while since I sent him out, and he hasn’t reported back to me at all.”

“I’m afraid not. I did try to ask around, though,” Murdock answered, his expression flickering.

On one hand, the target had his back to him yet again; Murdock knew he had acting skills, but just how little this guy thought things through almost made his performance way too easy.

On the other hand, the target turning his back to Murdock meant he had to look at that second stupid fucking face again.

Oh, well.

He kept speaking, making sure the sound of his voice drowned out the way he carefully dragged one of his own knives down the length of the larger package. “But I wouldn’t worry about it too much. We’ve all gotta lay low after a job, don’t we? Your guy is probably a lot closer than you realize.”

The larger package silently twitched. A pair of brown eyes glinted at Murdock through the sliver of space between cardboard folds. The hitman smirked, raising a hand to count down on his fingers and mouthing along.

Three. . .two. . .

The scream that tore through the air was at an octave usually reserved for fire alarms, but neither Murdock nor his accomplice flinched at it.

A small thump followed the distress call, which was now breaking apart into shorter wails as the target backed away from the box he’d just opened. Murdock copied those movements, making sure to stay behind him. The target turned around soon enough, of course, his face contorted in absolute horror at the fact that he’d gotten so close to a pale, dried-blood-covered human foot instead of the cocaine block he’d been expecting.

“Y-you. . !” The target cried, now charging forward, anger joining his fear. “What tHE FUCK IS—”

His words suddenly wilted into unintelligible sputters of pain. He’d been a mere inch from Murdock when a blurry shape came jettisoning out of the larger package to collide with his neck, forcing him to double over.

“Haven’t you heard to not blame the messanger?” A new voice inquired, sounding like a casual lacing of venom in sugar. A petite woman emerged from the package, holding an unusually large packing tape dispenser and narrowing her eyes at the target in a way that should’ve turned him to stone. “I mean, this whole thing was my idea, so. . .”

“I’m not denying that,” Murdock promised, jokingly doffing his delivery cap to Azalea.

Azalea, in turn, nodded, her expression shifting from composed fury to maniacal at lightspeed. The target tried to regain his bearings, tried to keep shouting, but she had other ideas. In a single, fluid movement, she stepped closer and bashed the tape dispenser against his nose. She repeated this action until the target was on the floor, and even then she kept swinging the strange choice of weapon up and down onto his head again, and again, and again, and again.

Murdock was prepared to step in, but his instincts told him that wouldn’t be necessary. His expression grew more curious than sinister as he watched his colleague convince the target that he could be a phrenologist’s dream come true. Sure, the tape dispenser had some solid weight to it, but. . .wow.

“Impressive,” Murdock mused once the target finally went still and Azalea finally paused for breath. “And I thought I’d end up having to knock him out.”

“What, am I supposed to just let you take all the credit?” Azalea huffed a laugh, rising to her feet to look up into her accomplice’s dark eyes. “This is a half-and-half job.”

“It sure is.” Murdock knelt down beside the target’s unconscious form, fishing a few zip-ties as well as a bundle of thick cloth out of his disguise jacket’s interior pockets. Once the target was properly bound and gagged, Murdock crammed him into the same package that Azalea had previously been hiding in, not being the least bit gentle. He held the panels closed so Azalea could reseal them (which was a bit awkward, since the tape dispenser was now broken due to being used as a makeshift hammer).

“I’m a little surprised Cal let me take this,” Murdock mentioned as he strolled across the target’s living room, leaning down to stuff the severed foot back into the small package.

Azalea shrugged. “Feet are mostly just skin and bones. Plus, from what he’s told me, they just sell better on some markets than others.”

“. . .I mean, do the connoisseurs of those ‘other markets’ really know if the feet they’re looking up are still attached to people?” Murdock pondered, cackling when Azalea rolled her eyes and lightly punched him in the side.

“I texted the cleaning crew while I was in there,” Azalea pronounced, nodding to the larger package and its new cargo. “They should be here in thirty minutes or so.”

“Great!” Murdock nodded, remembering that The Pentas Family’s chop-shop was in need of a new car. “And we’re still set on the site you picked out?”

At his cohort’s affirmative hum, he bared his teeth in a patented, dangerous grin. He grabbed the dolly’s handle, then gestured to the front door. “Shall we, then?”

Azalea’s smile was a bit more lively, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t frightening. “Let’s.”

___

Reilpi Woods was a quaint place. It was only a fifteen-minute drive from the Cove Port Inlets, stretching for miles and miles and miles; a good portion of it grew near the beaches and along the seaside cliffs. Sure, its title kind of sounded like the beginning of a drunk madman’s attempt at a prophecy, but it really was a nice place. A convenient place, too.

With how deep it went, it could be plausible for someone to, hypothetically, get lost on a camping trip and never come back. That also made up for many of the hardships that came with burying a body (after tricking the authorities into digging up untouched soil in a specific location with a false report, of course).

The branches on the majority of its trees intertwined with one another, forming more than enough of a shield from both the sun or the odd camera-equipped drone piloted by some background character whose life could potentially be changed for the worse.

The trees in question came in varying heights: some were as towering as houses, and others were short enough to be scaled quite easily.

Murdock had chosen a tree that seemed to be right in the middle of those categories. It didn’t take too much effort to aim and toss the long end of the rope coil over a thick, sturdy branch. He gave the line an experimental tug, just to be certain it was secure, then began pulling it hand-over-fist.

“HMPE. Nice,” Azalea complimented, watching her accomplice work as she retrieved the small, pink-stained wooden chest she’d previously hidden in the decoy mail truck’s glove compartment.

“I only work with the best,” Murdock replied cheerfully. “The hardware store had a great sale earlier this week.”

Once his and Azalea’s target had been hoisted a few inches, just able to stand upright with bound wrists suspended over his head, Murdock strode over to a smaller tree nearby, tying the end of the rope into a tight knot around its trunk.

When exactly the target had regained consciousness, neither of them could be sure. By the time he’d started making noise, they’d already driven a good, long way into the heart of the forest. He’d tried to start running as soon as Murdock reopened that package, only to collapse on his face about three seconds afterwards. Even now, strung up and shirtless, he apparently still thought there was some use in writhing. He kicked and swayed, eyes bulging, chest heaving. His attempts to hurl obscenities at his captors were well-muffled by the gag that’d been tied around his mouth.

Azalea dragged a collapsable table out of the trunk, unfolded it a few feet away from where the target stood, and set the aforementioned pink chest on top of it.

“So,” Murdock pronounced as he walked past her, carrying a long leather case he’d produced from under the driver’s seat. “How much time do you think you’ll need?”

Azalea hummed as she pried the little chest open: five empty syringes had been organized into a little pyramid, kept in balance by the line of five glass vials sitting right beside them. “Well, each dosage will need at least a few minutes to take effect. I already have some pretty good estimates, so maybe. . .twenty-five minutes? At most?”

“Yeah, that’ll be just fine.” Murdock nodded. “Becky’s a fast worker.”

Though Azalea didn’t pause as she pushed a needle into a rubber stopper, she still couldn’t help but chuckle.

Murdock refused to stop his movements as well. While opening up the leather case and lifting a shovel out, he raised an eyebrow at his colleague’s laughter. “What’s so funny?”

Azalea tilted her head, flicking at the now full syringe before setting it down to prepare one of the others. “You always give the others flack for naming their equipment, but you don’t have any room to talk.”

“Excuse you, I’ve got tons of room,” Murdock protested. “Becky is special. She’s been there for me ever since I started out.” He hugged the shovel close, some brief yet total adoration worming its way onto his face. He then spun Becky in his hands and brought her tip down into the soil about ten feet from where the target was hanging.

“Good for her,” Azalea replied. “Still, are you sure you’ll be done around the same time I am? I wouldn’t want to just keep you out here for hours.”

Slight hypocrite or not, Murdock did have a bit of a point. The blades of Becky’s cutting tip were ridged, implying that she was capable of slicing through more than just dirt. There were black grips along the socket and handle. She truly had a polish to her, one that would seem more appropriate on a blessed and/or cursed weapon of yore.

“Hours?” Murdock barked a sarcastic laugh, glancing back and forth between Azalea and the ground. He worked himself into a pattern of movement, the little pile of loose dirt beside him growing bit by bit. “Becky and I will race you, Aza!”

Azalea blinked, placing a hand on her hip. “That hole’s gonna have to be six feet deep, at least.”

“And it will be!” Murdock insisted. Nodding at the target, he added, “Plus, we’ll be putting him in vertically.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Azalea retorted. She fidgeted in place. “. . .Aren’t longer holes harder to dig out than wider holes?”

There was no response from Murdock this time. He just kept digging, though he peered up at her over his glasses. His eyes were just barely visible, but that expectant, daring look was obvious.

“Okay, then.” Azalea offered a polite shrug before turning on her heel and approaching the target.

The target snarled at her, raised a leg to try and kick her. But as she gracefully sidestepped out of the way, she saw how he finally seemed to notice what was now in her hand. His scowl wavered, his muffled insults came to an abrupt halt, the patches of skin unmarked by tattoos turned pale as the needle caught a stray beam of light peeking through the canopy above.

Azalea rolled the first syringe between her fingers, thoughtful as she paced around the soon-to-be sentient pincushion. She had the experience to know which areas were most sensitive to injections: hands, the soles of the feet, palates, that little groove between the upper lip and the nose.

She couldn’t really go for any of those areas right now, but that wouldn’t be a problem. Run-of-the-mill muscles could always make getting a shot more of a struggle than strictly necessary.

With that in mind, Azalea halted in her tracks just behind the target. He tried to turn himself around to keep facing her, but he wasn’t fast enough. He didn’t even have time to recoil as she stabbed the needle deep into his lumbar, effectively piercing the tattooed eye of a snake that had bent fangs and looked more drunk than menacing.

Azalea pressed the plunger down with enough force to almost risk crushing it. She held onto it for a few long seconds, just to be sure, then stepped back. The syringe stayed in place when she let go of it, well and truly stuck in the target’s skin.

Slowly but surely, a dark red bead rose up around where the needle met the syringe’s hub. And as it began to trickle down, leaving a thin, red streak to disrupt the tattoos below that embarrassing snake, the target started bellowing.

The cries were low at first, but they grew louder in no time, broken up by the target’s gasps for air. The skin around the injection site was already swelling—it couldn’t really be compared to an allergic reaction or the like, but it was still horribly noticeable.

From what Azalea had heard, Gila monster venom caused an intense burning sensation, as well as dizziness, a rapid heart rate, and sometimes even a decrease in blood pressure. Cases of being bitten by the lizard in question were rarely ever fatal, but that was just fine.

A dosage of something fatal would’ve been too good for the target.

About a week had passed since the incident.

That one spot on Azalea’s arm still ached and stung like no other, but she didn’t have to wrap a new set of bandages around it anymore. The dull red mark still stuck out against the rest of her skin, but it seemed to be getting a little smaller every day. Hell, by now it could’ve been mistaken for a simple scrape, as though Azalea just had a disagreement with the sidewalk pavement.

The tranquilizer gun fit shockingly well in the pocket of her vest. The weapon was a lot like Azalea, actually; it was small enough to underestimate, and it packed way more than enough of a punch to make whoever was doing the underestimating regret all the choices they’d made to get to that point.

Azalea didn’t need to use it very often—remember, her way of work was all about stealth and cunning and HAHA YOU FOOL, YOU’LL NEVER LOOK AT A COOKIE THE SAME WAY AGAIN BECAUSE YOU’RE DEAD NOW!—but ever since that fateful evening, she’d made a point to carry it every moment she wasn’t in the public eye. Once she and her peers all made sure that the threat was truly gone, she’d return it to that innocent-looking little safebox in her cabinet.

The Pentas Family wasn’t on total lockdown; just lying low for a bit. There’d been no complaints about The Boss’ orders, of course. Just like there was no doubting that they’d come out on top. But that impromptu emergency meeting had still been so tense. . .

Azalea gave the Gila monster venom about three minutes to work its magic. The target had yet to vomit, but the nausea in his eyes was painful just to look at.

She checked in on Becky and Murdock, who were still preparing the grave.

The mound of dirt had definitely grown, but the bottom of the hole was still very much shallow.

Murdock glanced up as his accomplice approached. He stayed just as silent as Becky, but the sheer amount of excited determination on his face spoke volumes.

Azalea didn’t really have anything to say either, so she just gave him a curt nod before retreating to start the next phase of the session.

Warrior wasp venom wasn’t lethal, but it could almost make you wish it was. The insect in question was aggressive and territorial, so encounters with it weren’t exactly uncommon in certain parts of South America.

Some victims likened the sting to boiling oil being poured over your skin. Others compared it to being chained down in front of an active volcano, right in the path of all that flowing lava. Perhaps no two victims could describe it in the exact same way?

Azalea wasn’t certain, and she probably never would be. It wasn’t like the target had a chance to give her a description.

Or. . .maybe he did, in a way.

Because just a moment after she stabbed the second syringe into his right deltoid, he confirmed the rumor that warrior wasp venom made people sound absolutely insane when they screamed.

Azalea lightly shook her head, drumming her nails against the box she was carrying in time with her footsteps. Aforementioned box was full of sweets, but unlike many of its predecessors, none of those sweets would end up killing whoever decided to help themself.

K.O. deserved a reward for being so quick and so efficient with the bullet graze, after all. Yes, he’d already gotten paid for taking on the last-minute assignments, but Azalea couldn’t just not thank him personally.

Due to his walnut allergy, K.O. had to be very, very careful about the treats he consumed. Anything involving chocolate was almost always too risky, but Azalea had plenty of recipes for different types of candy. She knew this gift wasn’t much, but she also knew that K.O. would still be happy with it.

As if on cue, K.O. popped up right as Azalea rounded the corner. He was halfway leaning through the door to his den, light streaming across the old platform. What a coincidence: Azalea hadn’t told him about her plan to stop by, but she’d still predicted that he’d be down here.

What she hadn’t predicted was for Caliban to be down here, too. Last she’d heard, her brother was running his own errands around town. But, sure enough, here he was, doubled-over and gritting his teeth as he trudged onto the old platform from the opposite direction.

That was what made Azalea stop short before she could call out to either of them.

Something was wrong.

Caliban always kept his back straight unless. . .

An awful type of energy slithered along Azalea’s neck as she quickened her pace, nearly dropping her cargo.

A panicked shout caught in her throat, making both Caliban and K.O. flinch as they finally looked over and realized she was here with wide eyes.

Even with the dark blue shade of the fabric, it was easy to see a stain blooming through the lower half of Caliban’s button-down.

Even in the dim lighting, it was easy to see how the hand Caliban pressed against his stomach was covered in glistening red.

Even through the immediate cacophony of questions on Azalea’s part and instructions on K.O.’s part, it was easy to hear droplets of blood plopping against concrete as they trickled out between Caliban’s fingers.

Yet another wasp’s venom was next on Azalea’s list for the session, so the syringe containing it would go in the target’s left deltoid. To compliment the other, see?

Not immediately, though.

“The guy you sent is dead,” Azalea announced, speaking to the target for the first time since she’d knocked him unconscious. Her voice was soft, and muffled, agonized, unintelligible groans were still leaking out of his mouth. But she knew that he could hear her.

“. . .Or, I’m pretty sure he is, at least. He was kept alive for a few days after his little stunt, but there’s no saving him now,” she continued.

Visible shivers had been wracking their way up and down the target’s body all this time. Azalea knew that they were involuntary, that they were just more side-effects of the poisons she’d given him so far.

Now, however, he froze in place.

Azalea smirked, practically able to see her words registering in his mind. “Nobody’s going to find either of you, y’know. Even if someone actually tries to look, they won’t get any leads.”

She resumed her pacing, never taking her eyes off the target, watching as his ragged breathing stuttered.

“I know, I know. Scenarios like that are pretty underwhelming, but that’s more on you for springing this on us the way you did.” Azalea shrugged as she passed the syringe from one hand to the other.

Her smile widened a bit. “Don’t worry, though! We’ll try to make things more interesting for your other cronies. I bet one of them will end up being found again and again for a month or so. It’ll have to happen in a different city, but that’s not too big of a problem.”

Tarantula hawks got their name from their frightening diet, but that most certainly wasn’t the only thing they were infamous for. By some terrifying miracle, their stings truly felt similar to an active hair dryer after it was dropped into someone’s bathtub. They were described as explosive

The toxin was apparently explosive enough to give the impression of electric currents literally tearing their way through your bloodstream.

“This is like a weird variation of sibling ESP,” K.O. blurted as he carefully prodded at the puncture site with gloved hands. “Really, I’m surprised some cosmic imbalance hasn’t been triggered.”

“Don’t remind me,” Azalea replied, wringing her hands. She’d just returned from washing them for the third time. The skin around her knuckles almost felt a little dry.

“Hey, if I had to be jumped, at least it was by an amateur,” Caliban mused, chewing his lip while staring at the ceiling. A good few minutes had passed since he'd stopped shaking and choking on air. It seemed the sheer awkwardness of having to lay across someone else’s workout equipment with his shirt half-unbuttoned was balancing out his stress.

“Good point,” K.O. agreed as he soaked yet another washcloth into the bucket of cold, clean water he’d brought from upstairs.“I don’t really work with knives, and I can still see how that idiot should’ve used a drill if he wanted to cause some real penetration.”

The resulting fit of snickers on Caliban’s part were so sudden and loud that he lurched forward. Said snickers automatically had to compete with the way Caliban sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth as K.O. swept the washcloth over the latest wound.

“. . .I should’ve seen that coming.” The mental image of a person’s guts getting all twisted around a drill bit wasn’t pretty, but Azalea still clicked her tongue and fondly rolled her eyes as she carried over a thick roll of gauze.“If Murdock isn’t around to make jokes like that, then someone else always will. Always.”

“We’ve all gotta do our part.” K.O. took the bandages, offering a proud, smug grin in return. “Okay, Cal: sit up slowly but don’t move your feet too much. And keep your arms above your stomach.”

Caliban was still giggling at the semi-dirty quip as he complied with the other mobster’s instructions. His face fell, however, as he looked down at the new gash on the left side of his abdomen. Sure, the bleeding had stopped, and sure, it was actively being hidden by layers of fresh heavy-duty bandages.

But even with the knowledge that it hadn’t gone deep enough to cause any serious infections, Azalea could tell that it hurt much more than Caliban was letting on. She sidled around K.O., careful to give him enough space as she stood beside her brother. She quietly rested one of her hands on his shoulder, trying to help him stay steady.

Despite the initial panic, things had moved nice and quickly. Time hadn’t even seemed to slow down and make everything feel worse for once.

It hadn’t exactly been pleasant to feel her brother’s blood spill onto her hands while K.O. rushed to get something more effective for applying pressure, but Azalea knew how much of a tough cookie he was. This wasn’t the first time Caliban had gotten stabbed; this wasn’t even the worst example out of all the other scars decorating his torso. If he could heal up from all those other cases, then this one would be a cakewalk. He was going to be fine.

Azalea stared into her brother’s eyes, hoping to somehow filter all those little reminders into his brain without speaking.

Caliban stared right back at her. And, judging by the way his features seemed to relax a bit more, her efforts were successful. “That’s the thing about stabbing,” he finally continued, the usual grin back on his face. “You have to know where just the right spots are if you want to be effective. Otherwise you’ll just make the rest of us look bad.”

“Well, I’m sure you can give that moron a proper demonstration once we track him down,” Azalea promised, madness flickering along her otherwise gentle expression.

The tired look returned to Caliban’s eyes. He let out a melodramatic sigh, shaking his head sulkily. “No, I really can’t.”

“Why not?” K.O. asked as he secured the last layer of padding.

“Because the guy was covered in tattoos!” Caliban threw his hands up in frustration, eyes growing wider and just a bit more wild than before. “And when I say covered, I mean COVERED! Ink like that just completely ruins the meat! Makes it taste horrible!” He made the mistake of ever-so-slightly stretching his stomach, which prompted him to grind his jaw, screw his eyes shut and fall back with yet another hiss.

“. . .So, you’re saying other types of ink could make people taste better?” K.O. wondered with a smirk.

“Yes, K.O. That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Caliban deadpanned, craning his neck to raise an eyebrow at his colleague, who held up his hands in mock surrender.

Azalea, meanwhile, kept drawing circles on Caliban’s shoulder, all the ideas on what to do to her brother’s attacker quickly forming a maze in her mind.

“. . .They weren’t even flattering tattoos,” Caliban murmured, gingerly folding his arms across his chest. “Seriously, there was a pinup girl on one of his arms and she looked like a random stranger just offered to share a toilet seat with her.”

“Did you seriously not see this coming?” Azalea inquired, halting right in front of the target. “That’s hard to believe.”

The fourth and final syringe was ready. It was almost as long as a pencil, wider than the three that had been used before it. Its needle was thicker, shinier, sharper, the meanest-looking thing in Azalea’s collection. But even if it wasn’t, that wouldn’t have mattered.

When you were handling a dosage of fresh, pure, unadulterated bullet ant venom—a substance that was infamous for literally being described as “walking over flaming charcoal with three-inch nails in your heels”—nothing really mattered.

“Turning the art festival into a gun range wasn’t enough, huh? You just couldn’t resist going after my brother yourself.”

The target’s head had been hanging. He must’ve been tired from shaking it side-to-side as if that would somehow convince his brain to magically alleviate the torment. But it suddenly jerked up like that of a marionette puppet.

Like a new, foreign weight had just settled around his shoulders, encouraging the tiny rivers of blood to keep trickling down his chest and back. Not chasing all the pain away, but somehow managing to distract him from it, if only for a moment. His bloodshot, watery eyes seemed to grow even wider than before as he stared at his torturer.

“What, couldn’t you tell?” A sarcastic chuckle bubbled up in Azalea’s throat. “I know he’s a lot taller than me, but still: isn’t the resemblance obvious?”

She pretended to mull the question over for a few long seconds, then snapped her fingers.

“Oh wait, that’s right! There really is no way you could’ve known about that.”

She rested her thumb on the syringe’s plunger. Her knuckles were turning white as she kept the barrel pinned between her index and middle finger.

“You probably didn’t even know I was there for your first little rendezvous. . .” she continued, drawing even nearer, now holding her little weapon aloft.

The target attempted to stagger back, attempted to turn his head away.

Azalea, in response, reached up and gripped his chin, digging her nails into the skin of his jaw as she forced him to face her. Her other hand was a blur, the syringe glinting hungrily.

“. . .Because you’re just a bottom-feeding coward.”

The needle sank into the target’s flesh; the left side of his abdomen, to be specific.

There was still half of the venom left in the syringe when the target started screaming. His legs gave out from under him as though his bones had dissolved into his blood. As his knees couldn’t touch the ground, he swayed to and fro in a very unnatural manner with such violent convulsions that he could’ve been mistaken for having a seizure.

He’d been screaming for the majority of the session, of course, but this scream was. . .something else. It was like nothing Azalea had ever heard before; and this wasn’t even the first time she’d used bullet ant venom.

Eh, what else could be expected from the brilliant, intense, undeniable crown queen of pain?

Even with the new ache in her ears, Azalea felt a smile etch its way across her face. It wasn’t calm just yet, but it would get there eventually. She’d reached her goal: there was no way in hell that this target wasn’t regretting his choice to screw around with her, Caliban, and the rest of their family.

“Looks like I’m done over here,” Azalea pronounced, wiping her hands as she turned to look at Murdock. “Sorry if all this noise has been bothering you.”

“Oh, not at all,” Murdock reassured, his voice suspiciously more chipper than tired.

Azalea was about to jokingly ask if he’d brought a second shovel along so she could help him finish digging out the grave.

She was about to. . .but she couldn’t.

Surprisingly enough, the way her jaw hit the ground didn’t disrupt the pile of dirt beside Murdock, which had transformed from an improvised molehill to a small mountain. It even seemed to be a couple inches taller than he was! The hole that’d been excavated was just wide enough to put an adult human in feet-first. It also seemed to go much, much deeper than six feet; a sunray was shining down into it, and yet the bottom was still shrouded in darkness!

“H-how—HOW—?!” Azalea stammered, glancing back and forth between Murdock and the pit.

“Like I said, Aza: Becky works fast,” Murdock explained without really explaining, smirking like a bastard as he rested his arms on his beloved shovel’s handle.

“AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGH!” The target tried to add.

Azalea blinked, slowly raising her hands to massage her temples and reminding herself that she and Murdock had someone to bury. There wasn’t time to question the potential reality-bending powers of some tactical shovel. “Fine, okay, whatever. Could you just bring him down, please?”

Murdock nodded. “My pleasure.” He cradled Becky in his arms one last time before setting her back down in her leather case and returning it to the decoy mail truck. After that, he made his way over to where he’d tied the line. Azalea followed him, orbiting around the target one last time before the rope went loose.

Just because those four syringes were empty didn’t mean she wanted to waste them, after all.

@rebar2042 @sammys-magical-au

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useless-catalanfacts · 1 year

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youtube

I'll go back to a song from 2013 but it's worth it. This is a rap song by the Catalan band At Versaris ft. the American MC Invincible and DJ Waajeed. The song is mostly in Catalan with a last part in English.

The song is titled "No fear" because the rapper talks about fighting back against fear, which is the feeling the used to keep people in place in the capitalist system.

I translated the part in Catalan, but in the original language it's better because the lyrics are very well written to create sound repetitions. Anyway, here's the original lyrics (in red) and translation of the part that was in Catalan (in black), and the part of the song in English I leave it as it is (in purple).

[Chorus:]

[Cap por, cara a cara, tots junts, colze a colze, apreta els punys.

Cap por mira'm als ulls, apunta al cor, un altre juny.

No fear, face to face, all together, side by side, close your fists tight.

No fear, look me in the eyes, aim for the heart, another June [June means a time to fight because of a historical reference in Catalonia's anthem].

No fear: never a phobia ever controlling ya, build a utopia

No fear: when you're courageous the feeling's contagious I'm willing to wage it.

Cap por, avui la claca clar que no s'aplaca. Ataca.

No té cap por, chapeau l'actitud de capo

No fear, today of course the chatter isn't abated. It attacks.

It has no fear, bravo to their mafia boss attitude

No fear: ain't nothing stoppin' this, love is the opposite

We got no fear: world is ours, building power, say it louder]

Calla, domina la por.

Doctrina, morfina, les mans sobre el capó.

Una fina cortina de fum, estímul, resposta, rutina, consum,

governa la fòbia, l'escòria, la pasta i la làbia.

Obre la gàbia, fuck religió, crida cap por i autoorganitza la ràbia.

Quiet, control your fear.

Doctrine, morphine, your hands on the hood [of the car].

A thin layer of smoke, encouragement, response, routine, consumption,

the phobia, the scum, the cash and the glibness is what governs.

Open the cage, fuck religion, shout "no fear" and self-organize the rage.

Controlo el tempo, més viu que mai,

jo estic atent, tu al ciberespai.

Jo rebento i tu caçant el hype,

assaltem els bancs com Bonie & Clyde de la mà.

Ara tenim un pla, volem un plat a taula i un tros de pa.

Prou, no demanem si us plau, som el monstre si la nit cau.

I control the tempo, more alive than ever,

I'm paying attention, you're in the cyberspace.

I blow up and you hunting the hype,

let's rob the banks like Bonie & Clyde holding hands.

Now we have a plan, we want a dish on our table and a load of bread.

Enough, we're not asking "please", we're the monster if the night falls.

Cap por, saps, no? Hem assumit el risc,

no guardem el crit a la boca, hem creuat el límit, idiota.

Sóc prop del precipici intentant no perdre el cap,

com Grandmasterflash i Furious 5, com al principi.

No fear, you know, don't you? We've accepted the risk,

we don't keep the shout in our mouth, we've crossed the limit, idiot.

I'm near the cliff trying not to loose my head,

like Grandmasterflash and Furious 5, like at the beginning.

Malson, Barna en flames, columnes de fum,

ningú no dorm quan cau la nit Diagonal amunt,

és l'u per cent contra el sentiment de tot el conjunt,

una altra esquela i La Vanguardia plora els seus difunts.

Nightmare, Barcelona in flames, smoke columns,

nobody sleeps when the night falls from the Diagonal above [note: the rich neighbourhoods of Barcelona are above the Diagonal avenue]

It's the 1% against the feeling of the whole rest,

another obituary and La Vanguardia cries their deaths. [note: La Vanguardia is a centre-right newspaper]

[Repeat chorus]

La por d'una xavala que s'amaga entre la gent quan sent

un mirada de babosa prepotència.

La por a que s'acabi l'idil·li amb foli i el boli que neix a la infància.

El pànic a la repressió que cala a cada militant

et va minant perquè és quinta essència

de l'estratègia capitalista per excel·lència

The fear of a girl who hides among people when she feels a glance of creepy arrogance.

The fear of the end of the idyll of paper sheet and pen that's born in childhood.

The panic of repression that seeps through every activist

and slowly undermines you 'cause it's the quintessence

of the capitalist strategy par excellence.

La por a la mala imatge, t'esquitxa el rumor?

Mostrar el dit del cor i fer el cor fort,

riu-te del mort i el que el vetlla.

Viuen vides de tedi, tu al podi i ells són morralla.

I no falla: quan calla el pobre el ric no trontolla.

Ens podreu xapar a la trena, però tenim cinc mil homes de palla

The fear of looking bad, does the rumour taint you?

Giving the middle finger and being courageous [literally: giving the heart finger and making the heart strong],

laugh at the dead one and at the one who keeps the vigil.

They live tedious lives, you in the podium and they're rabble

And it doesn't fail: when the poor man is silent, the rich man doesn't tremble.

You might be able to lock us up, but we have 5000 frontmen.

Que el què et pot tombar no és tenir por sinó mostrar-la a un poli.

Jo me la guardo per mi.

Que la cel·la és petita però el somni és immens:

Tombar el capital, per fi.

Teniu fotos dels tatoos, empremptes i el meu adn.

Teniu el TN.

Però jo una germana de mil cares de nom "subalterna" que em guarda l'esquena.

Having fear isn't what can knock you down, it's showing it to a cop.

I keep mine for me.

'Cause the cell is small but the dream is huge:

finally knocking down the capital.

You have photos of the tattoos, fingerprints and my DNA,

you have the TV news

but I have a sister with 1000 faces called "working class" that keeps my back.

A cada burgeset: la por com xarop.

Que solidaritat és set de tot i viure amb poc.

Ric, sents el tic-tac?

La tropa de xusma que et posa en escac.

Ni caritat, ni 0,7, ni paritat.

La massa el què vol és pitet.

Babejant de veure de un banquer entre el poble i la paret com va reculant

amb cap por.

To every little bourgeois: fear as a syrup.

'Cause solidarity is being thirsty for all and living with little.

Rich man, can you hear the tick-tock?

The riffraff troop that puts you in checkmate.

No charity, nor 0.7, nor parity.

What the masses want is a bib

they're drooling seeing a banker between the people and the wall,

how he walks back.

With no fear.

[Repeat chorus]

No fear:

whether you board a flight although you scared of heights

or a kid getting bullied when you go to school but you train up and

you go prepared to fight

you got no fear

now the bully chills to a lower Fahrenheit and they freeze, or they

try to be your friend and appease, then the plane lands in a place

with a warm breeze

No fear

that's what I tell em- only way to deal with an unfree world is to be

so free, your existence is rebellion

and I'm so clear

that fear debilitates and it could seal your fate when they manipulate

but my amygdula's irregular transform the molecular, fear it ain't protecting ya

No fear-

immigrants internationally

no papers so they try to deport ya

but fuck their borders

you gonna still raise your family

we got no fear-

cuz you're queer or trans and they hate you with judgement

be who you are and love who you love and still hold hands and date you in public

We got no fear-

from foreclosing and eviction

if you can't pay the loan gotta reclaim your home

cuz we chose to be brave not frozen as victims

we got no fear-

it's not when fear is absent

it's when you absolutely passionate bout the life that's past it

battle trance shit.

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hir0s4nch3z · 1 year

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Abrasileirados

📚TIPO DE CAP.: Headcanon.

📌 CONTEXTO: Digamos que, ao envés de nascerem em Nova York, as tartarugas fossem criadas aqui no Brasil...

Nasceriam no país do acarajé, da feijoada, do açaí, pão de queijo, chimarrão e tapioca.

Mas, espera. Hoje o assunto não será comida... Hoje nós vamos falar de música!

E aí? Qual estilo de música brasileira você acha que cada um iria se familiarizar?

Já pepara a caixa de som, fone de ouvido ou headphone... Vamos viajar!

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

Leonardo: Música Popular Brasileira (MPB)

•O romantismo em pessoa!

•Sabe a música "Quem de nós dois" da cantora Ana Carolina? Pois com certeza ele dedicaria ela à você...

•Se fosse humano, seria o famoso "cara do violão". Sabe aquele mano na hora do intervalo, na escola, que sempre tá com um violão na mão e rodeado de gente? Pois é.

•Além do violão, saberia tocar outros instrumentos de corda, como cavaquinho e banjo.

•Leonardo vê esses instrumentos como forma de poesia. Poesias essas que escreveria e cantaria com a ajuda do seu violão.

•Falando nisso, É ÓBVIO que escreveria poesias cantadas pra você.

•Quando vocês não pudessem se ver ou ele não pudesse cantar pessoalmente pra você, enviaria cartas de amor com suas letras escritas.

•Sim, ele é do tipo que envia cartas... 💞

Raphael: Rap Brasileiro

•Baco Exu do Blues, Costa Gold, Xamã, L7nnon, Kawe e por aí vai!

•Não sabe ouvir música em volume baixo... Na primeira oportunidade que tiver ele vai colocar a caixa de som gritando.

•Falando nisso, não consegue treinar direito se não tiver tocando alguma música.

•Uma clássica e que ele provavelmente adoraria treinar ouvindo é "RAP LORD" de Haikaiss Ft. Jonas Bento.

•Além do Rap, acredito fielmente que R&B seria uma ótima opção pra quando vocês dois estivessem a sós...

•Pode não demonstrar muito na frente dos outros, mas quando estão sozinhos entre quatro paredes ele pode ser bem romântico.

•"Brigas Demais" de Ludmilla Ft. Delacruz e Gaab será a trilha sonora perfeita pra esses momentos.

Donatello: Rock brasileiro

•Mas é claro que um bom rock não poderia faltar durante seus experimentos científicos e maquinários!

•Ao contrário de Raphael, Donnie não estoura as caixas de som.

•Prefere privar os ouvidos dos demais habitantes do covil quando decide dar play em alguma música...

•Ele é do tipo que não larga os headphones, os quais geralmente estão em volume máximo. 😅

•Se comunicar com ele pode ser complicado, principalmente quando está trabalhando no laboratório, que é onde mais usa seus fones.

•É uma das poucas pessoas que ainda ouve "Admirável Chip Novo" da cantora Pitty simplesmente por gostar da música, e não por ela ter virado um meme... Kkkkkkk!

•Ama a icônica cantora Rita Lee. Ouve quase todas as suas músicas.

•Aliás... Quer saber um segredinho? Se quer deixar ele caidinho de paixão, cante a música "Xuxuzinho" da cantora Rita Lee.

•Vai se derreter toda vez que ouvir você cantar!

Michelangelo: Latin House

•Eu sei... Eu sei. Não é um estilo puramente brasileiro, mas convenhamos que se encaixa no padrão.

•Não deixa de fazer parte da América Latina, certo?

•Bom, vamos aos fatos... De todos os estilos musicais brasileiros/latinos que encontrei durante minha pesquisa pessoal pra confecção desse capítulo, esse foi um dos poucos que REALMENTE passa a vibe do Mikey.

•Particularmente falando, é claro. 😉

•O cara é hiper mega hypado! Tinha que ser alguma coisa à sua altura.

•Mas falando sério, Mikey é do tipo eclético. No caso, músicas agitadas, rítmicas, são o que chamam a atenção dele. Qualquer ritmo rápido o suficiente pra que satisfaça seu gosto musical.

•Então Samba, Pagode e Sertanejo — por exemplo — também se enquadram.

•"Mas então, por que não um desses?" — Você me pergunta.

•Porque o point dele são as raves. Simplesmente música eletrônica.

•Ou seja, nada melhor do que Latin House: Uma mistura perfeita entre Eletro e ritmos latinos!

✍️ Se não conhece/reconhece o estilo musical, vou deixar um link de exemplo: https://youtu.be/Dd29BPrn3QM

•Sempre vai arrumar um jeitinho de fugir do covil pra entrar de penetra em alguma rave. Ou melhor dizendo, na tubulação do local onde tá rolando a rave.

•Já que não pode ser visto, pelo menos pode ser ouvido...

•Isso mesmo! Ele se infiltraria o mais perto possível da festa e, com a ajuda prévia de Donatello, hakearia o equipamento do DJ da vez.

•Assim ele poderia tocar pra centenas de pessoas sem ser descoberto.

•"DJ Mikey tá na área!"

🎊 B Ô N U S 🎊

Mestre Splinter: Calipso

✍️ Gente, o tanto que eu tô rindo enquanto escrevo isso não tá escrito! KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!

•Tá preparado(a)? Porque eu não tava quando achei a música mais icônica que já foi produzida no Brasil...

•"Eu sou Stefhany (crossfox)" de Stefhany Absoluta.

•Se o Splinter brasileiro não gostar dessa música, então eu mudo de nome!

•Todo o covil seria acordado sete da manhã de domingo ao som de Stefhany Absoluta. TODO DOMINGO. Sem excessão.

Mikey: Mas que horas são, hein...?

Leo: Sete. Em ponto...

Rapha: Todo domingo é a mesma coisa. A culpa é do Donnie por ter ensinado ele a usar a MINHA caixa de som!

Donnie: Eu não tive escolha, valeu?! Se não ensinasse, ele me castigaria...

Rapha: E o que, princesa? Tá com medo de ir pro hashi, é?

Donnie: Cala a boca! Não é pro hashi que ele me mandaria...

Léo: Então pra onde?

Donnie: Pra um lugar onde não existe um Deus... Um lugar de dor, onde pais se viram contra filhos, a irmandade é desfeita e a amizade já não existe...

Mikey: O-Onde...?

Donnie: QUEIMA DE ESTOQUE DA CASAS BAHIA!

•Claro que a banda Calypso de Joelma e Ximbinha não poderia faltar.

•Seria um clássico que Splinter usaria para cumprir os afazeres domésticos. Afinal, nada melhor do que lavar a louça ao som de "A lua me traiu".

Todos: Funk

•Se tem um estilo musical que uniria todos os irmãos Hamato, é o Funk.

•O Funk surgiu, na verdade, nos Estados Unidos por volta dos anos 60, mas se popularizou no Brasil não muito tempo depois — na década de 70.

•Hoje em dia nós temos uma visibilidade muito mais desenvolvida de funk acoplado à outros ritmos.

•Temos um exemplo clássico disso: A cantora Anitta, que levou o funk consigo mesmo atendendo a outros estilos musicais.

•A cantora Ludmilla também é um ótimo exemplo dessa mesclagem.

•O que quero dizer com isso é: apesar dos irmãos serem diferentes, conseguiram conciliar um único estilo que agrada a todos.

•Leonardo curtiria uma pegada mais romântica. "Malandra" de Bernard e DJ 2F seria um bom exemplo.

•Raphael já ouviria algo mais... Picante. Como "202 (Remix) [Prod. Donatto]" dos cantores Kweller & Enzo Cello Ft. Sotam, ou "Kika Com Força & Não Para" de MTG Feat. DJ Ws da Igrejinha.

•Donnie com certeza ia viver pelos cantos do covil dançando a música "Desenrola Bate Joga de Ladin (DJ Biel do CDD e Biel do Furduncinho)" de L7NNON e Os Hawaianos.

•E Mikey, claro, não poderia deixar de juntar o Eletro ao Funk com a música "Se Tá Solteira" de FBC & VHOOR Ft. Mac Júlia.

#tmnt fanfiction #tmnt 2014/ 2016 #bayverse tmnt #tmnt headcanons #tmnt

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amateurchefstuff · 1 year

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Crema de marisc amb mousse de salmó

Ingredients: (per a 6 persones) pel fumet: peix de roca, crancs, cap de rap i de gambes……… 2 pastanagues 1 porro 2 cebes 2 patates Sal Oli d’oliva verge extra 2 litres d’aigua per la crema: 50cc. de llet 50gr. de fècula de panís fumet per la mousse de salmó: 300gr. de salmó fresc sense pell ni espines 200cc. de crema de llet 100gr. de carbassó pelat 3 escalunyes 4 ous sal i pebre…

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fallingflowerff · 8 months

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Cap. 17

Thais

-E então? Parece que a noite foi boa. – ergo os olhos para dar de cara com Laura que tem um sorriso no rosto.

-Shiiiiiiu, fala baixo que minha cabeça está estourando.

-Que horas você e o Minghao chegaram ontem?

-E eu sei? Eu comecei a beber e na verdade nem sei como diabos vim parar aqui. Acho que preciso perguntar isso pra ele.

-A gente ficou preocupado com vocês, mas quem estava mesmo inquieto era o S.Coups.

-O Seungcheol?

-Uhum.

-Nossa, não imaginei. Pensei que seria o Jeonghan, afinal tinham mil mensagens dele no meu celular quando parei para ver ontem.

-O que diabos acontece entre você e o Jeonghan?

-E eu que sei? Ele de vez em quando faz algumas piadas, me dá umas cantadas bobas, faz comentários, mas com ele nunca passou disso.

-Com ele? Com mais alguém passou?

Encaro Laura, ela me olha visivelmente curiosa.

-Minghao.

-O que? Como assim? Foi ontem?

-Também.

-Como assim também?

-Aconteceu em um dos ensaios e ontem novamente.

-E o que aconteceu?

-A gente se beijou.

-O QUE?

-Shiuu Laura, quer que o pessoal no Japão escute?

-Desculpa é que sei lá, fiquei empolgada, confusa, assustada, feliz, não sei.

-Pois é, não tem muito o que se empolgar a respeito.

-Você gosta dele?

-Do Minghao?

-Uhum.

-E quem não gosta?

-Você sabe do que eu to falando.

-Sei, mas a verdade é que não sei o que eu sinto de verdade, quer dizer, ele beija muito bem e só uma idiota não ia querer ficar com ele, mas...

-Mas...?

-No elevador, o Seungcheol me beijou.

-É O QUE?

-LAURA!

-Desculpa, mas como assim? O Seungcheol? Você não tinha medo dele?

-Com ele foi diferente, eu tive uma crise de pânico e ele me beijou pra regular a minha respiração, ele disse que viu isso em algum lugar.

-E deu certo?

-Deu sim, o ataque de pânico por causa da morte eminente desapareceu, mas quase que eu tive um por causa dele.

-Beija bem, é?

-Você não tem noção. E desde que aconteceu que eu não consigo pensar em outra coisa e toda vez que penso, sinto meu estômago ser mergulhado em água gelada.

-O que você está pensando em fazer? Quer dizer, a gente vê que o Jeonghan quer se aproximar de você e não como apenas um amigo, você está pra cima e pra baixo beijando o Minghao, mas não consegue superar o beijo do S.Coups.

-O que eu estou pensando em fazer e o que DEVO fazer é tentar não perder o meu emprego, portanto acho melhor começar a evitar os três.

Isabela

-Vocês podem começar tentando fazer com que eles estejam no palco na hora certa. – elas encaram Lizzy que parece um tanto quanto irritada, o que não é para menos, pois o barulho vindo do camarim do Seventeen é simplesmente ensurdecedor.

-Eu vou tentar. – é o que Isabela diz parando na porta do camarim.

Estão nervosas, talvez estejam mais nervosas do que eles. Já faz algum tempo que estão trabalhando com eles, ajudando-os em tudo o que conseguem e finalmente o dia do tão aguardado comeback chegou.

Por um lado elas estão felizes, afinal a maratona de ensaios estava deixando os treze mais do que cansados, elas quase nunca conseguiam ficar perto deles e quando conseguiam, bem era pra trabalhar.

A mão de S.Coups também fora um problema, afinal a coreografia demandava muitos movimentos e ele estava sempre machucando os pontos o que deixava Lizzy com um peso enorme na consciência toda vez que ele deixava escapar um gemido de dor.

-Por que vocês ainda estão na porta? – a voz as desperta. – vamos garotas, entrem!

Antes que elas discutam são simplesmente arremessadas porta adentro, Isabela tropeça em algumas coisas e cai sentada em uma poltrona. Todos se viram para encará-la e então ela nota a confusão que está ali.

Tem integrantes espalhados por todo o cômodo cantando uns por cima dos outros. A hip-hop United faz uma batalha de rap improvisada. A performance unit grita algo ensurdecedor e a vocal unit está aquecendo a voz com uma gritaria que deveria ser proibida. Dentre eles, bem apenas Woozi está atirado em um dos sofás, ambos os olhos fechados e os braços cruzado sobre o peito, ele visivelmente dorme. Por um segundo Isabela se pergunta como diabos ele consegue fazer aquilo, já que o camarim parece um galinheiro.

-Eu nunca ouvi tanto barulho na minha vida. – Isabela deixa escapar e Eduarda faz um gesto positivo com a cabeça. – como diabos vamos fazer eles subirem no palco na hora certa?

-Tenta ajudar a maquiadora levando um dos rappers barulhentos até lá, eu vou ver se consigo acordar o Woozi.

-Ele parece bem frágil dormindo assim, não é? – Eduarda observa e Isabela faz um gesto positivo com a cabeça.

-Sim, mas enfim, preciso ir até lá, tenta começar com o rei da gritaria ali. – ela fala apontando DK que tem as veias do pescoço quase explodindo do tanto que grita.

- Certo.

Eduarda segue até DK e Isabela caminha até o sofá em que Woozi está deitado. Ela o encara, sabe que ele está cansado, afinal eles estavam ensaiando doze horas por dia todos os dias sem parar para esse comeback.

-O Woozi está bem? – ela pergunta antes de acordá-lo. S.Coups que está próximo a encara através do reflexo do espelho a sua frente.

-Ele está muito cansado, estamos ensaiando bastante, todos nós, mas essas maratonas sempre pegam o Uji com mais força, afinal ele tem dificuldades para dormir. O corpo dele não é tão resistente quanto o do restante de nós.

-Estou com pena de acordar ele. – ela começa. – mas, vocês precisam estar no palco em meia hora.

-É eu sei.

Ela desvia o olhar de S.Coups e se aproxima mais do sofá no qual Woozi está dormindo.

-Woozi? – ela chama baixo. – Jihoon?

Ele se mexe, virando-se para o outro lado.

-Woozi. – ela chama novamente. – você precisa acordar, estamos atrasados.

Então ele senta-se rapidamente no sofá encarando-a. Por um instante parece tentar assimilar a situação.

-Você precisa se aprontar.

Então ele boceja encarando-a, Isabela não pode deixar de abrir um sorriso, Woozi é realmente adorável.

-Bom dia Bela.

-Boa noite você quer dizer, certo?

-Só seria boa noite se eu estivesse indo dormir. – ele fala encarando-a. – mas como não estou... – e então no gesto mais fofo do mundo ele faz beicinho, Isabela ri novamente.

-Vamos não seja assim, depois do evento você dorme.

Ele enfim fica de pé e se arrasta banheiro adentro. Isabela o acompanha com o olhar, Woozi parece mesmo muito cansado.

Dino acompanha o amigo com o olhar e então desvia os olhos para encará-la, Luiza está de pé olhando fixamente para onde Joshua desaparecera, por um segundo Dino se pergunta o que ela está pensando, se como todos eles ela está preocupada com Joshua ou se há algo mais ali.

Woozi

Woozi entra no banheiro e fecha a porta se apoiando na pia e encarando seu reflexo no espelho. A insônia piorara muito e seu apetite também caíra de forma brusca desde que ele a conhecera. Pensar nela, conviver com ela, estar perto dela faz com que ele se sinta fraco e agitado.

Respira fundo, não é hora de pensar naquilo, principalmente porque ele sabe que não é o único a estar se sentindo daquela maneira, na madrugada anterior ele pegara Dino abafando um grito desesperado com sua almofada em forma de Pokebola quando deveria estar dormindo. Pois é, o maknae também está com problemas.

-Uji? – a voz dela faz com que seu coração dê um salto, não deveria ter pedido para que ela o chamasse daquela forma, mas agora já é tarde demais.

-Um segundo, já estou saindo.

-Suas roupas.

Ele abre uma fresta na porta e as segura, fechando a porta em seguida.

Se arruma o mais rápido que consegue e mais uma vez para de frente ao espelho.

-Foco. Você precisa ter foco.

Woozi joga um punhado de água no rosto e em seguida segue banheiro afora. Ao fazê-lo se assusta ao ver que o camarim está vazio e ela é a única pessoa de pé encarando-o com olhos preocupados.

-Onde estão todos? – ele pergunta.

-Eles já foram para o backstage, vocês entram em dez minutos.

-E onde está a Hani? – ele pergunta ao perceber que a maquiadora não está lá.

-Ela os acompanhou para fazer os últimos retoques.

-E eu?

Isabela abre um sorriso fraco e ergue um pincel.

-Eu vou te maquiar.

-Você?

-Algum problema?

-Você sabe fazer isso?

-Você não confia em mim?

-Claro que não.

-Não seja idiota e senta logo aqui antes que eles entrem no palco sem você.

-Isabela...

-Se você não parar de resmungar eu vou te deixar parecendo um travesti, agora senta!

Isabela caminha em direção a cadeira e se senta de forma insegura.

-Woozi. – ela começa enquanto o maquia, Woozi que está de olhos fechados abre apenas o direito para encará-la através do espelho.

-Oi?

-Você está mesmo bem?

Antes que ela encoste o pincel em seu rosto, Woozi segura a mão dela, se virando na cadeira para encará-la.

-O que? Por que você está me perguntando isso?

-Não sei, é que me disseram que você não está dormindo ou comendo bem, eu queria saber se você está com algum problema e se eu poderia ajudar.

Ele a solta e fica de pé, se afastando dela e da cadeira.

-Eu estou bem.

-Eu não terminei.

-Não precisa, eu vou assim mesmo.

E antes que ela possa protestar ele segue camarim afora.

Thais

-Você gostou? – a voz de Minghao faz com que eu o encare, ele tem um sorriso no rosto.

-Se eu gostei? Vocês estavam incríveis.

Desvio o olhar dele para encarar Jeonghan que simplesmente passa por mim e segue corredor afora. Fico sem entender a atitude dele, mas decido não dizer nada.

Todos seguem para comemorar o comeback, mas mesmo com a insistência das meninas para que eu vá, decido que quero ir para casa, não estou com vontade de comemorar, a verdade é que preciso de uma boa noite de sono.

Acordo no meio da noite com o toque da campainha. Pego o celular e encaro a tela, são três e meia da manhã.

-Sério? – falo irritada levantando da cama com dificuldade e seguindo em direção a porta. Abro apenas uma fresta e olho lá fora, afinal a essa hora pode ser qualquer coisa, certo? Então ao encarar o corredor identifico uma silhueta, tem alguém sentado ali e pelas roupas eu sei muito bem quem é.

-Está tarde, sabia? – é o que digo no instante em que saio porta afora.

Ele fica de pé em um salto e me encara.

-Desculpe. – é tudo o que ele diz.

-O que você veio fazer aqui?

Ele respira fundo e encara o teto, depois enfim olha pra mim.

-Obrigado por ter torcido pela gente. Obrigado por ter nos apoiado em todos os ensaios e desculpa por ter passado por você daquela maneira no corredor, mas é que eu...

Então ele para. Os olhos fixos em mim.

-Que você o que?

Por um segundo quero apenas ficar olhando pra ele, para a forma com que ele é bonito, para os traços de seu rosto sistematicamente perfeitos.

-Boa noite.

E sem responder a pergunta, Jeonghan se vira e segue caminho me deixando mais do que confusa.

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kursed-curtain · 1 year

Text

A Shift In Outlook

A changeling!Graham fic

(featuring @gerbiloftriumph 's, @captmickey 's, and @thewatercolours ' Cracker family hcs mixed in with a few of others & my own)

-+-

Young Graham - one of the newest members of the Cracker family and the one who stood out the most. Not only was he the youngest brother, surrounded by sisters, but he was also considered one of the ones who got into the most trouble.

Sure, his sisters got into their own fair share of situations. When they were younger, Anisette tried to cut her hair by herself, Ginger had fallen off plenty of rocks and short trees, and Madeline took eggs from the cupboard and wrapped them in blankets in hopes they would hatch.

However, Graham's incidents fell under a whole new level of problem, because they were constant. Once, Madeline had discovered that 9-month-old Graham had snuck outside the house and covered himself with mud. She brought him inside, then locked the door. Minutes later, Graham was gone, and Madeline found him again, in the same spot outside, while the door was still locked. Turns out, he climbed up onto a desk, unlatched the window, and crept outside.

They found more strange Graham-related occurrences. He babbled to bugs and animals, yet stayed sad and silent around people. He would hum and sing to himself a song that his family never taught him - in another language too, when he barely spoke Common. He wouldn't eat meats or let others eat meats in front of him - he would throw a tantrum just to get them off the table. He was frequently sick, with no clear sign of a specific illness, and yet never wanted to stay in bed, always sneaking into trees or the family farm.

Graham was concerning, and quite the handful, but Mrs. Cracker had raised a family from the ground up. This was simply an extra challenge.

(Although, part of Rosie suspected this was all part of their plan. It made sense, but she never wanted to view her boy as a life-ruining curse. He was more than that.)

-+-

One sunny morning, Graham leapt out of bed, spry as a feather, and grabbed his day clothes. Today was his day, after all - his birthday!

He struggled more with putting on his tunic, but that was alright, he didn't have time to worry. They were going to have a party, with the whole family, at the restaurant Mom worked at before they settled at home.

He slipped on his oversized cape and plopped on his adventuring cap. The cap fell right onto the floor. Graham tried again, securing the cap by pressing it onto his head. It popped off, falling into his hands.

That was... weird. Graham wandered over to the mirror, to see what was the matter.

He almost fainted at the sight.

-+-

Mrs. Cracker hummed a melody to herself while heating up the butter and the milk. Anisette was standing on her tippy-toes, reaching for the flour on one of the higher shelves.

"Be careful, Annie," Mom chimed.

"I am!" Anisette grabbed a wooden spatula, edging the flour closer and closer to the edge...

...and the room soon clouded with white powder.

Mom fanned away the flour. "Annie, dear, you could have waited for me to be done and I could have helped you,"

Anisette looked down at the mess on the counter. "I wanted to get it myself..."

"And you did, in a very clever way too," Mom patted Anisette on the head. "You just need to figure out when asking for help is needed, because that's just as important as independence."

"Help... In-de-pen-dence... Got it!" Anisette beamed.

Mom rubbed Anisette's shoulder. "Good. Now, go wake the birthday brother! I can clean this up."

Anisette nodded. She rushed to the bedroom and rapped on the door. "Wakey wakey, pancakey bakey!"

...No answer.

Anisette struggled with the doorknob. Huh, locked.

"Graham?"

"I don't wanna." Grumbled a voice from behind the door.

"Why don't you wanna come out?" Annie smirked, "Mom's making choco-chip pancakes for your birthday~"

Graham gasped, but stayed behind the door. "Um...hair..."

"Hair? Oh! Are you having a bad hair day? I can help!"

"Nuh-uh."

Anisette rubbed her neck, recalling her childhood self's very poor lack of bangs. "Yeah, okay, I get that. But still, it's your birthday! You shouldn't let a hairy situation ruin your special day!"

There was a beat of silence, then shuffling of feet and unlocking of the door. Anisette giggled, for Graham had covered himself in a bedsheet.

"You look like a ghost!" Anisette laughed.

Graham's voice shook in fear. "I do??"

"Yeah, you look like a sheet ghost on Halloween!" Anisette tugged on the sheet. Graham pulled it back over himself. "C'mon, Graham, you can't wear this all day!"

Graham trembled, "...I don't want you to be scared."

Anisette's face softened. "Why would I be scared? Of you?"

"I look weird."

"Weird hair is okay, Graham! I've had weirder hair," she rubbed him on the back, "Plus, I'm not afraid of you! I love you a lot, and nothing beats that. Okay?"

Graham hummed, "...Okay." Then slipped off the bedsheet. Anisette promptly screamed.

"You! You're pale as a bedsheet!" Anisette yelled.

Graham cried, "I know!"

"Your hair is silky!"

"I know!"

"You have a tail! Pointy ears! Your pupils are gone!"

Graham choked up. "I-I know... I'm scared..." His voice gained a more prominent echo, getting pingy, like a windchime.

Anisette brought Graham in for a hug, to let him cry into her dress. She noticed how clean his face is - how it didn't get red and puffy when he cried. She wasn't sure *what* he had become, but she was determined to find out. "Hey, we can figure out what is happening if we gather some context behind this all," She rubbed him on the back.

Graham tilted his head. "Con-tex?"

"Oh, um," Anisette tapped her chin. "It's like a clue about what really happened. Like in a mystery story!"

Graham clapped, humming his cheery tune. It was rare to see him smile - usually he simply hummed when he was feeling content, and that was fine with Annie.

She led Graham back into the bedroom, suspecting the first clue must have been around the area. She paced the room, stroking her chin while she pondered the situation. Graham waddled behind, mimicking her chin-stroking. What neither of them noticed was how Graham seemed to be growing in size.

"Have you found anything, Graham?" Anisette turned around, then realized she had to look up to meet... Her own eyes?

"No... I don't see context," Graham said, in Anisette's voice. He covered his mouth.

Annie bounced. "You turned into me! You can change your appearance!"

(She stood back to back, comparing herself to Graham as herself. "You're too tall, though."

"But you are tall."

"Well, compared to you, I'm probably a giant! But sadly I'm not that tall.")

Graham looked at his hands and his golden curls in awe. He was a shape changer!

Meanwhile, Anisette was conjuring up ideas. There were so many possibilities offered by having a shapeshifting brother. Maybe she could become part of a crew finally - even though a ship wouldn't allow anyone under 14 to join. She could have Graham sign for her as a slightly older version of herself - even though he barely knew how to write his alphabet, let alone forge a signature...

A knock on the door. Zards, Annie had forgotten about breakfast.

"Are you two alright? I heard a lot of yelling," said Mom.

"Yes~!" Anisette groaned. She threw the bedsheet back over her brother-shaped-like-herself, then she brushed past Mom to grab two plates of pancakes, only to be stopped on the way back to the room.

"No eating in the bedroom, Annie," Mom chided. "I'll let you eat in the living room, but only if you promise to not leave any crumbs."

Anisette crossed her heart. "It'll be as if I was never there!"

Annie sped to the bedroom, and brought back sheet-ghost Graham. They sat in the living room, with Graham kicking his legs and giggling as he ate pancakes from under a bedsheet.

Mom served Madeline and Ginger - who, unlike their younger siblings, decided to sit in the dining room - then sat down across from Anisette and someone under a blanket.

"Graham, what are you wearing?" Mom beamed, holding back her laughter.

Anisette butted in, "It's his Halloween costume!"

"In... July?"

"Yeah!"

Mrs. Cracker scratched her chin. "Well, I still wanna see the birthday boy's lovely face!"

Annie and Graham jumped. "No, don't! He's having um- A bad face day! He doesn't wanna face his face." Anisette objected.

Mom sighed, smiling. "Good face or bad face, I want to properly greet my boy."

Graham whispered to Anisette, *"I don't know how to change back..."*

*"Um, you have dark hair and freckles and blue eyes. Now, go!"*

Graham waddled up to Mom and let her take off the sheet. At the sight, her jaw dropped, for the child before her didn't look like Graham at all. More like Annie had dyed her hair darker and put on freckles.

Graham saw his mom's face - clearly disappointment - and teared up. "I don't know how to look normal again!"

"Normal?"

"I- I didn't want to scare you. I look like a scary monster. A scary monster that changes shapes." Graham sniffled.

"Yeah, um," Anisette stood behind Graham. "Graham woke up and he was all smooth and shiny and he can change his appearance."

Mom tapped her foot. "Like a changeling..."

"Changeling?" Annie and Graham asked, in unison.

"A type of fae who takes on the appearance of a human," Mom recounted, "Typically, in tales about the fae, they swap stolen human babies with a changeling one. You're different, though-"

Her children gasped. Graham wailed, "Was I swapped??"

Mom held Graham's face. She caressed his cheeks, and he leaned into it with a quiet humming of his tune. "You were never swapped with anyone else. You're my child, and don't let anyone say that you can't be," She assured. "...Want me to tell you a story?"

Graham gasped - a story! - and plopped himself at the foot of his mom. Mrs. Cracker called over Madeline and Ginger, for they would want to hear the story - the truth.

"Once upon a time, before you were born," Mom booped Graham on the nose, "I was on a little walk home through the forest, strolling beside your father. One misstep, however, had me standing in a fairy circle, and face-to-face with a scowling fae."

The sisters gasped, for the dramatic effect. Graham kicked his legs, his smile growing wide.

"We apologized for intruding, simply wanting to get home without any fuss, but the fae wasn't going to have it. They were keeping us there for reasons they wouldn't elaborate on - they simply glared," Mom imitated the face of the fae. "I even commented on it, saying that their face could use some work - no one looks good when they're sneering."

Mom snapped her fingers. "That's what ticked the fae off."

"Zards, can't even take light criticism." Ginger crossed her arms.

"Did the fae make Graham a changeling???" Anisette squealed. Graham held Anisette's hand, his tail swaying.

Mom chuckled. "I'll get to that, Annie. Be patient."

Anisette folded her legs and hugged Graham.

"The fae boomed, 'You dare to mock my beauty with yours? No one shall surpass my charm!'" Mom waved her arms. "'Your bloodline will be disfigured for generations to come. They will be abandoned, outcast, until the end of time!'"

Graham's sisters burst into commotion. "That's terrible!" "Why had I never heard of this??" "That fae is a big meanie!!"

Graham, meanwhile, gazed at the floor. He held Anisette tighter, then buried his face in the crook of her neck. Anisette combed Graham's silky white hair with her fingers, cooing, "What's wrong?"

Graham wriggled in Annie's arms. "...Am I supposed to be outcast? Am I the curse?"

"What? No!" Anisette cried.

Mom tisked, then placed Graham on her lap. "You know... With curses, there's usually some sort of loophole."

Graham wiped away tears. "What does that mean?"

"It means that there was part of the curse that the fae may not have thought about." Mom stroked Graham's flowery antennae. "The fae didn't think about how sweet of a child you would be, about how clever and kind you are. Your charm comes from the inside."

"So..." Graham's tail swayed. "The curse made me scary, but only on the outside?"

"Yes, Cookie, you got it!"

Graham giggled, his smile unnaturally wide, and his laughter like birdsong. His sisters gathered around to give Graham a group hug, unnerved by their brother's appearance.

...Madeline gasped. "We still need to prep for the party!"

Graham frantically bounced in his seat. "I'm um, I'm not normal still!"

Mom pushed back Graham's hair and kissed his forehead. "This is how you are normally. We still love you~"

"Mom, please!" Graham kicked his legs. "How do I turn not-scary for the party?"

Anisette scanned the room, saw Madeline, and Annie's face lit up. She rushed to the bedroom, grabbed a family portrait, and shoved it under Graham's nose.

"Look at your portrait!" Anisette giggles.

Graham idly does, and as he's looking, his face melts and warps into a young boy with dark hair, blue eyes, and a face of freckles.

Ginger grabs a hand mirror, and Graham gasps, "I did it!"

"You did do it, Cookie!" Mrs. Cracker grins.

Graham rushed off, eager to continue prepping for the party. The rest of the Crackers readily pack in balloons and Graham's presents from the each of them, for a birthday to remember.

#- FINALLY!!!! FAMILY!!!!!!#fanfic #changeling au #kings quest #graham kq #@rosie cracker #@anisette cracker #@madeline cracker #@ginger cracker

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cyarskaren52 · 11 months

Text

In 1998, the mainstream Hip-Hop landscape was dominated by No Limit soldiers, Bad Boys, and Wu-Tang killer bees. There was a preoccupiation with floss and, in the wake of the high-profile murders of 2Pac and the Notorious B.I.G., the industry seemed to want to shine as much as possible. Understandable — but out of Yonkers, N.Y., there came a crew.

With a production wizard, a brash beauty, a trio bred from the streets, and a tortured superstar who was taking the rap game by storm, the Ruff Ryders put the streets squarely on the late 90s pop charts. In doing so, they helped usher in the new millennium of East Coast hardcore: grimy enough for the hood; polished enough for the charts. They owned the streets and the radio.

Here's 25 of their best bangers.

#26

"JENNY FROM THE BLOCK" - JENNIFER LOPEZ FEAT. JADAKISS, STYLES P [BONUS SONG]

Our BONUS SONG pick is a celebrated classic guest spot! J. Lo got to reconnect with some of that Uptown swag and Yonkers connection when she hooked up w/two-thirds of the LOX.

#25

"THEY AIN'T READY" - RUFF RYDERS W/JADAKISS, TIMBALAND, BUBBA SPARXXX

They crew from Yonkers made it clear that they had love for that Dirty South swag. VA superproducer Timbaland laced the track, which also features Athens, GA's own: Bubba Sparxxx.

#24

"WW III" - RUFF RYDERS W/SNOOP DOGG, YUNG WUN, SCARFACE, JADAKISS

Swizz Beatz pulled together a who's-who of legendary emcees for this track from RYDE OR DIE VOL. 2. The song also served as the album opener for the hit compilation.

#23

"NIGGAZ DIE 4 ME" - DRAG-ON FEAT. DMX

X was Ruff Ryders' biggest star, and he had underrated chemistry with the young gun from The Bronx. The lead single from Drag-On's gold-selling 2000 debut album, OPPOSITE OF H2O, is one of the best from Y2K.

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#22

"WHO'S THAT GIRL" - EVE

The single from Eve’s sophomore album, SCORPION, is one of her most memorable, mostly due to the catchy hook. She’s clearing up any confusion about who she is as a woman and what she brings to the table artistically, carving out space to shine completely on her own.

#21

"KNOCK YOURSELF OUT" - JADAKISS

Never sleep on Jada's ability to craft radio tracks. From his solo debut KISS THA GAME GOODBYE, Jada's second single wasn't a Swizz beat; it was actually produced by The Neptunes.

#20

"GOT IT ALL" RUFF RYDERS W/EVE AND JADAKISS

Jada and Eve pull off the classic "Battle of the Sexes" with this stellar back-and-forth over a steel drum-driven beat from Teflon. Released a single from Ryde Or Die, Vol. 2, it revived a classic pop music formula (seriously, everybody from Otis Redding and Carla Thomas to Ice Cube and Yo-Yo have done it) for the hardcore bling era.

#19

"WHO WE BE" - DMX

The surging beat is one of the most anthemic X ever rhymed over, and his aggression belies a tour-de-force performance that caps the tail end of DMX's most classic run. The kiddie chorus is the right kind of foreboding: both a warning and a call-to-arms.

#18

"MY NAME IS KISS" - JADAKISS

Kiss and The LOX had been well-established by the time he released this declaration of self. It's a showcase for his particular brand of pensive street rap and lyricism, a pronouncement more than an announcement. And proof positive that Kiss has a lane all his own.

#17

"WHAT'S MY NAME" - DMX

By 1999, the whole world knew who this guy was. But X's hunger was still palatable in every single. Even as the vids got glossier and the collabos got Sisqo-ier, X managed to bring grittiness to hip-hop's surging mainstream over a skittering backdrop by Irv Gotti & Co.

#16

"LET ME BLOW YA MIND" - EVE FEAT. GWEN STEFANI

She'd begun her career on Dr. Dre's Aftermath, but we didn't really get to hear what E-V-E could do with the Good Doctor (and Scott Storch) until this monster hit from the early 00s. Paired with soon-to-be-solo superstar Gwen Stefani, the Philly rhymer delivered a bouncy single that still seems to capture the best of its era.

#15

"SLIPPIN'" - DMX

One of the best examples of DMX's tortured brilliance, the autumnal sadness of this classic perfectly conveys the hopelessness and vulnerability in X's verses. He's an artist who came to embody "write your pain," and this single from his second album is proof positive that few wore angst better.

#14

"LOVE IS BLIND" - EVE

An examination of domestic violence that lingers long after that first listen, Eve's heartfelt single was dedicated to her high school best friend. The Ruff Ryders' First Lady struck back for victims everywhere — and struck a chord with anyone who'd endured, known someone who'd survived, or had lost someone to the pain of abuse.

#13

"WHAT THEY REALLY WANT" - DMX FEAT. SISQÓ

DMX was on quite the singles run, Sisqó was at his post-"Thong Song" peak and over a slinky beat that could only come from Nokio, X rattles off his frustrations as a gruff ladies' man. The infamous name-dropping of "Brenda, LaTisha, Linda, Felicia..." made it one of the most quotable tracks in X's oeuvre and birthed a viral internet challenge almost 20 years after its release.

#12

"GOOD TIMES (I GET HIGH)" - STYLES P

Swizz's inspired flip of Freda Payne is the perfect backdrop for Styles P's ode to herbal refreshment. The hit leadoff single from his A GANGSTER AND A GENTLEMAN album, the track was close to inescapable in 2002; turning up everywhere from Swizz's own compilation to the Kevin Hart comedy SOUL PLANE.

#11

"STOP BEING GREEDY" - DMX

It sounded like a warning, issued from a newcomer ready to take on the flossy chart-toppers dominating the rap game. DMX had a few major hits under his arm when he unleashed this anthem, letting everybody know, regardless of where you stood in hip-hop's hierarchy, you were going to have to contend with the dark rhymer's hunger.

#10

"WHY" - JADAKISS

Over soulful production from Mobb Deep's Havoc, Jadakiss poses the hood's hardest questions. It proved to be one of his most resonate tracks, and it's not hard to see why. Referencing everything from the prison industrial complex to the early 2002 Oscar race, it became a smash hit in the summer of 2004, skyrocketing all the way to No. 11 on the Billboard Hot 100.

"JIGGA MY NIGGA" - RUFF RYDERS W/JAY-Z

NYC-based rap labels were enjoying a friendly competition in the commercially lucrative late 90s. Roc-A-Fella and Ruff Ryders were two of the hottest brands in Hip-Hop. Jay-Z and Roc-A-Fella understood how to walk the balance between ballerific raps and street grit. Hov pairing with Ruff Ryders made all the sense in the world circa 1998.

"RIDE OR DIE BYTCH" - THE LOX W/EVE AND TIMBALAND

It became a phrase that defined Bonnie & Clyde-esque solidarity for a generation. And it was the single that announced The LOX's second act, as the street rap trio had landed on Ruff Ryders after a highly-publicized departure from Puff Daddy's Bad Boy Records. The Timbo-produced track made it clear the trio from Yonkers could craft radio hits and keep it street.

"WE GONNA MAKE IT" - JADAKISS FEAT. EVE AND STYLES P

An epic single that served as the first solo hit from Jadakiss, this street anthem (has any song ever epitomized that phrase better?) is one of the best in Ruff Ryders' enviable oeuvre. Alchemist laced Kiss with one of his most inspired beats, and Jadakiss delivers as only he can: the kind of rabble-rousing call to arms that resonated on many a corner.

"GOTTA MAN" - EVE

There had been odes to thug love before, but none had managed to be so cute, so sweet and so street — all at the same time. Eve's brand of everygirl relatability was unique in the high glamour late 90s, but make no mistake — nobody could blend swagger and sex appeal like the Ruff Ryders First Lady. The kind of song that made many a thug wish they had this sorta girl by their side.

"GO HEAD" - THE LOX

Sometimes you just know an artist is in their element, and just enjoy watching them work. The LOX were, in many ways, the soul of Ruff Ryders. The grimy street tales from the Yonkers trio were always a better fit for Ruff Ryders than Bad Boy, and Sheek Louch, Styles P and Jadakiss do what they do best on this melancholy masterwork from TJ Beatz.

"DOWN BOTTOM" - RUFF RYDERS W/DRAG-ON, SWIZZ BEATZ, AND JUVENILE

Proof positive that nobody does synth-driven fanfare better than Swizz, this epic single gave Drag-On a huge boost leading into his solo career and was one of the few late 90s East Coast/Dirty South collaborations that didn't’ feel forced or awkward. Juvie repped for NOLA’s Cash Money and, circa 1999, this was the two hottest new labels in the rap game joining forces.

"GET AT ME DOG" - DMX FEAT. SHEEK LOUCH

Everybody knew Dark Man X was coming. He’d been making noise via underground performances and several star-making appearances on hit singles by Ma$e and LL COOL J for almost two years. But his first major label single dropped like a grimy bomb in a landscape littered with shiny suits. With his first hit, X made it clear who he was, and also made it clear that the game wasn’t going to drown in jigginess as we raced towards Y2K.

"WHAT Y'ALL WANT" - EVE FEAT. NOKIO OF DRU HILL

She finally had her moment. The "Illest Pitbull In A Skirt" had been waiting in the wings for almost three years, but it was this catchy, salsa-inflected single from the RYDE OR DIE, VOL. 1 compilation that not only let the world know the Philly firebrand had arrived, but made it clear the RR was taking over the radio.

"RUFF RYDERS ANTHEM" - DMX

Could there be any doubt? The song that all but announced the genius of Swizz Beatz, its an anthem in every sense: instantly memorable; a call to arms for the crew; and a song that transcends its time and era. It's the label's theme song, and captures a moment in time that feels immediate and fresh every time you hear that infectious chorus -- but it never feels stuck in 1998. It's a street rap masterpiece. And to think, X didn’t even like the beat when he first heard it

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