#HIM BEING ON THE BLOCK AGAIN!!!! TARGETED!!!!! TWO WEEKS IN A ROW!!!!!!! WHY????

[britneyshakespeare]

i am so fucking mad about jag

[septimaseverinawannawrite]

How the Relationship Begins

Fandom: Star Wars

Type: Headcanons

Pairing: Cassian Andor x F!Reader

Warning: Late night writing, so, no beta. Writer is being overwhelm and under Taylor Swift's Lavender Haze (As you can see title's colours). A little bit OOC.

Rate: T

A/N: This idea happened when I rewatch Andor for fourth time. Now, I'm heavily in the writer-block state, but I don't want to abandon this blog. I believe this dilemma is gonna pass, if I keep writing. So, Enjoy!

🌹Click to My AO3

(Divider by @saradika)

Okay, let's start!

You met him on Yavin IV. Both of you were new to the Alliance's main base.

Since it was the main base, that meant you both had to train for necessary skills.

From the Alliance's levels, he was 'good to excellent', while your far-lenght shooting skill was not reaching the requirement. You stayed at training ground, after all new recruits leaved, to improve your skill.

Cassian saw you practising. He volunteered to help you, because he had feelings toward you.

It was the impression at first sight.

He couldn't clearly answer what kind of feeling, but as you were around him, smiling at him and saying thanks, he felt like he was teenage boy - who had a first crush - again.

While you had been grateful for his help and feeling like butterflies were in your stomach, especially when he adjusting your stance.

Not only his help drove you crazy, but also his smiles, his touches and his whispers into your ear - how to shoot and hitting right at the target.

As you hit all targets in all rows, you jumped and hugged him with happiness and exciting.

Yes. It made you blushing hard like tomatoes, while Cassian's heart skipped a beat. So, you two bounced away.

"First time is a beginner luck. You have to practise everyday." He said. "Meet me every day after dinner."

You agreed. You and Cassian kept meeting at training ground, every evening.

And after the semi-private session. You returned to your quater with many questions in your head. The big question was; 'Did you fall for him?'

You shaked them off and switched with the thought until you falling asleep.

Now you had been practising every evening for 2 weeks, until he challenging you to shoot all targets within 30 seconds. You accepted and you did it.

Jumping and hugging him again. But this time you both lingered. His face and yours were close, enough to feel the breathes. His brown eyes bared his soul, you could not fight them.

"Thank you so much, Cassian. I think tomorrow I will pass the test with flying flag." You mumbled.

"I think so, but, why do you looking to another way?"

You still looked down at the floor, almost startling, he was tilting your chin up to look at him. His thumb gently fondled your lower lips, your lips part a little.

"Cassian...I-I.." You stuttered, "I don't know what to say..."

"Kassa, call me Kassa."

Cassian's raptured voice got you, finally you gazed upon him, whispering 'Kassa'.

Like the gravity around you two sent the colossus magnets pulling you both to capture each other's lips.

After few seconds, which felt like hours; you both withdrew for air, leaning the temples together with wide smiles and small laughing.

When you passed the test and registered as an officially rebellion officer, Cassian was waiting for you.

You hopped and hugging him tightly. He praised you and guiding you away from the chaos around hangar and commanding table.

"Would you like to move into my quarter?" He asked, kissing your temple.

"You should ask me out before asking me to move in with you." You teased him. This time was his turn that his cheeks were reddening.

He knew too well, your both works were not certain. The missions after would take his own or your life. Also, his first mission as Captain Andor had been assigned, he must leave in three days from now. So, he had to rush things like this.

But you had a point. He should ask you out for an official date. He made up his mind and asking you to survey the ancient ruins on Yavin IV with him.

You accepted with conditions and terms;

"Okay, I'm going out with you, but about moving in--"

"But what?"

"But after your first mission succeed and our third date. Because I need the assurance that you are gonna return back safe and sound. Promise me."

Cassian smiled sweetly, kissed you before he speaking.

"I'm certainly gonna get back to you, my love, I promise."

Then you hugged him again and kissing his jawline, just like a seal to guaruntee the new chapter and adventure in your both lives was full of happiness, joyous and bright futures. Even those three words did not slip out yet.

[the-darklings]

—𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆;

—PART XVII. | ALL PATHS LEAD TO NOWHERE

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 38.7k+ (truly curious to know if i’m the biggest clown on tumblr)

summary: “Remember this moment. This is the moment you chose to face death.”

warnings: angsty, swearing, strong violence x 2 (I mean there’s two of them) 

notes: I’m so nervous for this chapter hahahahaha. But you’ve waited long enough, let’s roll on Parabellum. 

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 15 | 16 | . . | 18 |

There are moments—fragments, really—that shift the course of one’s life.

Be it for better or for worse, they mark a second in which one path ceases to be and another takes its place. Sometimes this change is brought forth by one’s own actions. Other times it’s a change that is not in your control.

It’s like being caught in the eye of the storm.

Unable to fight back, unable to do anything—just a ceaseless struggle.

The clock in Doc’s clinic tolls 6pm and you feel the path you were once on disintegrate beneath your feet. You knew it was going to happen the moment John fired that bullet but now it’s an absolute.

Your eyes press shut and you clench the tiny box between your fingers, your head bowed.

“I’m sorry, Mr Wick.”

John only grunts. “Rules.”

“Ah, rules,” Doc repeats in defeat though with no small amount of disgruntlement. “V, if you hurry—”

You stand without a word, pushing back the dislodged floorboard messily back in place. Your hand slides inside your pocket, securing the box in your hand.

“Thank you, Doc.”

You don’t look at him as you say it. Your eyes linger on the ring on your middle finger and you exhale, turning to go.

“Vipress.”

You don’t turn to face him.

There is disappointed in Doc’s voice. “You can help him.”

“Doc.”

John sounds wary, his voice a soft rasp. You don’t react at first but slant your head in their direction after a moment.

There are visible traces of pain across John’s features. His dark, wet hair sticks to his face and you gaze at him for a beat, silent. Just observing him. His dark eyes are focused on you as well. You’re not sure what to make of the muted hope you see there.  

It’s odd how different he now appears to you.

He’s still John but there is something else now.

Your eyes slide towards the older man standing next to him, only to find him peering at you with a minute frown. There is an expectation in that weighted, wise gaze.

“I don’t owe him anything.”

As simple as that. For the first time since Winston told you those words weeks ago now—before this whole mess began—you feel the truth of them.

You’re done owing anyone anything. Even a shred of your time.

“If that’s the case,” the older man mutters and despite your best efforts to keep your expression empty, his next words still manage to cut deep. “Then you’re no better than the rest of them.”

Your fingers form a loose fist. “And if I am?” you wonder softly. “No better than the rest of them?”

An icy caress of a question but Doc only shakes his head. “I know that’s not true.”

The tension in the air hangs like a suffocating blanket. The beat of rain against the windows reverberates through the room but there are no other sounds beside it.

“It’s fine, Doc,” John inputs after an uncomfortable pause, taking the bloody needle from the man’s worn hand. “Give it to me.”

You watch as John grabs the lamp, swinging it and a mirror in his direction so he can see his own shoulder. His shaking fingers push the needle into the bloodied skin and his expression twitches, his jaw clenching. As always those are his only tells of pain.

It’s slow progress though.

Slow, painful and messy.

Your feet move.

They carry you in John’s direction in a few unhurried steps, and you don’t look towards Doc as you brush past him, shoving the lamp and the mirror aside roughly. John stills when your fingers pinch around the hook of the needle, pulling it out of his shaky hold.

Pressing your fingers against the warm, bloody skin, you sink the needle back into his shoulder carefully, pulling on it.

“(Name).”

“Don’t bother.”

“I’m—”

“I said don’t bother.”

Your eyes meet.

Ice sits inside your heart; a rigid, unmoving thing that leaves little space for anything else.

It’s a foreign feeling to you.

That look in his eyes only makes it worse. It’s a look that belongs to a man from your past—the few rare times he’s ever allowed his guard down around you to see this. You don’t need his care now.

“Where will you go?”

You sink the needle back into his skin, not answering.

He grabs your wrist and your eyes snap to him, your expression hardening.

“Get your hand off me.”

He lets go but his expression is unyielding. “I can help you escape the city.”

“Why?” you question coolly. “Guilt getting too much for you, John?”

He doesn’t try to defend his actions this time, either, and you scoff. Readjusting your grip, you sink the needle back in. Almost done now.

“You could at least pretend to be sorry,” you bite out and try to block out the pain you feel. “If he dies—”

Your voice cuts off, a lump in your throat impossible to swallow.

Some remote emotion flickers across John’s expression briefly but you blink and it’s gone. There is regret there but you doubt it’s regret for what he did.

“I’m going to Casablanca,” he begins after another minute of silence as you finish closing the wound, wiping it clean so it doesn’t get infected. His words freeze you though. “Come with me.”

You stare at your bloodied fingers.

Your eyes find his again, and you only give him a cold and knowing, “You mean you’re going to the Elder.”

He blinks, a slight furrow appearing between his brows when he stands, buttoning his shirt. It doesn’t take him long to realise what you’re getting at. “So are you.”

“He has the power to overturn the Table’s decision.”

John turns to face you fully at that, his eyes narrowing.

The Doc stands to the side, cradling a drink in his hand as he glances towards the clock again.

“You know where he is.”

Not a question.

“No, I don’t,” you answer softly, distracted. “But meeting him is not going to be as easy as you think. You don’t find him. He finds you.”

John steps closer, his bloodied shirt halfway buttoned up and you use a spare cloth to wipe your hands of his blood.

“You’ve met him.”

There is a faint trace of surprise there but you don’t acknowledge it. “Again, it’s not that simple,” you say, shooting a wry look towards the clock. “No one just meets the Elder. You…”

You hesitate, your composure wavering, and when your eyes meet John’s again, you offer him a frank, “You have no idea what he is.”

Stepping outside feels like stepping into a war zone.

You scan the cramped alleyway, squinting through the deluge for any possible targets.

John is behind you, close enough to feel the heat emitting from his body, and you try to disregard the uncomfortable lock of your back muscles.

Ignoring his presence, you look back towards the Doc and offer him a forced smile.

“I’ll be back for tea in a week or so,” you tell him mildly though your voice wavers just a bit. “You better keep the kettle hot for my favourite Jasmine tea, Doc.”

“Best of luck, dear,” Doc says, and you hear the worn sadness in his voice. “I wish you good health. Both of you.”

He doubts he will see you again but you don’t take it as an insult.

“Tarkovsky Theater,” John’s raspy voice almost makes you jump. “We can get there in 10 minutes.”

You glance at him briefly, stepping into the rain, ignoring the shock of cold water on your skin again. “Not in a mood to watch ballet.”

You start walking down the alleyway and he follows after you. “Do you have a safe way to get out of the city?”

“No,” you answer honestly, your voice bland. “But I will soon.”

John brushes against you, his body tense and ready for a fight. For a good reason, too. You’ve both effectively just became two most-wanted individuals on the planet. John even more so than you due to the large bounty on his head.

“I have a ticket with the Ruska Roma,” he informs you and keeps up easily with your brisk pace thanks to his long legs. “I can’t change what happened but…”

Pausing at the mouth of the alleyway, you twist your body to face him, your eyes narrowed. The truth is that you would be a fool not to take his offer. Despite everything that has transpired in the last twelve hours, he’s still the safest option right now.

The issue is that shards of ice shred your heart every time you so much as look at him.

“(Name)—”

“Don’t call me that,” you bite out quietly but you know he hears you even over the pour of rain and the bustle of Chinatown. “I don’t want—”

A shift over his shoulder and you throw a blade at the blur of a figure. The metal sticks inside the man’s chest, his face contorting in pain as he collapses on his knees, his gun falling to the ground.

Stopped just in time but effectively leaving you with just one blade.

A movement of bodies behind the compact row of stalls catches your eye, more than one or even two.

John looks at you at the exact same moment you look at him.

“Run.”

You tear through the streets together, keeping ahead of the band of footsteps you can hear chasing you down. No guns yet and you count your blessings while they last.

John is unarmed, you know that much without needing a verbal confirmation, and one blade is not enough to face off against so many.  

Water clings to your lashes, leaving you busy blinking the moisture away to see clearly.

“Here.”

John shoves a door to a random building open, and you’re not sure if he knew it would be unlocked, or if he simply guessed it but you follow him inside all the same.

Breathing deeply through your nose to conserve your strength, you follow him up the staircase.

“I certainly hope you have some sort of plan instead of boxing us in.”

He turns towards you briefly. “Weapons,” he grunts and you nod in understanding, following him albeit reluctantly.

At least now you have a confirmation he’s aware of where you are after all.

The weapons around are old though, mostly antiques that are encased behind glass cases, and you’re not sure how many of them are in usable condition.

John—expert marksmen that he is—begins assembling a gun at once, pulling apart spare parts while you grab your remaining blade using the back of it to help you break the glass. Below, the door slams open, a thud of hurried footsteps racing up the creaky stairs and you straighten.

Detaching yourself from the torrent of worry and anger, you let yourself move.

John shoots the first man through the door with a gun he assembled seconds ago and you take care of the other two.

You share a look—a fleeting, cautious thing—and rush to the other room together, grabbing any weapon on hand.

For now, at least, you have no choice but to stick together.

The attackers come in a flurry after that.

They’re fast. Hard trained. Their attacks are successions of quick jabs and punches but you’re faster. You and John split apart, dividing forces and it’s almost easy after that.

The blade in your hand slips between your fingers with expert ease as you wrap your arm around one attacker, sinking the polished metal into the man’s neck once, twice, thrice—

A sequence of burying the blade deep into the unguarded flesh that spills blood everywhere. From the corner of your eye, you spot John on the floor and drop the body, moving towards him.

He throws himself backwards as knives sink into the wooden floor in front of him, his legs spread. He returns the favour swiftly, but unlike the attacker, he doesn’t miss. Every blade he throws finds its target.

Another man burst through the door and you throw a blade at him, hitting his shoulder. The man lurches backwards but doesn’t fall and John draws blank, his hands free of weapons.

“Axe.”

It’s the only thing you mumble as you launch yourself at the attacker pulling out the knife from his shoulder. You deliver a swift uppercut to his jaw with your elbow, kicking his feet from under him as you throw your leg over his body and wrap your arms around his neck. He tries to slash at you with the knife, cutting across your jacket sleeve. There is only a tingle across your arm that indicates broken skin but nothing more serious. That throws the man back though, and he doesn’t get a second chance to fight back before John throws the axe directly at his chest. The impact is strong enough to push his body into yours and you throw him aside, grimacing in annoyance.

Readjusting your jacket with a small huff, you shove your hands into your pockets to check that both boxes are still intact. Upon finding them, you bend down and rip your bloodied blade from the man’s hand, wiping it on his jacket before pocketing it, too. Steadying your breathing, you incline your head towards John who stares at you like you sprouted a second head.

“What?”

“You’ve gotten quicker.”

“You’re the one who once told me I have the potential to be faster than even you,” you remind him and step over the dead body. “I took your advice to heart.”

He’s still stronger and far, far more experienced than you. Not to mention a deadly marksman. Your speed is the biggest weapon you have against someone like him.

Aside from your poison.

For a second—just one—you entertain the idea of what exactly the outcome would be if you ever faced off.

Your eyes sweep over him, considering, before you dismiss the awkward tension between you and stalk past him.

He follows silently, recognising the very reluctant and fragile peace you’re offering right now. If only to help you get to where you need to go.

Everything is too fresh, raw, and you need time to process it all. A luxury you can’t afford right now.

The streets are still gushing with rainwater when you step out of the old building. You both scan the streets, cautious and tense, but there is no one in immediate sight, and you let John lead this time. You know where the theatre is but John seems to have some sort of shortcut in mind.

You feel his occasional glance in your direction, almost as if he’s checking if you’re still beside him, but don’t you acknowledge it.

You need more weapons. More poison. Desperately. But the nearest secure location you have is at least fifteen minutes in the opposite direction of the theatre. It seems like you have no choice but to put trust in John’s plan of using his ticket with the Ruska Roma. His past is still murky to you. He rarely shared anything about his life before Tarasov recruited him.

You only know that he was an orphan in one of the Ruska Roma clans.

John’s hurried footsteps suddenly halt, his body rotating to practically cover you from sight.

The blade is in your hand quicker than a breath and you catch a glimpse of smart-looking suits, a golden ring each—

John goes rigid at the sight of weapons.

You shove past him.

“Aspetta!” you call out loudly, raising your hand in a pacifying motion, stepping past John’s broad body. “What family do you belong to?”

Relief follows the recognition you glimpse on their guarded glares. The sight of you, at least, has brought you a window of opportunity.

“Salucci,” the shorter one answers stiffly, reluctantly.

A quiet breath escapes you, your heart beating fast but your mind races.

“Part of Cosa Nostra, no?” you point out, still in Italian, watching them closely. John is quiet but his presence is like dark, barely contained storm only a step behind you. “That means you are allied with Camorra.”

“You are Excommunicado,” the taller one snaps, his eyes narrowing on John. “No alliances will save you now.”

You huff a breath of reluctant agreement, bobbing your head in chagrined understanding. That much is true.

But the heavy, golden ring on your finger won’t have you accepting defeat now.

“Your families have been bound by blood and loyalty long before the Table was established.”

John’s stare burns holes in the back of your head but you don’t lower your guard.

The shorter man speaks first. “What right do you have to speak on behalf of our families, Vipress?”

Your trembling hand hangs in the air for a moment before you slowly turn it, revealing the Camorra head ring to them. It sits on your hand like a beacon, a crown, an order of indisputable authority and you see both men recognise it at once. Their composure falters at the sight of it and you scramble for any memory of Camorra’s words, power, influence.

You envision Giovanni and Gianna and Santino.

A family of nuclear power and control, twisted up and broken just as you often feel.

“As the current standing head of Camorra family, appointed by Santino D’Antonio, the last of the D’Antonio name, I ask that you honour that alliance,” you declare, cold and self-assured, and notice that your shaking hand steadies. “I ask that you turn around and walk away. Go and know that I will remember this kindness if you do. Or you can try and kill us and end up dead either by our hand or the hand by the Camorra’s Four. They have sworn their services to me until such time that Santino is fit enough to represent Camorra once again. What say you?”

Silence disturbed only by easing of the rain. Now nothing more than a drizzle.  

“It won’t be the first time our two families fought,” the taller one says, this time in English and his next words are full of disgust. “You are an outsider. Your word is not binding. You are nothing.”

Two voices hiss at that.

Make them regret that.

And another; lower, full of authority, but no less chilly: They are fools. They should be terrified of you.

Your lips press into a hard line. Behind you, John shifts, readying himself.

“It will be binding when my knife is in your throat, assuming it’s not my poison that does the job first,” you don’t raise your voice, you don’t need to. You channel something else, someone else; a phantom you have not conjured up for a considerable length of time. “Honour the alliance or blood feuds will be the least of your worries.”

A spark of unease—maybe even fear—and you find yourself relishing it. “Honour it or you will learn what happens when someone tries to wage war against Camorra while I’m in charge,” you state calmly and add an even softer, “Go in peace or you will have blood.”

Your hand drops slowly, not out of fear but because you have nothing else to prove to them.

The shorter man lowers his pistol first and nods at his partner to do the same.

The second man follows, reluctant.

The first man’s expression lacks warmth but he nods his head, a polite acknowledgement. “We may have been bound by old loyalties, signora vipera, but others will not be.”

You say nothing. Instead, you repeat a motion you’ve seen Giovanni do multiple times in the past, and press the hand with Camorra ring over your heart, offering them the tiniest of nods.

A sign of favour as you always understood it. Giovanni rarely gave them out and both men seem caught off guard by it as they shuffle backwards and towards their car. They get inside and the car crawls away in reverse.  

You keep your eyes on it, ignoring John’s attentive stare on you. The surprise you feel radiating from him even if he doesn’t voice it.

Acting boss of Camorra.

The Camorra.

Yet it does not feel like a burden. Doesn’t even feel unearned.

Power suits you, cara mia, a memory of Santino whispers against your ear—now seemingly from a lifetime ago. Back during the blood feud with Albanians years ago.  

A gunshot rips through the air, a bullet whistling past your head as you fall back. You throw yourself to the side, rolling across the floor, and John hurls himself in the opposite direction.

More shots follow but it doesn’t come from the direction of the car. It’s someone from the other side of the street, sitting on a motorcycle and you glare in their direction.

Bullets separate you and John, and you know you can’t stay in your spot unless you want to be riddled with lead.

“I’ll meet you there!”

John’s expression hardens, indicting he heard you. His mouth parts and he moves as if to cut the distance between you but more bullets hit the ground and he drops back. His expression is deadly calm and that focused lethality will be wielded to a deadly result soon.

“Meet me there!”

Splitting up is the last thing he wants to do, you can tell as much from the strain on his face, but you don’t have much of a choice. Rising from your crouch, you prepare yourself for a sprint under the cover of the containers littering the area. Divide their attention.

You don’t bother with goodbyes.

You lock your muscles, draw a deep breath, steady yourself, and then you sprint.  

Same mistakes, same path, a gentle voice reminds you but you ignore it.

“You’re late.”

“What happened?”

You shrug carelessly, pushing yourself away from the building, and scan the street behind him.

John looks no less dishevelled than you likely do. His still-damp hair is splattered to his forehead and new additional cuts are visible on his face.

“Bodies,” you intone blankly and look him up and down before demanding a monotonous, “You?”

There’s a slight limp to his gait as he steps closer, grunting a dispassionate, “Bodies.”  

Getting here created six additional casualties. All mercifully unknown to you and it’s a small relief. You’re not quite sure how you would handle facing against someone you know or have a connection to. You don’t want to think about what being made Excommunicado might reveal.

John strides towards the receptionist booth, and the lady gives him the exact same, dry response she did you, “We’re closed.”

But John is not a man to be deterred easily. He grabs something—a medallion of beads and a silver crucifix—from his pocket and slams it against the glass with enough force to rattle it.

In under a minute the doors to the theatre swing open and a guard comes to greet you. You’re ushered inside under tense but non-hostile silence. John falls in step beside you, and neither of you lowers your guard despite the fact that this might be the closest he’s come to home in years.

The guards examine you both closely when you come to a stand before a table, a soft piano tune filling the otherwise quiet space. More heavily tattooed and armed men sit behind it. At least a dozen eyes drill into you. Befitting security for a higher up on the New York food chain.

John places his medallion on the table and starts removing everything in his pockets without prompting. A standard procedure for him.

You pretend you don’t see the silver viper ring he places on the table.

“Your weapons.”

That gets directed straight at you.

Of course.

No meeting the Director with weapons on your person.

You’ve only heard stories about the woman who runs the Ruska Roma in New York.  

Formidable individual if the stories are anything to go by.

John complies, removing his belt, though the cautious air around him doesn’t drop. You follow his lead, removing your blade and placing it on the immaculate tablecloth, except even more reluctant.

“Remove everything, Vipress,” one of the men grumbles in Russian. “We know your tricks.”

Your jaw clenches subtly and you become very, very aware of the two boxes nested inside your jacket pockets. Your two aces. The idea of them being in anyone’s hands but your own or select few you do trust coils your stomach.

Your chin tips upwards and you refuse to move, staring down at them defiantly.

The atmosphere thickens with tension.

John glances at you over his shoulder, his dark eyes guarded but you see a spark of pleading there. “V.”

You don’t move for another few, uneasy moments before finally burying your hands in your pockets and removing the twin boxes. Placing them carefully on the table, you cast a hard, warning look at the men before straightening. An unspoken warning.

With that, the tension eases a few notches and the guard gives the go-ahead for you to proceed.

John takes the lead, you beside him, as you both enter the dark auditorium. It’s empty with a lone ballerina practising on stage and a hunched back of a sitting woman visible in the distance. It surprises you when John hesitates, taking the sight in. He feels your brief glance in his direction and turns towards you.

A thousand things burn behind his eyes but he doesn’t say anything, choosing to instead begin the trek towards the spot the woman is sitting.

The ballerina on stage slips up, falling on the floor with a thud and in the empty, grand space the fall seems to echo. A dark, painful sound of yet another failure.

The dark-haired woman—the Director—barks something at her in Russian that you’re too distracted to register. The girl stands up, shaking and unsteady, as if she’s done this a thousand times before. It takes strength to straighten into a picture of perfect elegance and begin the dance anew. Your eyes linger on that poise and control, almost envious of beauty the ballerina is able to create with nothing but sheer will. That dedication to go on you can and will admire in just about anyone.

The Director, you come to learn from just one glimpse, is a woman of stern beauty. Dark red lips, midnight black hair, and a posture of a female who demands respect. The amount of jewellery she wears is only an indicator of her wealth and status. Proud and effortlessly in control of those around her.  

John, much to your mute shock, lowers himself to the ground. A humbling of likes you have never seen from him before. Head bowed and medallion wrapped around his hand, he appears more like a boy seeking repentance than a man who is feared by all.

The sight of him like this completely stops you in your tracks.

Director barely spares him a glance, her dark eyes cool, dismissive. “Jardani,” she greets, her voice and accent smooth but just as cold as you expected it to be. “Why have you come home? And brought a spare, too,” she adds, her attention coming to rest on you briefly.

Her stare is fierce enough to make you feel like a misbehaving child who has inconvenienced her by breathing despite the fact that you’ve never met her before.

John thinks for a beat and then extends his hand with the medallion still wrapped around his digits. Apparently the only response he can offer.

The Director looks unmoved, one eyebrow arching almost mockingly. “You present this to me like an answer.”

“I still have my ticket.”

His ticket. Ticket back home. The one place where he might be able to escape back to and start a new life. His homeland of Belarus.

But he must bury this dream, too.

He made sure of that himself.

The Director makes a small sound at the back of her throat, looking him up and down.

“After all the havoc you have wrought over these last few weeks do you truly believe your ticket is still valid?” she demands, her voice thin with poorly veiled bafflement. “You are too quick to forget that Ruska Roma is bound to the High Table and the Table stands above all.”

As if either of you could ever forget. Behind John, the ballerina keeps dancing and the music keeps playing.

The Director shakes her head slightly, frowning in disapproval as she stares down at the man before her.

“So this is how you honour me?” she bites out, every bit the disappointed guardian. “By inviting death into my home and bringing me a snake,” she pauses, her scowl easing, and simply takes him in for a moment. A brief shake of her head follows. “Oh, Jardani, look at you. What has become of you?”

What indeed.

You don’t look at him. From the corner of your eye, you still see how his head lowers though. Perhaps he, too, is wondering that same exact thing.

But when his head lifts, it’s not John that fills the space between you.

A low growl of Russian slips through his lips, a declaration and a demand all at once, and he finishes with a forceful, “You are bound and I am owed.”

The older woman regards him impassively, not even a twitch in her expression. You admire her composure. Not many can deal with John with as much poise as she is.

“Enough, Rooney,” she snaps—so loudly and so suddenly—that if it hadn’t been for years of dealing with sudden, jarring sounds you might have jumped. Behind John, the ballerina falls to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The Director rises sharply, scowling. “With me. The snake stays.”

It’s public knowledge that you speak Russian and yet—

John rises smoothly but his expression is steely. He replies in Russian, too, something colder lingering in his tone, “She’s coming.”

The Director arches one of her eyebrows, her blood-red lips thinning further with silent disapproval. You get the impression she’s not used to being challenged.  

“You do not get to make demands, Jardani.”

A warning and a reminder of how much of a thin ice he is on.

But it’s not John she’s talking to. The barely man before you doesn’t back down. Doesn’t even blink. Iron and ice and something dark stares back at the Director. He seems to expand. Filling the air with something frightening. You’ve seen a great many—men and women alike—balk under that suffocating regard. 

“She’s coming with me.”

As simple as that.

The Director folds her arms over her chest, pulling her scarlet shawl closer over her body.

“They could kill me for simply talking with you,” she points out, her voice dropping to cutting whisper. “And you truly expect me to risk even more for a brief fancy of yours?”

Brief fancy.

So that’s what you’re known as around here. John Wick’s brief fancy.

“I’m right here.”

The Director slides her keen gaze your way, her chin tilting as she looks you up and down.

“Yes, you are. The Russian’s Viper,” she states blandly, and you hear the judgement there. “I’ve heard much about you. Reality, however, is often disappointing.”

It’s a bait to get a reaction. She’s taking count of your character and trying to judge what will break your composure first.

Frankly, you don’t give a shit what she thinks of you. What any of them do.

“With all due respect, Director,” you begin flatly. “You either help us or I walk out of that door now. I don’t have time to waste, and I’m certainly not going to grovel if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

This time John doesn’t interject. He lingers like a dark phantom beside you; silent but terrible. For the first time since you walked into the auditorium, you see realisation on her face. Of who exactly she’s facing against.  

She scoffs, staring you both down, resolute.

“You are not at your hotel where Winston’s favour guards you, girl,” she says coolly, her mouth a stern, harsh line of red. “Your weapons and poison would have been removed upon entry,” she notes, and adds an even stiffer, “Do not take that tone with me.”  

“I still have my hands.”

It slips out easily and once upon a time you never would have dared to even dream of saying something like that. Not to someone of her power.

You don’t feel afraid though.

You just feel determined.

“V.”

You ignore John, not dropping your stare. Whatever sentimental connection they share is of little interest to you.

Her inky gaze feels like blades slashing across your skin. She looks you up and down again, and the silent battle continues for several seconds before she finally speaks, “They told me you were smart but I do not see it,” she says, her voice dry. “You won’t leave this building alive.”

You venture a step forward and then another. You like her more with every step you take because she doesn’t move away, doesn’t flinch. She holds her ground and your respect for her only grows.

Something about the gleam in her eyes tells you that it might be feeling shared for the exact opposite reason. Because you are willing to take that risk.

You’re being reckless, Winston warns beside you.

Make her respect you, another voice shoots back at once.

“What I am right now is someone who has nothing to lose,” you tell her softly. Your throat aches and you bottle away the brutal memory of a gunshot and blood, his blood— “So, with respect, should I just go now?”

The Director offers you a mirthless smile, looking away from you and towards John who still stands unmoving behind you.

“Hurry it up.”

She casts one last, shrewd glance your way before she turns, briskly walking away. You exhale, too. Steady yourself.

John halts beside you but you don’t look towards him. Instead, you move after the woman ahead. Walking past, you briefly glance towards the stage where the ballerina still sits curled up on the wooden floor. Her expression is crestfallen, cautious.

You can’t help but wonder how she ended up here. What her life story is. If she, too, knows hunger like you do. If you talked with her, would you find comfort in another jaded soul?

Looking away, you follow the Director.

The woman stays silent until you step backstage. She slams the door with enough force that betrays her irritation, her steps hurried but firm. Self-reassured.

Despite her harshness, you do find yourself liking her.

“Owed,” she repeats suddenly. “You are owned nothing, Jardani.”

John doesn’t reply and stepping backstage feels like stepping back in time. The scene that greets you—practising ballerinas and wrestling matches—gives you an odd sense of nostalgia. John used to take you to old gyms, too. Together you used to spar for hours. Skin slick with sweat and bodies aching. There was always a grin on your face though.

Once upon a time, he made you feel alive even if your life was nothing but struggles and pain.

“Life is suffering.”

Your attention turns to the austere woman before she gestures with her head for you both to follow her. Two guards linger behind you, and it’s an effort to not snap at them whenever they come just a bit too close behind you.

Seeing young men wresting on safety mats up close somehow hits harder. You pick apart the core elements of their techniques as you stroll past. Can see too many similarities to John’s style—even echoes of your own, all taught by the man beside you. Over the years you’ve learned to separate yourself from his technique. Learned that there were too many weaknesses to exploit when physically you were so different. However, seeing all of this still evokes an unexpected sting of emotions.

A puppy though. The Director is wrong to assume that this is all for a puppy. It’s about so much more than that. A history she is clearly unaware of.

The dark-haired woman mostly ignores you as she converses with John in short, curt sentences but you hardly let it affect you. You’re used to silently shadowing Tarasov’s steps. Being unseen is what you excel at. Your ego is also not that fragile if she’s hopeful for a reaction.

The Director leads you two into her private office. If one can even call it that. It’s a large but barren space. An old, wooden desk sits in the middle of it with a fire crackling on the other side of the wall. Few classical paintings litter the vast, dark space and some you recognise at once. All those museum and gallery visits with Santino—

You clamp the thought down immediately. Lock it tight.

Your teeth click in an attempt to control your emotions, and you barely hear the Director’s brisk “sit” to John.

There is no second chair.

Ignoring that, you stand on his right, your arms loose at your sides. The older woman doesn’t offer you a seat and you don’t ask for one.

This, clearly, is to be a bargaining between her and John only.

“The truth is,” she begins, casting her eyes over you both. Surprisingly. “I can’t help you even if I wanted to. The High Table wants your life. You can’t fight against them. Can’t outrun them. You could go to the dark, but they are there, too.”

John considers her words but doesn’t disagree with them. His position is even worse than your own. A hefty bounty sits on his head.

But...

“No,” you say quietly, and the Director looks towards you. “There is something—someone—who stands even above them.”

For the first time since you came here, you see a crack in her demeanour. An unease and a concern. She wipes them quickly but you still notice them. By the way John shifts slightly in his seat, you know he has as well.

“You do not know what you speak of,” she murmurs, her voice dropping as she stares at you, unblinking. “His attention is not something you should ever wish to invite your way.”

“I have in the past.”

She leans back in her chair, a glimmer of surprise there. The Director blinks, then, and looks at you through different eyes. Knowing eyes.

“So this is your plan, then?” she demands sternly. “You seek to meet him?”

“We seek passage,” John confirms, glancing up at you and you meet his stare briefly. “To Casablanca.”

The woman scoffs, peering at you both like she’s just realised that you’re both insane. “The path to paradise begins in hell.”

John’s expression tightens at her jovial voice, and he leans forward suddenly, sliding his arm across the table so she is once again faced with his medallion. Her expression tightens at the reminder. Her raven hair glows in the muted light the fire casts while she silently ponders her next move.

“So be it,” she voices at last, coolly indifferent. “What about the snake?”

John’s expression doesn’t waver. “She’s with me.”

The Director lets loose a soft sigh and shakes her head. “The ticket is for you, Jardani, and you alone. If you wish to waste it, so be it. She, however, is not of our blood, so I owe her nothing.”

She’s not wrong.

You don’t belong anywhere.

Your fingers tighten into fists, hidden by the folds of your coat, and it’s then that you feel it.

The Camorra ring.

I will never abandon you.

You savour the memory, pull it close, and hold it to your heart.

“A Marker, then,” John’s voice cracks through your senses and you freeze. “From me to you.”

Something ices over in your heart. A sickening weight forming in the pit of your stomach.

“No.”

His eyes lift to you. They’re softer, lighter in the glow of the fire. “Let me do this,” he says gently, sadly. “Let me try and make this right.”

You almost punch him. “No,” you snap, gnashing your teeth as you exhale forcefully. “No more debts. No more favours in my name. Enough. This is what got us all here in the first place. Oaths and egos and unwillingness to simply listen. I will not have you bound to another Marker for me. Never again.”

John stares up at you, his expression gentler then it was moments ago.

He seems to have no response to your declaration.

It’s the Director that breaks the tense hush that has fallen over you. “You speak for Camorra now, do you not?”

Your head snaps in her direction. Her stare is calculating and you bristle. “What of it? I’m not sworn in if you’re hoping for some sort of negotiation. I don’t have that right.”

You suppose it shouldn’t surprise you that she knows, either. News like that spreads quickly. For it to be effective Hector would have had to call it in the moment you left the Continental and even then it didn’t stop everyone.

The Director’s eyes narrow, her fingers tapping against the wooden table once. “I will grant you passage,” she states frankly. “But I should hope that one day you will remember this for the kindness that it is. You have Santino D’Antonio’s heart. That means you as good as have Camorra. Ring or no.”

Her deliberate words seem to suck the air right out of the room. The absence left behind is near deafening.

Your gut coils, a buzz in your veins.

He loves you.

“Fine,” you breathe out, choked. “I will remember this kindness.”

She nods once, her expression sly, and holds out her hand to John. “If this is what you truly desire,” she says lightly. “But know that if you hand it in, I will tear it.”

It takes some time before John finally moves, untangling the medallion and presenting it to her. She still wears that same, derisive expression as she rips the medallion apart and John staggers to his feet. You take a step back, confused, watching as he shrugs off his suit jacket. He extends his hand towards you and your eyes narrow.

“John?”

He doesn’t reply, unbuttoning his shirt as one of the guards takes the metal cross ripped off the medallion, heating it over the open flame.

Your stomach sinks. Swallowing, you take another step back, giving him the space to turn the chair around and sit down on it, pulling his shirt back and exposing his back.

The tattoos on his skin are another call from the past.

There is a second in which the world seems to hang suspended before—

The metal scorches into his skin, into his tattoos, and John grunts in pain. His teeth grind together, his dark hair falling into his eyes but he lets little else slip. As if dissatisfied with the lack of reaction the guard digs the poker even deeper. The stench of burned flesh finally reaches you and you try not to gag. It lasts another handful of seconds before the guard pulls back. John remains upright though you can see the quiver in his body.

“With this, your ticket is torn,” the Director reminds him and you can’t quite read the inflection in her words. “You can never come home again.”

John says nothing, shakily lifting his head to look her way.

Director sneers and rises to her feet abruptly. “Take them to the lifeboat,” she orders sharply and cuts a look your way. “Do not forget your words, Lady Camorra.”

It’s another mockery and nothing more than that but you don’t fail to notice how John’s jaw clenches at those words.

The door behind you slams shut and then quietness settles over the room.

The guard waits to the side while John shrugs his clothes back on, and you ignore the faint grimace creasing his features. His jacket is the last to go and you hand it to him wordlessly.

The guard clears his throat before you can exchange any words, however, and you step past the older man, hearing him behind you.

The trip doesn’t take long. It’s also mercifully accident-free as well which makes a nice reprieve from the chaos that has ensued over the last 48 hours.

The lifeboat, the guard explains roughly, will take them to a larger vessel.

He hands your belongings back to you at the docks and your relief is likely palpable. Your fingers tremble around the twin boxes, and you place them back in your coat where they belong. Secure and tucked away.

Right now, the safest way to get to Casablanca is over water. It does, however, mean sailing the ocean. Which will take time.

Time alone with your thoughts is the last thing you want right now.

Is he still alive?

Your fingers tap against your thigh repeatedly.

“Tell me.”

Blinking, you look towards John who sits slumped opposite to you. His back will hurt for a while. At least with how hot the metal was, it should have cauterised the wound. It will still mean a far less comfortable journey for him.

“Tell you what?”

You’re not particularly in a mood for chitchat with him.

You’re out here due to necessity, not choice. You have little to say to a man who nearly killed your friends less than a day ago.

John stretches his long legs out, grunting slightly in pain when his back settles against the cool metal behind him.

“About the Elder,” he broaches, his voice low, scratchy with both exhaustion and pain. “How do you know him?”

Know him.

That’s not exactly the term you would use to describe it.

The Elder.

Something in your veins burns. A scratch of memories that you’ve tried to smother for a long time now.

John’s stare is expectant. Heavy.

Maybe a distraction would be good. You don’t have to tell him everything.

“Roughly six months after your wedding,” you start, your voice cracking, and then stop. Clearing your throat, you force your voice to remain steady, “I did a job at Chicago after which I was summoned by him.”

His brows knit.

“Summoned?”

You lick your dry lips while you mull over your boiling thoughts, reluctant to say more.

“It’s a long story.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “We have time.”

Your attentions settles on him, and you examine him closely. No one but Winston—and to some degree Charon—know about the full extent of what really happened during those long months in the desert.

And even then, some things—some memories—you haven’t shared with anyone.

Being forced to recall it now, after you worked so hard to shake that connection off, unsettles you more than you would care to admit.

You walked this path once before.

Sighing, you close your eyes, exhaling through your nose. When you open them again, John is still waiting patiently, agog.

You part your lips, skimming your fingertips over the ruby ring on your hand, and begin your tale.

—BEFORE.

.

The first thing you notice is the heat.

It’s near suffocating though it lacks the humidity you associate with countries you’re used to frequenting.

This is something else—something you haven’t encountered before.

A bag gets pulled from over your head, and your eyes squeeze shut at the bright flare of light that blinds you. Squinting, you try to blink the dark spots from your sight and focus on the man before you.

He had introduced himself back at the Continental as Rafik. Patient and soft-spoken, he had told you all you needed to know to end up here.

A summoning by the Elder.

An individual who supposedly stands above the High Table.

You’ve only heard stories of this man; a few terrified, sometimes even joking, whispers.

The Elder is more of a boogeyman than even John is.

You had half a thought to refuse Rafik and his companion Saad. Except the tone of their explanation made one thing abundantly clear: either you are to come willingly or you will be “encouraged” to come.

That was followed by fear. Not because you doubted you could kill these men before they took you. You could. But because their presence at the Continental must have meant that what happened at Chicago slipped through the cracks after all.

You found an odd sense of relief that they made no mention of Santino being taken, though.

But what other reason would a man who supposedly stands above the twelve most powerful crime powerhouses in the world want to see you?

You.

Viggo Tarasov’s deadly little puppet.

Rafik squats before you, the bag previously over your head now in his hand, as he observes you.

You’re inside a makeshift tent. Open and airy. Wind flutters across the expensive, beautifully sown cashmere and silk—a stunning display of colour and patterns—and beyond it lays nothing but golden dunes as far as the eye can see.

You shift your body on the maroon carpet, noting your weapons that have not been removed.

“I would like to apologise for the secrecy,” Rafik speaks, his voice soft. “The Elder, however, values his privacy. And until such time he knows you can be trusted, this is a necessary precaution.”

“Why am I here?”

Because they said you have been summoned. But not the reason for the said summoning.

If this is to be a punishment, you rather get it over with.

You didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Winston and Charon.

You…

You’re not quite sure why that bothers you quite so much but it does.

Controlling your frown, you rotate your limbs slowly again, staring at the man before you. Despite Rafik’s reassurances that they hold no malicious intent, you know better than to trust strangers who implied that you didn’t have a choice in coming here.

“You are here because your particular skillset has piqued the Elder’s interest.”

That gives you a pause.

Skillset.

The relief is so immense that you almost allow yourself to slump over. The silent dread you’ve tried to control since Rafik told you about the summoning gradually fading.

You’ve been so convinced that this was about punishment for Chicago. About someone figuring out that you are responsible for the chaos unleashed through the Black Dragon’s ranks.

Your eyes pointedly drag around the tent, noting few other men all dressed in loose, billowing robes. Fitting attire for desert life. All the faces staring back at you are varying shades of golden or brown but they don’t appear hostile. Just calm. Observant.

Few things don’t fail to escape your notice though.

“Where is this Elder, then?”

Rafik’s head tilts slightly and he moves to stand. “It is not so simple, (Name),” he says and moves towards the small table standing not too far away from you. You watch every shift of his body, your senses straining to keep aware of other men, too. “You must first earn the right to meet him. He would like to offer you a position of honour but it is reliant on you proving yourself worthy of it.”

Your eyes narrow, a slow exhale slipping free.

“How do you know my name?” you ask, keeping your voice as calm as his own soothing lull. “And what makes you think I care for his approval?”

A gamble. But you have to know if they can be pushed. Where exactly you stand if this is not punishment after all.

For a moment Rafik simply gazes at you, his dark eyes inscrutable. His robes are less extravagant than those of other men. Fewer layers and more compact. Though the colour is just a few shades paler than the golden sand around you.  

“The Elder knows a great many things about you,” he answers as if that should explain everything. “Hence, I know these things. As for his approval, it could set you free.”

Something flutters in your chest at those words. You control your expression, not letting your eagerness or confusion slip. Instead, you simply watch the man before calmly, expectant.

A few minutes pass like this. No one so much as shifts.

Your body is still sore from Chicago. Muscles worn and frail. Your eyes skip over the men inside the tent again. They’re far enough that you could take most of them out before they likely got too close.  

“So I’m a prisoner here until I earn the favour of this man?”

An uncomfortable, leaden sort of silence greets your blunt question.

Rafik’s head tilts in your direction and he picks up the small table easily, walking back towards you.

There is a curious light in his eyes as he examines you. You have no doubt that every word you speak will be reported back to this mysterious leader later. Judged and picked apart piece by piece.

You hate the uneasy roll of your stomach at that thought.

Perhaps you’re being too foolish and hasty to test them like this.

A man so powerful he stands above the Table. Above it. What kind of power does this Elder wield to do something like that? How does he even do it?

“No. Never,” Rafik rebukes easily, almost disappointed. “He believes in free will.”

You suppress a snarky remark at that.

“No babies—girls or boys, or children in general,” you point out as he places the small table before you, seating himself down on the other side of it. You watch him and he watches you. “No women, either. I’m not naive.”

Something flickers in that dark gaze again and he hums quietly. Wind flutters his fitted robes and you try to ignore how your own attire—suitable for the nippy New York winters but little else—is making you almost boil alive where you’re sitting.

“How did you know?”

A quiet, curious question. He doesn’t deny it though.

“I might have had a bag over my head but I still have ears.”

You listened to every sound as you were marched here to this tent. The soft murmurs and the animals and the wind and your shoes sinking into the sand.

“You do not have to fret,” he says with a twitch of his mouth that implies wry amusement. “You are the Elder’s honoured guest. No one will harm you here.”

Given different circumstances, you might have believed him. He has a demeanour of a man who is easy to trust. Some sort of magnetism that makes you feel pinned down by his unfaltering regard.

“You said he’s interested in my skillset,” you begin after a deliberate pause, still staring at him. “You mean the poison, don’t you?”

Your most powerful and destructive weapon.

There is a memory of Rafael, choking and bleeding, but you shake it away at once. You’re glad that Kishi is nowhere in sight; a small miracle but one you are immensely grateful for. Right now, you need to tread carefully and without distractions.

“Yes. The Elder is a man of power but he cannot do all himself,” Rafik responds and takes one of the four cups sitting on the table. A small brown thing with a pretty pattern curling around it. Another three cups remain untouched; one green, another blue, and last red. “As such, he has disciples who help him and council him. Saad, you have already met. Then there's me and one other. There are four positions in total but the fourth has never been filled before.”

Interesting.

So he’s nothing more than a glorified secretary to the most powerful man in the world then.

“Why?”

He doesn’t drop his stare as he raises the cup to his lips.

“Because no one suitable enough has been found to fill it,” he answers simply, like it should be obvious, and his words might have been insulting if it wasn’t for the gentleness of his accent. “He was, however, hoping that you would be a suitable candidate.”

Candidate.

Implying a relation unlike the one between you and Tarasov.  

You breathe slowly, feeling the dry air fill your lungs as you try to gather yourself.

Every word spoken feels like some sort of battle, a test even, and you wonder what exactly this is all building up to. You’re likely too exhausted for anything physical but your mind can keep up, if only for now.

“No offence to you or your master but what makes you think I want this?” you wonder carefully, purposely infusing stiff politeness into your words. “What’s stopping me from standing up and walking away right now?”

You never would. You’re not stupid. Not without careful planning and preparation. Deserts are some of the deadliest terrains in the world for a reason. Especially when one is ill-prepared and hadn’t had the time to adapt to the climate.    

“You are free to leave whenever you please,” Rafik says bluntly, a single eyebrow rising. Definitely disappointed at that suggestion. “I should warn that there is nothing but sand for hundreds of miles in either direction, however. You will be dead within two days, if not less.”

You make a small noise at the back of your throat at that, looking around once again.

The tickle of wind at the back of your neck is a small mercy. It’s sweltering.  

“So I am a prisoner.”

As gentle and as quiet as his own suggestion.

Rafik raises the cup to his mouth again, slower this time. His eyes watch you keenly over the rim though. It’s then that become aware of the fact that neither of you has looked away once from the other.  

“The Elder is willing to offer you a position in his ranks,” he says calmly after a pause. He lowers the cup to his lap where his legs are neatly folded. Experienced and relaxed. He trains and likely meditates, too. He knows how to control his body. There is strength there. His voice might be soft but you don’t doubt he can hold his own. Though the far bigger threat is that razor-sharp edge to his regard. He’s smart. You can tell. “If you impress, if you succeed, then your debt to the man known as Viggo Tarasov will be wiped clean. He will never be able to touch you again. You will outrank him, in fact.”

Your heart seizes at that.

Your debt wiped away.

Free.

You could—

Biting one side of your cheek, you fold your fingers into loose fists, forcing yourself back to reality.  

Eyes narrowed, you mutter a knowing, “But I will be serving the will of the Elder which, I wager a guess, means that I will never be a part of the underground in the traditional sense again.”

Rafik inclines his head in a silent nod.

“What happens if I still refuse?” you finally ask, your words low, tense. “Will you kill me?”

His index finger traces the rim of the cup, a gesture almost striking you as thoughtful, and his eyes narrow.

“No, killing you would be a waste of great talent,” he says and nods towards the cups. “The choice will be yours. Drink.”

At first, you don’t move, still peering at him before you eventually force yourself to look down at the cups.

“What is it?”

They all look innocent enough. But you suspect it’s not that simple.

All three cups hold liquid inside and Rafik raises his cup once more, tranquil as before, but his eyes remain sharp.

“A choice,” he intones quietly, and his lips press together while he cradles the cup between his palms, leaning closer. “The Elder believes that a bargain can always be struck between those willing to compromise. So I represent you with this offer: you will stay here for six months, you will learn, you will train, you will be forged and tested.”

A lump forms in your throat and you feel the tension between your shoulder blades return, almost a distant ache.

“And then?”

“If in six months time you still wish to leave you can.”

As if it’s ever that simple.

“Just like that?”

You don’t even bother masking the sceptic bite to your words.

For a moment, if you didn’t know any better, you would say Rafik looks amused. He hides it well though, nothing more than a glimmer you spot only because you’re watching him so closely.

“Just like that,” he echoes, unperturbed.

The other men don’t so much as move or shift in their spots. They feel more like sentinels than men. Rafik simply waits for your countermove. He doesn’t appear irritated by your questions or doubts though, and that says more than words ever could and you wonder if he realises that.

You examine him just as intently, trying to weight the honestly of his words. “All this trouble to get me here and then I can just leave?”

His fingers still.

They’re long and his hands are strong, even a touch elegant. For a moment it makes you think of Santino, and you have to stop yourself from shaking your head to clear the image.

“You do not believe me?”

The question is not angry, but it’s not happy, either.

What an odd man, you can’t help but think. It’s like you can read him and not read him at all at the same time. But something about this back-and-forth, about the knowing expression he sports, that forces your next question.  

“Why should I believe a stranger?”

Rafik lowers his head in consideration, accepting your valid suspicion and lifts the cup again. You must make an odd sight. There is no doubt in your mind that you look like a tightly coiled snake, your expression distrustful and gaze hard, ready to strike. Rafik is tranquil. Steady. But there is something.  

“Because the Elder does not believe in forced loyalty,” his words bring you out of thought and you feel yourself frown. “It would only breed resentment. He believes that six months will be enough time for you to see.”

Slanting your head to one side, you bite out a cool, “To see what?”

His reply is no less tart. “That you are meant to become more. That your place is here.”

Just how unlucky can you get?

Though you did have it coming, you have to admit.

After the Hunt—after all you did to hurt those who tried to hurt you—your name and all the terrible things you are capable of ripped through the underworld like wildfire. An effort to step out of John’s shadow and keep yourself alive. But it was only possible due to Santino and Camorra.

If he didn’t find you when he did…

Still, what you did caught plenty of attention. You simply didn’t realise till now just how much.

“The Elder sure sounds confident.”

It’s a light statement, a bait.

Rafik doesn’t bite though—too smart just like you first suspected, but he does gesture towards the small table separating you again.

“Before you are three cups,” he begins mildly but something about that gleam in his eyes makes you sit up and focus in a way you haven’t in a long while. “One of them contains tea. The other two will kill you in less than five minutes. The only difference will be how much pain you will experience before it ends. A test of your skill.”

A slight, cold smile twists your lips. “And if I refuse to play?”

He looks like he expected that question. He almost looks pleased by it.  

“You are free to refuse,” he replies easily, his tone placid. “But dehydration has already started to set in. You will not last very long before you are forced to make a decision if you wish to live.”

The smile on your face remains, sharpening. “What a warm welcome from your master.”

He doesn’t react to this taunt, either.

For a long, tense moment you simply peer at each other, seizing the other up.

Rotating your left shoulder and then neck, you reach for the green cup and lift it to your lips, taking a large mouthful.

A flare of surprise in that dark gaze but it’s gone in seconds. “That was a confident move.”

You drown the strong tasting tea in the cup in another few mouthfuls, licking your lips before shooting a calculating look his way. “The only cup with any poison in it is in your hands. You keep lifting it to your mouth but haven’t taken a single sip of it. You just wanted to see if I would panic. Next time, at least make it a challenge for me.”

You lower the cup back onto the table with a hum. “Thyme, mint, lemongrass, geranium, sage, verbena and hmm wormwood. Berber tea. Exquisite if well made. Tell your master thank you for his hospitality.”  

Rafik’s expression is as serene as before but something churns behind that calm now.

You give him a polite smile. “Where am I staying?”

.

.

Winston once told you that there is a fine line between arrogance and confidence. It’s very easy to slip from one to another without noticing.

Your little show with Rafik was admittedly both.

You wanted to see how he—and by extension this Elder—would respond.

The said response was unusually anticlimactic, however. You were shown to your tent and told that you will get several days to get used to the climate and settle in before your lessons are to begin.

The last thing you wanted to do was spend six months stuck in a desert god knows where, but you are also smart enough to realise that it’s much easier and preferable to play along.

For now.

Or at least until the uproar about Chicago dies down. Until the suspicion fades.

It’s not like you have much of a choice.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re curious.

You’ve never heard of anyone meeting the Elder before—much less spending time with his tribe. As a guest of honour of all things, too.

You’ve been watching the men around the camp like a hawk over these last several days, waiting for anyone to so much as look at you funny.

But there has been none of that.

The men mostly keep to themselves and their duties. It’s not quite like being ignored—there are polite nods and greetings every morning and evening—but they don’t exactly chitchat. Your Arabic is poor at best and it’s hard to tell how many of them actually understand or speak English. So even though you’re not sure what their orders are in regards to you, the ever-present instinct forces you to never lower your guard around them. Despite the lack of hostility you’ve received, it’s still startlingly clear that you are an outsider to them.

But there is a routine here. Routine and order.

Desert life is a harsh one. It’s waking long before the sun has risen and starting chores before the heat gets too overwhelming. Everyone here has a job to do: from food preparation to taking care of the animals to cleaning and even sewing. No one is excluded, and there is an odd sense of unity to be found in the soft murmurs as the men work. There is an ever-present togetherness about this place that admittedly surprises you.

As per their culture, all work is paused for prayer at least five times a day.

You keep a respectful distance when that happens. The last thing you want is to disturb anyone during an act that is clearly of great importance to them.  

During the first three days, you mostly linger in your tent, only coming out for meals and general exercise. Your body is still healing and your weakness has wrapped around your throat like Boutin’s bony fingers had.

You hate being incapable. You hate yourself even more for allowing yourself to slip this much. Building yourself up takes twice as long as falling apart does, and you know that it will take substantial effort to get back to your old form.

Your nights are still haunted as well.

It takes you hours to fall asleep, and even when you do, nightmares are quick to chase you out of slumber. You stopped sleeping inside your tent after the first night.

Desert life, you have also come to find, fluctuates between scorching heat during the days and freezing nights once the sun sets. But you welcome it—like it even.

There is also the matter of the night sky.

It is beyond breathtaking. You have never observed stars so bright anywhere else before. So many of them are visible each night, it feels like you could reach out and sink your fingers into the very fabric of that inky blackness and tug them all loose. Whenever you awake from feverish nightmares with Kishi’s laugh nipping at your senses, it’s the stars and the coldness of the night air that lulls you and eases your frightened mind.

You’re no longer stuck underground when all of eternity seems to stretch above you.

So for the last two nights, you have found yourself wrapped in a camel fur blanket, sleeping by the fire in the middle of the camp. The fire doesn’t go out all night and you take full advantage of that.

Last night Kishi was joined by Boutin and Rafael, too, which filled your wakeful hours with a certain green-eyed heir.

Which is…surprising.

John you’re used to having inside your head. His spectre is a constant you rely on almost every day. Santino has never quite managed to warm his way in before. Not with John taking up all the space there but…

But something has changed. You know it has.

It’s only been little over a week since Chicago yet it feels like years have passed.

And Santino D’Antonio has left his mark without even realising it.

A part of you can’t help but wonder if he knows where you are, if he has noticed your absence—if he even will—and if he does, if he will care.

Will he search for you?

Will Tarasov?

“He likes you.”

Your fingers still against the soft, warm nose of the camel before you and you ignore the heated, wet huff of breath against your palm.

“Animals know loyalty,” you say, your words a touch dull but still respectful, even though you don’t turn to face the man behind you. “Humans tend to be lacking in that field.”

Rafik comes to stand beside you, stretching his arm to touch the animal’s nose as well. The camel remains laying in his spot, still munching, and you ignore the tickle of evening breeze against the back of your neck. The sun has almost set and the camp is bustling with preparations for dinner. It’s hardly a grand affair but the food is delicious all the same even though it lacks the refinement you've gotten used to in Santino’s presence.

“Until their hunter instincts kick in and then they kill you far quicker than any human would.”

A sound tickles from the back of your throat; one that’s not quite a laugh but not quite mocking him, either. The camel releases a muted sound, too, his large lips moving leisurely.

“You disagree.”

It’s a smooth assessment but one that does manage to finally drag your attention his way.

His back in similar attire everyone wears around here. Loose robes and turban around his head, hiding the crop of pitch-black hair that reminded you of John when you first saw him at the Continental.

“Oh, I agree,” you remark and feel a slight but surprisingly genuine twitch of your lips. “To disagree.”

There is a whisper of amusement that passes over his features and he inclines his head as if accepting your words.

“Why me?”

He withdraws his hand from the camel’s head and you feel your own hand drop away, too. Your body slants to face the man before you fully. Your weapons are all on you though you did have to get creative after being forced to wear your new attire. A fitted but still loose cotton bodysuit that covers your skin respectfully but allows you to move around comfortably. Your new heavy-soled shoes took longer getting used to than the jumpsuit did. The latter has clearly been crafted for your looming training, and all spares came in typical pale colours to make the heat more bearable.

“What do you mean?”

Standing straighter, you give him a long, searching look. “I think you know perfectly well what I mean,” you point out, respectfully temperate. “You said the Elder took interest in my skill set. But there are a great many other poisoners around the world, some even better than me on a technical level.”

The camel makes an indistinct noise again, and the now cooling wind brushes against the cotton hugging your skin. Goosebumps pinprick your skin as silence sits between you.

Rafik folds his hands in front of him, a gesture that eerily reminds you of Winston, and you have no idea what to call this thing between you. It feels so much like you’re mentally circling one another, trying to figure the other out.

He’s to be your overseer till The Elder deems you “worthy” of his time. But a part of you can’t help but wonder if Rafik is his own sort of test.

“I confess that I do not know the full extent of the Elder’s thought process,” he begins and his eyes narrow a bit. “But he does what he believes is right.”

This time, you don’t bother masking your scorn, and a slight snort manages to slip free. You regret it immediately and turn to face the camel again, hoping to buy yourself some time.

A muffled sound of him stepping closer behind you reaches you, and you tense, your heartbeat spiking. “You find fault with that statement.”

Not a question and your head turns back towards him as you try to force the old, irrational spike of fear down.

“I’m not going to badmouth your master if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

A flash of something across those strong features but it’s gone quickly.

“You can speak your mind freely here.”

“Can I?” you mutter coldly before you can stop yourself and immediately bite your tongue, hating the defence you’ve suddenly been put on. It’s like something is scratching from inside your mind, waiting to burst out every time this man is anywhere near. Your eyes cut to him. “Is this another one of your master’s tests?”

A smile curls his full lips, slow and indulgent. “If it were, you would know,” he rebukes. “I imagine it would be a touch more deadly.”

Your terse expression eases, the pinch of your mouth relaxing somewhat. Something is buzzing under your skin though, something you haven’t felt in...ever.

“Fine,” you begin firmly, briefly letting your tongue wet your lower lip. “A great many dictators thought that what they were doing was right but it often leads to genocide. A man who believes himself to be higher power is often a highly dangerous one because he can justify just about anything inside his mind. So I can’t help but wonder why me?”

Something, something, something in the way he gazes at you—a digging, intent look that makes you fight harder to keep your own expression coolly disinterested.

The sounds of camp fill yet another silence between you. It’s nigh impossible to tell what the man in front of you is thinking but you watch how his hands loosen, dropping back to his sides and he takes another step closer. This near, it’s much easier to see his shadowed features.

“It is true that there are others who are perhaps more skilled,” he says softly, and you tilt your head back just a touch to see him better but not allow yourself to be seen as less. He pauses briefly at that, another minute twitch of those lips before he continues, “But I believe that what you possess that others don’t has little to do with skill.”

His eyes shift away for a moment, sweeping over the camp and you can see the love there, pride even. You’re not quite sure why seeing that surprises you.

“There is a vast difference between imitation and creation,” he tells you and when his eyes find yours again, you are forced to hold back a shiver. “Anyone can follow instructions but not just anyone can create,” he explains, a note of wonderment there, and his face leans closer, just slightly. “And to become. There is no greater power one can possess. You can learn from him for he knows your craft like no one else does.”

You lean back, blinking.

Confusion fades quickly as your mind scrambles.

“Are you trying to tell me that the Elder is a poisoner?”

“You sound surprised.”

Inhaling, you give him a hurried, “No, I just—”

Rafik’s head slants again, considering you, but this time he appears surprised by what he sees.

“How fascinating,” he whispers, staring down at you like you are a puzzle he can’t quite make sense of. “You, yourself, hold such potential yet you fail to realise it.”

You don’t answer, gazing at him with mute disbelief.

A poisoner. The Elder. The man who stands above the Table. The key to his power over everyone.

As if sensing your trail of thought, Rafik muses a thoughtful, “How do you fight against something that’s invisible? Tasteless, even. Everyone needs food, water, and oxygen to survive. Every single one of those things is easy to manipulate and control and often to such a...deadly result.”

Deadly result.

He’s been hinting at this from the start, you simply weren’t listening.

“So he controls through fear.”

Rafik steps back, something more distant falling over his features. He’s a handsome man, that much you can admit easily, but right then he appears colder somehow.

“He controls through caution,” he rebukes firmly but his voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t sharpen, either. His regards shifts once again though; something clever, something that challenges you. “There has to be order or everything collapses into chaos. But the Table is free to do as it pleases as long as they stay in line.”

Your reply is immediate and you know he’s waiting for it. “And if they don’t?”

You can’t believe you are discussing the High Table as if they were a bunch of unruly toddlers ready for a scolding.

The Elder.

A poisoner just like you. If you are considered of interest with your knowledge, then just how good is he?

It surprises you that instead of feeling threatened or unsettled in any way, you find something else blooming in your chest.

A curiosity, a question, a need to know and understand.

What is he? What can he do?

It’s a feeling you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

Heart pumping and mind racing not because your life is in danger but because there is something to unearth—to discover.

Rafik doesn’t answer you.

He only gives you one last, lingering look and turns to go.

“Your training begins tomorrow,” he says by the way of a farewell as he walks away. “Do not be late.”

Winston kept you alive.

Santino woke you up.

Maybe it’s finally time to stand up and do something with that.

“You became his student?”

The muted surprise you hear in John’s low voice shouldn’t surprise you.

Once, you felt a similar sting of surprise at those conclusions.

Pausing, you squint at him while blinding Moroccan sun beams overhead. Your journey together had been tense and awkward but you had focused on survival, pushing back your personal feelings.

It’s good to finally back on solid ground after few days of nothing but water though. It’s been uncomfortable and you’ve barely slept, constantly terrified that something might happen and the ship might capsize. All that water and no escape.

It’s irrational and stupid but despite the self-reassurance that everything will be fine, you haven’t been able to shake the terror.

That, coupled with the unknown of Santino’s current condition, have exhausted you to the bone. The anxiety you feel coats your being like a second skin and you hate it.

John picked up on your discontent quickly but you had shut down any inquiries from him down.

You’re not sure you can discuss your fear over Santino’s life with the very man who shot him.

“Something like that.” is the only, tired reply you manage to muster up.

You’ve just arrived at the Post of Casablanca less than twenty minutes ago, and the stunning white of the Hassan II Mosque greeted you long before you docked.

Being back here sends shivers down your spine. A clash of memories from two different times and with two different men.

“I’ve never heard of that before,” John states mildly, a question there. “Does anyone know?”

Despite your facile conversation, you both scan the people around you. Everyone and anyone could be an enemy in waiting. The fact that you both disappeared off the radar for a few days would have drawn even more attention. Familiar dry heat fills your lungs and if it weren’t for the brisk shore breeze you would be sweating already.

The streets are bustling with life as always. You pass the fish market, sticking close to each other. Surprise attacks in crowds are common and harder to anticipate. Women and men alike clad in colourful djellabas mingle around, purchasing food or bargaining for a better price. Darija rings in your ears as you walk and you work your jaw—that, too, brings back memories.

“Winston. Cassian, too,” you reply, trying to refocus on your conversation instead. John’s features are empty of the pain he was burdened with a few days ago. Unlike you, he got to rest during your journey, giving him that edge back. “A few others know that I spend time there but not much else.”

Like Santino. Like the woman you are here to see.

You expect John to latch onto one name in particular and don’t have to wait long.

“Cassian? He’s one of them?”

Glancing at the spectre of a man on your left, you wonder what to make of the sudden wariness and strain on his face, and arch an eyebrow.

“He was meant to be. He was like me, in training,” you reveal and can see the way John’s mind races as he tries to digest this new information. This took him off guard, you can tell. You also can’t help but feel like you’re missing something right now. “Saad ended up getting his spot though. Of course, when you train under the Elder, it doesn’t take long before another family tries to recruit you. Even if you don’t make the cut. We became as good as family after he learned I that trained with them. And when Giovanni D’Antonio—”

You stop dead in your tracks.

The city gate stands before you.

There was no gate the last time you were here. Just an archway that marked the beginning of the city.

Now, however, heavy bronze metal greets you. Each side of the gate is a work of art, weaving metal into intricate, elegant patterns. But what truly grips your breath is the design sitting at the centre where the gate splits.

Sun and a moon. Both not quite touching but drawn together in a circle of unity. The moon side has a handful stars hanging over it in an arching curve of metal while the sun side exudes thick, golden lines indicating sun rays.

“What’s wrong?”

The thundering of your heart rings in your ears, and you wonder if he can hear it, too.

John’s features have gone taut with focus, no doubt wondering if you recognised an enemy about to attack you. But it’s not that.

The gate—

“It’s nothing,” you choke out and the lie is so obvious you almost grimace. “We should move.”

You throw yourself forward, putting one foot in front of another. John follows but you can practically taste his confusion. It sits thick in the air but you ignore it, cutting through the street market. This isn’t something you can fully explain to him, nor do you want to.

The flow of Arabic fills the air, and let your eyes to journey over the food stalls. Vegetables, olives, spice, oils. On the other side, you spot merchants trying to sell jewellery, ceramic teapots, perfume bottles—all handcrafted, and all done so with great care and pride. Different scents trickle through the air and you draw deep breaths, soaking the atmosphere in.

A part of you...

A part of you has missed it.

Missed this place.

That gate though. Your stomach churns when you think about it.

Your end goal of Moroccan Continental lays on the other side of the city. Getting there will take time, especially with both you trying to stay low.

The sun sinks behind the horizon another hour later, and you both use dingy, dank alleyways to cut through the heart of the city. You planned the entire journey beforehand, comparing your knowledge to settle on the quickest, most discreet route.

A tap of shoes clicks through the empty alleyway behind you, and you slow as you round the corner. Dragging your eyes John’s way, you both share a meaningful look in the darkness.

You suppose it was only a matter of time before someone caught up with you.

Three men appear through the shadows, all armed with knives and determined expressions. They block all the exits, cutting off your path, and you roll your shoulder blades leisurely. John doesn’t make a sound but you can almost hear his mental sigh of exhaustion.

It’s a clash of fists.

You grapple for the crude knife one of the men tries to use against you, swiping it wildly towards your neck. You duck. Swing for his gut. The punch lands and you pull him closer. He gasps for breath and you grab his arms. Slouching, he seizes your wrists painfully, heaving. He tries to yank himself back from your grip but his hesitation costs him.

You sink your own blade between his ribs brutally, twisting once. The man gurgles, shocked. Then crumples.

You’re not in the mood to play.

John has already taken one of the men down, struggling with another and you lift the knife, aiming for the throat—

“Stop!”

The voice rings out like boom, echoing. Everyone in the alley stills.

Another man steps out of a building further down the street, lighting his cigarette as he does so.

A familiar face.

“They’re off-limits,” the newcomer informs unfazed by the dead bodies.

The man trying to kill John doesn’t see it that way. “But they’re Excomunicado.”

You step closer in warning and the attacker shifts, wary.

“And the manager has granted them amnesty,” the man argues placidly, unfazed, even a touch irked. The attacker loosens his grip on John and the newcomer smiles, glancing over them both to give you a wider grin. “Welcome back to Casablanca, Miss Vipress.”

You dip your chin, lowering the blade. “Yassin.”

The attacker and John relax at the same time, slowly stepping apart as Yassin takes an indulgent drag of his cigarette, waiting.

“Please, come with me,” he says with a gesture of his arm, his smile fixed in place. “We have been expecting you.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of that but don’t comment. Stepping past the only surviving attacker, you raise an eyebrow at the dirty look he shoots your way.

You suppose seeing two of your buddies being killed doesn’t constitute for a good night. But they also should have known better.

John’s stare sweeps over your body—no doubt checking for injuries—but you don’t acknowledge that, either.

You’re just about to point out how Yassin hasn’t stopped smoking despite his promise to quit the last time you saw him. But before you can the said man swings around, firing his pistol.

The surviving attacker collapses behind you with a sickening thud, and then the night is peaceful once more. The sounds of buzzing nightlife echo from somewhere in the distance as Yassin calmly pockets his pistol, giving John a slight smile. Almost apologetic.

“Welcome to Casablanca, Mr Wick.”

With that and a cheery little laugh, the man leads you the remainder of the way to the sweeping grounds of the Moroccan Continental.

Stepping through the doors opens up the courtyard and it’s another journey through time. Belly dancers, thick smoke, daring fire displays, palm trees, and glasses of vin gris all intertwine to create an air of festivity though it’s nothing more than and ordinary Tuesday. Live music plays—flowing and jovial—and you look briefly around you, feeling the buzz of excitement in the air.

You’ve been part of this excitement once before. This lush celebration of life. Tipsy on the world and recklessness that had flown through your blood. Then, on that night, you had been ready to burn the world down without a care.

“Ms. Al-Azwar waits for no man,” Yassin speaks and you snap out of your stupor as you enter the hotel itself. The man leads you down a dimly lit hallway but you don’t need him to. You could find your way around here just fine. Yassin pauses by a doorway with fluttering curtains and turns towards John, smugly amused like the assassin is missing something, “Best of luck, Mr Wick. Miss Vipress.”

He inclines his head, a wicked gleam in his gaze and you fight back a grin. John seems to realise that it’s not a joke that’s going to be explained to him.

He steps through first.

It’s quiet here, so far away from the chaotic party at the courtyard. He moves towards the table to the side where a cluster of familiar photographs sits.

You linger behind him, not moving—

A growl. Something brushes past your leg and John stills, carefully lowering the picture frame back onto the table. He shifts towards the large canine baring his teeth at him with a snarl and then looks towards the dog at your side.

Their savage growls are directed at John only, and you fold your arms over your chest.

A silhouette steps into sight ahead, and John pivots towards the figure who raises their arms before John can so much as open his mouth.  

A loud gunshot follows. Neither the two dogs nor you react.

John falls backwards with a grunt, catapulted back by the sheer impact of the bullet.

“Sofia!” he calls out with a grunt of discomfort. “You can’t kill the bearer of your Marker.”

The manager of the Moroccan Continental steps into the light, her gun raised, and expression pinched. The look in her amber eyes is fierce, annoyed. She glares down at the man on her floor like she’s debating on whether to sick her dogs on him.

“I didn’t kill you,” she drones, her voice icy. “I just shot you.”

There is a moment in which she notes the lack of blood or any visible damage.

“Nice suit, John.”

The man grunts again, lifting himself slightly, his arm raised.

“Nice to see you too, Sofia.”

The woman prowls closer, and seeing her pitiless glare only makes you realise how much you’ve missed her. Her and her acidic tongue.

“I should shoot you both right now,” she says bluntly, her attention finally settling on you and her eyes narrow. “You look like shit by the way.”

You feel like it, too.

Nodding your head in agreement, you reach to pat Ikar and Santana. Both dogs flock to your side now that their master hasn’t proceeded to attack the newcomer again. “Thanks,” you mutter, scratching Ikar behind the ear. Tails wag happily and it makes you smile. “Hey, gorgeous darlings.”

You’ve seen what these dogs are capable of. But in private they’re still just loyal companions eager for belly rubs.

“Stop spoiling them,” Sofia bites out.

“I’m petting them,” you shoot back.

You hear the manager huff but she doesn’t stop you.

There is a rustle of clothing behind you and Sofia’s features go rigid with tension, her grip on the gun tightening and—

Your head snaps to look behind you.

Golden, round metal greets your sight and you see red.

John looks regretful as if already predicting how badly this will go down.

A Marker.

“Don’t even think about it,” the manager hisses, every bit the furious woman ready to rip someone’s throat out with her bare teeth. “You’re Excomunicado that Marker means shit.”

John searches for what to say before settling on a measured, “This is your blood. Your bond.”

You knew that this Marker existed. But you didn’t think he would stoop so low as to try and call it in less than a week after so blatantly refusing his own. No matter how good of a reason he thought he had.

But it seems that rules are only important to John as long as they fit him and his needs.

You knees crack from how quickly you rise to your full height. “I’m taking a shower.”

Behind you, John stands, too. He staggers closer. “V—”

Marching briskly towards Sofia, you pause beside her. It’s very hard to keep a straight expression.

“Can I have a change of clothes?”

Her expression darkens when she fully takes in your haggard appearance and she nods, her gun still trailed on John behind you.

You don’t bother looking back as you depart the room.

This was supposed to have been a request for help, not a demand for one.

The hallways are known to you. This isn’t the first time you’ve walked them. You navigate the narrow space easily, even though you’re practically dragging your feet after you.

You’re tired.

Just so tired.

All the ghosts from your past nip at your heels as you enter an unlocked room sitting at the end of a winding hallway. It looks like nothing has changed in it. Same square layout; wooden furniture, a vanity, wardrobe and adjoined bathroom. A neatly made bed is stationed in the corner, and you almost crumple at the sight of it. Those rich khaki coloured covers look so inviting.

Closing the door with a click, you shrug your coat off, your breaths growing laboured with every inhale. Here, alone, your shoulders tremble under the overbearing weight of everything.

Dragging your trembling palm over your face, you work to steady yourself, stripping. It’s difficult to breathe, stand, exist, but you drag your feet forward anyway.

You have to.

If you stop now, you don’t think you would ever get back up.

The water takes a minute to warm up when you turn on the shower, and you count in your head as you push yourself under the spray.

A webbing of tingling pain rakes through your limbs but you ignore that, too.

Bracing your hands against the freezing tiles, you shiver under the scorching heat of water beating against your bare back. In and out.

Your head sinks as the dense weight of both water and life pulls you down.

Several minutes pass like that. Then you attempt to move, to wash away the grime. You stare blankly at the drain as water gurgles down it.

The whole affair takes substantial effort.

By the time you get out of the shower fifteen minutes later, your muscles are laxer but no less worn. You’re shivering and you’re unsure if it’s exhaustion, adrenaline drop, lack of food, the heat, or something else entirely.

Wrapping the towel tightly around your body, you push your way back into the guest bedroom and flinch.

For a second, Santino’s ghost sits on the bed, glaring, but you blink and he’s gone.

He sat on that bed once before, seemingly half a lifetime ago now, and you wish you could launch yourself back to that time. Even if back then you were so bad. Teetering again.

He came for you again. Just like before Chicago.

And then you won a war for Camorra.

With blood, bullets, poison and forged loyalty.

Together.

Collapsing in a chair by the vanity table, you pull the tiny phone form your jacket, turning it on.

You feel cold to the bone as you wait, your shivering growing worse; an unrelenting, heinous sense gnawing at your heart. You can’t shake the dread that you may find news that will shatter your world. Break it whole.

Please.  

The phone buzzes the moment it turns on and you almost drop it. Readjusting your grip, you inhale deeply. Laboured.

In and out.

He’s out of surgery. Stable but hasn’t woken up yet.

A small sound slips free and you press the phone to your chest. You hold it there; simply gasping small, relieved breaths as you curve your body down.

The ring on your finger and the chain around your neck both burn. But it’s a good burn; a happy one, a relieved one.

“When I said come visit,” a voice declares from behind you, and your eyes snap open, catching sight of Sofia entering the room in the mirror reflection. “I meant when you were free, and that prick Tarasov was buried six feet under, so we could celebrate. Not when you’ve been made Excomunicado and with Baba Yaga in tow.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell her instead, forcing your tense muscles to ease a touch at the sight of her. “I didn’t know he would try and hold the Marker over you.”

She stands still for a moment, surveying you.

You’ve missed her and it’s been too long.

Her hooded stare is uncompromising when she addresses you, “I thought you said if you ever saw him again you would shoot his kneecaps out.”

A small sound slips free; almost a chuckle.

“I was drunk when I said that.”

Sofia stalks closer, unsmiling.

“Not drunk enough to forget you said it,” she states coolly, and her tone implies that she’s both disappointed and exasperated.

Your shoulders droop and you place the phone back on the vanity. A part of you wants to hold it. Your fingertips linger on the screen for a heartbeat before you finally remove them. It fills you with hope despite all the chaos.

I can do this. I will do this.

“Things...” you begin but your voice fades. “It’s complicated.”

The manager comes to a stand behind you and stares. Your eyes meet in the reflection.

“Yeah, it always is with you.”

You’re not sure what to make of her entire demeanour. She’s unsurprisingly angry. You can’t blame her for it, either.

“Thank you,” you say with a small sigh. “I know how much of a risk you’re taking.”

Her daughter. The very reason why John has that damn Marker in the first place.

Sofia made the call to keep her daughter safe from this life. To hide her. She’s now left to pay the price for that decision. All she has left are memories and old photographs that can be found in almost every corner of her private quarters.

“Don’t bother thanking me,” she retorts briskly. “This isn’t a friendly favour. I expect you to pay me back.”

You won’t expect anything less from her.

“Not friends,” you mumble. “Right.”

Her one rule. She doesn’t do friends. Too messy and she’s a manager. No favourites.

Finally lowering your eyes, you reach for the drawer, trying to get the medical kit out. One can be found in every room. Fitting considering the usual patrons. A doctor is available, too, but many prefer their privacy.

“Give me that,” she cuts in, grabbing the medkit from your trembling hands. “The last thing I need is you making a mess.”

Then you realise what exactly she’s staring at. The bare skin of your arms and shoulders that’s covered in bruises and cuts. Most of them are old and half-healed, all varying shades of purple, blue and yellow. Your towel hides even more. The still healing ear also draws attention.

Seeing it through her eyes—looking at yourself through her eyes—makes you realise just how dreadful you do look.

Sofia starts with visible cuts first. She dabs a cloth with antiseptic on your shoulder and you press your lips together. Her touch is not gentle. She does everything with grim focus. But she gets things done. You’ve always admired that about her.

“Is he still alive?”

She doesn’t need to clarify who she’s asking about.

“For now.”

It pains you, how true that is. Santino might be out of surgery but is he out of danger?

“And is it true?” she demands.

Chewing on your inner cheek, you only give her a dispassionate, “Is what true?”

Her eyes spark, her golden skin glowing in the moonlight pouring through the window, and she scowls at you. “Did D’Antonio make you his heir?”

“How did you know?”

“He just took the High Table seat,” she mutters, still scowling and her eyes narrow. “Everyone asked questions the moment the news broke about him being shot. Imagine everyone’s surprise when the Devil of Camorra shut down speculations and the Camorra Council by announcing Santino named you to stand in his stead.”

Hector.

Camorra always comes first for him. You know he didn’t do it because he likes you. But he does value his family, his loyalty to them is unbreakable. He may not like Santino, either, but he will still serve to the best of his ability. Gratitude is an unfamiliar emotion in regards to the menacing man, but you still feel it. However minute.

“He did it to keep me safe,” you intone softly, frayed.

Sofia shifts on her feet behind you and presses cloth between your shoulder blades. You flinch and grind your teeth.

“I know,” she deadpans. “He does that. Shockingly. And ironically.”

Your head lifts, a trickle of water trailing down your neck from your still wet hair.  

“What is that suppose to mean?” you question tightly.

She pauses, straightening, and meets your questioning stare unflinchingly. “You know exactly what I mean,” she says frankly. “You do know he loves you, right?”

Oh.

Your heart mangles.

“This is Santino D’Antonio you’re—”

She scoffs, throwing the cloth on the vanity as she glares down at you. “Do you think I’m blind? Or are you playing ignorant?” she questions coldly. Nor does she sound in the mood to back down. “You’re not stupid so I know that can’t be it. I saw how he was with you when he came to my city. How you clung to him and trusted him. How ready he was to go through anyone to get to you. How you looked at him even then.”

Every word is a stab and you try to force those reminders away. Try to force back the memory of rage you had felt at Tarasov, how you had ran like a reckless idiot, ready to throw everything away. Go back and never return—

How Santino had come. Despite the escalating situation with he Albanians, despite Giovanni’s wrath, and how he dragged you back. Not letting you run away. How he reminded you to fight and stand your ground.

The memory of his arms around you and your nose in the crook of his neck hurts.

“I do know,” you admit, your words a weak wreck of syllables. “I—I couldn’t do it again, Sof. I can’t...it hurts too much. I couldn’t risk it again.”

Surely she can understand. She knows about John. You practically spilt your guts to her. She had listened silently—not pitying you, not looking down at you—even while you sobbed your heart out.

“That’s some bullshit you know that, right?” she insists, pushing her highlighted hair over one shoulder, her glare unfaltering. “I didn’t say anything the last time because I wasn’t sure myself but that ring on your finger says all I need to know. Power means everything to him.”

She draws a deep breath, examining your slack expression in the mirror before shaking her head. “But he’s different with you. It’s not that you change him but he...I don’t know,” she mutters stiffly, sounding like she rather not be speaking on this topic at all. “It’s like you make him more bearable. You inspire him to be different. He tries to actually use that minuscule brain of his when you’re around. You can’t fake what I saw.”

A wheeze rattles out of your lungs and your body shakes.

“You don’t even like Santino,” you point out harshly because it’s true. She has always spoken about the Italian like she couldn’t care less if he dropped dead. “Why the hell are you telling me all this?”

Why now? When everything is already barely being held together.

This...

You don’t need this now.

Don’t want to think about it now.

The manager rolls her eyes. “You’re damn right I don’t like him,” she responds bluntly, her mouth pinching. “I would put a bullet in his smug little face myself if I could. But I have eyes in my head and if you refuse to acknowledge it, then I will.”

Her irritation eases a touch, her features relaxing, and she places her hand on your shoulder. The squeeze is tiny, almost caring if you didn’t know what kind of woman she is. “You can’t spend the rest of your life running away from things,” she says knowingly, and a lump in your throat almost makes your eyes ache. You look away, unable to hold her intent stare. “Just because John broke your heart it doesn’t mean that you can never be happy again.”

Sometimes you wonder which one of them she dislikes more: John or Santino.

She would probably shoot them both given the chance.

Most days it’s a sentiment shared.

“And you do realise that you’re talking about one of the most selfish and ruthless men in our world, don’t you?” you say, your voice still thin, weaker than you would like it to be. Sofia has little patience for snivelling. But this is hitting a sore spot at the worst time. “What do you want from me, Sof? It’s not my job to be a moral compass for someone else.”

Santino is his own man. Capable of his own decisions. He is awful and egoistic and often cruel and—

I choose you.

A shudder rolls through your limbs and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Do you really think that if I ever, even for a second, thought that that was your relationship I won’t have called you out on it?”

You don’t answer her. But you doubt she needs a verbal confirmation to something she already knows.

Of course, she would. She always has.

“Fine,” she forces out through gritted teeth at your lack of response. “Answer me this, then: has he ever made you happy? Genuinely happy?”

A part of you wonders why this is so damn important to her now. Why she’s forcing answers out of you over something she’s always considered “not her business” in the past.

Genuinely happy.

The fact that hundreds of tiny moments immediately jump to mind is answer enough.

You feel how your expression crumbles. “Yes.”

“And if he were to die right now—”

Every muscle in your body goes ramrod stiff before she even finishes. “Don’t.”

She leans back a bit, her eyebrows rising at the venom in your voice, and the self-satisfied expression on her face should make you furious. But it doesn’t.

She only got you to admit what you already know.

That you care for Santino D’Antonio a lot more than you should.

Six years of knowing him.

What you feel for him—

“That’s what I thought,” she says, pleased, but then drops the smugness. Her fingers squeeze your shoulder again, less forceful this time. “Do yourself a favour and open your eyes. Stop running already.”

It’s perhaps the kindest thing she’s ever said to you. It’s certainly spoken with a gentler tone than what you’re used to hearing from her.

You don’t have a reply to that, and she seems to conclude that there is nothing more to pull. Or maybe she just knows you better than to try.

“So,” she begins after few moments of silence, picking up some salve that should ease the muscle ache. “You really think it’s going to work?”

You read the deeper meaning in her words but feel grateful that she’s decided to drop the previous topic. For now, at least.

“I don’t know but it’s our only option,” you tell her and grimace at another dull twinge of pain across your back. The salve has to be massaged in but it still hurts. “The city gate...when was it changed? The one coming from the water.”

Because you need to know—have to know.

Did he do it on purpose?

He had to. It’s too deliberate. A message only you would decipher.

Sofia pauses in her massaging, her warm palm still between your shoulder blades and thinks for a beat. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe a few months after you visited? Why?”

Your heart skips several beats and a faint smile curves your lips.

“Then I think it will work.”

She must hear the defeat in your voice because she pulls back, examining you once more before delivering her verdict. “You should rest.”

“We need to go—”

“You’re both a mess,” she says brusquely, and jerks her chin towards the bed. “We’re not going anywhere while you look like you’re about to drop dead any minute. John agreed. We’ll go to Berrada tomorrow.”

—BEFORE.

.

It takes another two days to ask the question that’s been plaguing you since you got to this desert.

“What about Tarasov?”

Rafik pauses over his meal, turning towards you as his spoon lowers. Your own meal sits half-eaten in your lap—a couscous with goat meat and vegetables—and you twist your spoon between your fingers with a frown. The fire you both sit next to crackles loudly, and you peer at the dancing flames blankly. A sickly weight of dread sits in the pit of your stomach and you shift your aching, exhausted body from training for the hundredth time that day.

The rest of the men pay you no attention. Their heads are bowed and the relaxing, low lull of their conversation washes over you while the spoon twists between your fingers yet again.

“He is of no consequence,” Rafik informs you coolly and digs back into his portion. “You do not have to worry. As long as you are staying here as the Elder’s guest the world outside of this haven is of no importance.”

The tip of your toe jabs into the sand underneath you, and your shoulders lower; an almost instinctive gesture that you don’t realise you’ve committed until you notice the way Rafik’s dark eyes flicker over your body.

Your back straightens. “He will search for me. He—”

“Viggo Tarasov is one man,” Rafik cuts you off, placid but curt, and your eyes meet. Amber light dances over his features and that arresting stare stills your fidgeting limbs. “A piece in a far larger machine, and nothing more than that. He is of no importance. No harm will befall you even if you choose to return after your stay here.”  

Viggo Tarasov.

The man who murdered your parents, who has abused you in more than one way for years, who took your freedom, forcing you to servitude. Nothing more than a dog chained to his will until you work off a debt that’s not even yours to begin with. A man whose only care in regards to you is one that serves his will and greed for power. A man who left you to fend for yourself when John’s enemies came for you—hunting you, hurting you, poisoning you—is suddenly of no importance.

Your appetite shrivels up and dies at those words.

But you know hunger. You know the value of a good meal and water.

So you grit your teeth, dig your spoon back into your bowl, and scrape every last piece of your meal clean even though it makes you feel sick after.

You don’t speak for the rest of the night.  

.

.

“Fascinating.”

“What is?”

Rafik lowers the parchment in his hands and lifts his head, his gaze hooded and pensive as he gazes at you for a beat.

The incense tickles your nose even though you’re both sitting in an open tent, overlooking the golden scenery around you. He picked up on your preference for open spaces quickly, much to your unspoken surprise.  

The wind-chimes and the dance of silken curtains fill the air with melody; a delicate, lulling thing that helps to relax your tense body.

“I confess that I do not fully grasp the intricacies of your work but I think the Elder will be most pleased when I present this to him,” he says and you hear the honesty in his quiet, accented voice. Genuine praise. “The way you perceive things…it reminds me a great deal of how his mind works as well.”

You know that.

These last few weeks have been…

You hesitate to use a word like groundbreaking but they have been.

Your training consists of three parts: the physical kind which means long and gruelling sparring sessions with Saad each morning while Rafik oversees, studying the Elder’s own private research for the rest of the day, and finally meditating.

It’s the last one you struggle the most with.

You’re not good at relaxing or quietening your mind. Not good at trusting yourself in a vulnerable position which is exactly what meditating for hours on end is.

You’ve gotten better. Especially with Rafik often joining you in an effort to help. His voice has become familiar to you for that reason.

The Elder’s private collection of research is something else entirely though.

Astonishing is one of the first words that come to mind.

Parchments upon parchments full of theories and experimentations all written out in neat handwriting. You’ve spent days pouring over them, your mind racing and working overtime.

You have never encountered someone who approaches toxicology and chemistry the same way you do. Never encountered someone who is able to think so wildly out of the box. Someone whose research and concepts feel like opening a gate on your own vague, half-baked notions that always felt foolish when you entertained them.  

The Elder and his work challenge you mentally in a way nothing has before.

There has never been a time before where you would wake up each morning, feeling eager to get through your physical training just so you could go back to your tent and spend the day pouring over more.

Rafik passes you more notes daily as well as “challenges” from the Elder himself—a way to test your own creativity and ability to learn and adapt.

Normally something like this would have annoyed you—you aren’t a kid at school taking exams and have nothing to prove to some man who is yet to show his face—but the challenges themselves are so interesting you can’t force yourself to feel angry.

“You sound impressed,” you joke but feel genuinely curious. “These are just basic, outlandish concepts to be honest.”

“These concepts are impressive and very plausible,” he replies and gives you a measured look. “May I ask why you have not developed them further? This paralyser especially.”

You hum and shake your head a little. “Time and resources mostly,” you tell him and give him a cynical smile. “Tarasov likes to keep me busy.”

A flicker passes over Rafik’s features. It’s brief and too hard for you to read but he straightens, looking at you closely.

“What?”

Maybe you sound a touch defensive but can’t quite help it. Unlike Santino, or even John, Rafik never explains his long, probing looks.

“You have no idea what you could achieve with this,” he says quietly, gesturing towards the parchment. “Do you?”

“Some already fear me.”

After what you did. What you don’t regret doing.

His lips part and his next words feel like a physical blow. “Then they are fools. They should be terrified of you.”

You’re not sure how long you both sit facing each other in silence. His eyes remind you of molten gold in this light.

What could you possibly say to that? The conviction, the quiet approval—they all reflect back at you though they are so minute that had this exchange taken place only weeks prior you won’t have been able to pick them out.

Time has flown startlingly fast.  

There is an odd sense of routine now, too.

Two months into your stay and you feel like this haven truly is all you know anymore. And yet, even though you are disconnected from everything here, your world has never felt bigger. Out of the abyss of numbness and heartbreak, something else is starting to take shape.

No news about Chicago, either. You don’t dare to ask about it, or what’s happening out there in the world.

It’s comfortable here in a way that almost makes it easy to pretend this is all you’ve known.

But even the heat of the sun cannot burn away your longing.

Where is home?

For so long, you thought you didn’t have one or even need one. But now, removed from everything, you have unearthed a different kind of truth.

Home is dreary, grey walls of the Continental. Home is a glass of brandy, a glint of glasses, banter with a concierge who looks reproachful on a good day, and crossword puzzles with a game of chess after dinner.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, as you stare up at the vastness of the sky above, you can even hear a teasing murmur of Italian next to you.

And yet—

You’ve always been selfish.

Home is tied to Tarasov. Home is also tied to John.

Two things you would rather forget.

Playing with the loose material of your pants, you finally give Rafik a firm, “I want to learn more. Tell your master to give me a bigger challenge.”

The most powerful man in the world.

Now you understand why.

Rafik only smiles, pleased.

.

.

“Again.”

Groaning, you see your hot breath separate the sand under your cheek as you lift your head. Saad rotates the bamboo stick in his hand, spinning it lazily as he stares down at you, circling you. His stony expression makes even old memories of John seem hospitable by comparison.

Behind him, just over the curved peaks of the sandy dunes, the sky is starting to bleed pink. You have maybe another thirty minutes tops before the sun is up and the sand beneath you will become too hot to train on.

Reaching out, your now much steadier fingers wrap around the fallen stick, and you prop it in the sand, using it to stand.

The back of your hand swipes against your cheek where grains of sand stick to your sweaty skin. Ignoring the itch of it, you brush it away without dropping your attention from your partner.

Saad truly makes even Cassian appear like a cuddly bear with that unmovable glower.

For a second, your eyes jump to Rafik who stands on the side of your makeshift ring, surveying your sparring session with a detached expression. He never spars with you but always oversees and comments. Compliments as well as critiques.

The Elder’s eyes and ears.

It’s been exhausting.

Beyond exhausting, in fact.

These last three months have been nothing but an effort to crawl back out of the pit you’ve been stuck in. Rafik hasn’t shielded away from pushing you, always seemingly aware of your limits before you even voice them, but still willing to drive just a little bit further daily.

Every bruise and groan and slam to the ground has just made you resent John just that little bit more.

After he left, you just barely managed to hold on. You clung onto your pride and dignity by continuing on despite everything. Even after being hunted and nearly killed numerous times during the Hunt, you still managed to hold on. Even while having to deal with the lingering scars that Tokyo has left on you, you still managed to hold on.

But his wedding had been the final shove to send you over the edge. You thought you were letting him go but the only thing you had let go of was yourself.

You hate the fact that you gave him so much power over you. Let his departure ruin you so thoroughly.

Your John.

You deserve better.

You’re not his or anyone’s second choice. Not a target for others to unleash their rage upon because of his actions.

Flipping the stick, you strike ruthlessly.

So quickly that you don’t fail to spot the flare of surprise in Saad’s black eyes as he just barely manages to block your strike. His leg slams forward but you pull back, twisting your arms till the other end of the stick connects again with a dull but piercing sound.

Saad is usually the one to put you on the defensive, so you use this chance to strike mercilessly, driving him back for once as you throw yourself at him.

The ferocious clanging of your sticks connecting fills the still chilly morning air and you spin, bringing the stick down again and again.

He’s significantly stronger than you—towering an impressive 6’0, at least—and it’s only made more impressive by the hard muscle lining his arms, legs, and torso. Often he swats you away like you’re a pesky fly buzzing around his head.

Saad keeps up but just barely, focusing on his strength to try and force you back and you falter briefly, giving him a moment to strike you in the stomach.

The pain that follows is fierce and sudden, though not unfamiliar. You stagger backwards as yellow sand sprays under your feet and gasp for breath, your expression screwing up in a grimace.

This time you manage to stay on your feet though.

The man before you doesn’t goad you, doesn’t comment, but Rafik does.

“Enough for today.”

Your muscles twinge. Your lungs are burning. Despite doing good and lasting far, far longer than you would have months ago, it still stings that you can’t do better. Your frustration burns as brightly as your drive to finally best the fighter before you.

You can do it. You know you can.

“No.”

Saad steps back, turning the stick in his hand as he lowers it, but a faint frown of disapproval lines his strong features at your refusal.

Your eyes jump to Rafik. “I want to go again.”

The man doesn’t so much as blink. “You are at your limit, viper. Learn to let go.”

“I want to go again.”

Something shifts under that peaceful mask, but Saad speaks up first. “Do as you’re told.”

You don’t bother reacting to his irritated words, your gaze still focused on the man behind him.

It’s not about disobedience.

This is something else.

“No,” Rafik dismisses again, his voice wooden.

Your jaw clenches so tightly your teeth ache. Spinning the stick, you lower it to your side, marching right past the rigid Saad and straight towards Rafik, coming face-to-face with him.

“Then I challenge you.”

“Tread carefully,” he utters though his voice or expression lack any sort of displeasure or annoyance. If anything— “If you do not calm that flame you will not win this match.”

He calmly extends his arm towards Saad; a silent request for his stick but he’s met with hesitation.

The too-long pause prompts a cool, “Your weapon, brother.”

“You do not have to listen to—”

Rafik glances away from you for a second, his attention moving towards the man behind you, and silence follows immediately. Almost like Saad was suddenly robbed of his ability to speak.

Footsteps draw closer a moment later; louder than usual, angry.

Rafik takes the stick calmly, expression unchanging and inclines his head towards the makeshift ring.

You both move in unison, eyeing each other as you halt several feet apart.

Rafik shrugs off his outer layer, leaving him in fitted robes as he gazes at you.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful. Just like the man before you. A world away from everything it might as well be just you two. Finally about to clash physically and not just mentally as you have so many times in these past months.

You’ve been curious about him for some time now.

The faraway noises of camels echo from the other side of the camp. Shuffling of tents opening and people starting their day.

You strike first.

Your grip on the stick unfaltering, you roll it between your hands, crashing it against his.

Rafik meets your strike, and you know from one glance at his face that every move is being judged even if he’s directly involved in the spar this time.

The sticks meet again, and again.

Spin. Pivot. Crash. Fall back. Slam of sticks again.

“You can be faster than that.”

Ignoring his words, you focus on his rhythm. Rafik himself keeps mentioning how every battle is a dance of sorts. That there are patterns and rules and things to learn in the way someone moves. You’ve never quite seen fighting be approached like this. You’re used to opportunities and instinct. Lessons from John and Cassian respectively.

Rafik is neither of them.

John’s advice whispers at the back of your mind but you ignore it.

Something tells you that this is not a fight you can win with his help.

You don’t need his help.

A knock against your shin and you jump back, shooting him a dirty look.

“Stop daydreaming, viper.”

The stick twists through the air in an elegant arc as Rafik observes you, waiting for your next move.

He’s good. Better than you expected him to be but you suppose you shouldn’t be surprised. Though there is tranquil air around him, his body tells a tale of silent, undeniable strength. Broad shoulders, strong neck, a dip of collarbone just visible at this distance that teases hard muscle underneath.

You go low, sand spraying under your feet as you aim for his legs, throwing the end of the stick at his chest. He reacts fast enough, seeing through your deceit, and his stick cracks against yours with enough power to make your arms dip, your muscles trembling to keep him at bay.

You let go with one hand, gambling as always, and the interlocked sticks hit your left shoulder, throwing you backwards. The pain is distant but numbing and your weapon rolls out of your hands in the fray. Rafik comes towards you at once, and your eyes meet for a single second before you throw a handful of sand at his face, kicking at his legs. His stick falls, too, and you don’t waste time.

He doesn’t fall over from the kick but he does go to his knees, and you hurl yourself at him, pitching both of you backwards. He crashes to the ground with a thud, you on top of him, and your concealed blade kisses the curve of his neck.

His turban has come off in the scuffle and you stare down at his dark eyes. Risk a glance at the midnight black hair now visible that you didn’t realise curls just slightly at the ends till now.

You’re out of breath, exhaling heavily through your nose, but still manage a victorious, “I win.”

He’s calm, a few grains of sand still sticking to his cheek and full lips, and you watch that mouth twitch slightly. “Did you?”

Slight pressure against your ribs and you freeze.

A concealed blade in his hand scrapes against your side.

It seems like you’re not the only one with tricks.

A nameless thing passes over Rafik’s features as he stares up at you and you feel it, too.

Your attentions snags on the bare expanse of his collarbone where you just glimpse a tattoo inked onto his golden, smooth skin. It’s Arabic and the meaning escapes you but it takes you a few seconds to force your attention away from it.

But for some reason this entire situation...

A chuckle breaks free from you—a sound so unfamiliar to you now—and you pull the blade back, the hard coil of emotion in your gut easing.

Leaning back, you gaze at him and him you, before you stand to your feet slowly. Your legs feel like jelly but you still extend your hand towards him.

Rafik wraps his fingers around yours, standing so easily you doubt he needed the help in the first place, but you don’t mention it. Easier to pretend.

Easier to pretend he doesn’t linger, still holding your hand before finally letting go.

“Take it.”

He offers the dagger in his hand to you. It’s a stunning thing. Relatively small, elegantly cut, and the handle forged with marble and rusted sort of gold. In today’s market, a creation such as this would fetch a good price. More than good. This is no ordinary dagger.

“No, thank you,” you say with a slight shake of your head. “I don’t accept presents.”

He pulls his hand back but his attention still stays on you. There is a slight flutter under his left eye, almost like he’s trying hard to figure something out.

“And why not?”

This time, you give him a slight smile, turning to go back towards your tent as the sun finally peaks over the dunes.

“Because presents are favours and favours are debts,” you tell him simply and massage your aching shoulder. It will bruise. But it was worth it for what you’ve managed to glean. “I have enough of those.”

You feel his eyes dig into your back as you walk away.

. 

.

“Today’s lesson is going to be different.”

“Different how?”

Your question is neutral but your mind races.

Today is already different. There was no morning spar with both Rafik and Saab too busy with something Rafik only vaguely alluded to last night over dinner.

For him to seek you out in the middle of the day is even rarer. He respects the number of hours and focus you put into your studies of the Elder’s research. He even looks pleased about it most days.

So when he came to your tent, asking for you to come with him, it made you both curious and suspicious.

“It’s a test,” he answers and you feel no surprise at those words, only blooming determination and unease. As if sensing it, Rafik gives you a sideways glance while you stride through the camp, appearing almost amused. “Do not look so tense, viper.”

The searing burn of the sun tingles the back of your neck and you know your replying stare is flat.

“Forgive my well-earned caution,” you begin frankly, squinting at him in the bright light. “The last time your master tested me, he wanted me to drink poison.”

Rafik nods his head once, accepting your words.

His robes are white today. So is your jumpsuit.

You almost match expect you’re still not sure what to make of him.

He’s exceedingly smart. Conversations with him are unfairly engaging even months later. It makes you both like him and dislike him in the same breath, though it would be a lie to say it’s not leaning more towards the former lately.

He’s interesting. Near frighteningly so.

But you know that it’s a sentiment shared.

You’ve caught him peering at you like you’re a rubik’s cube that keeps changing every time he tries to solve it near daily.

“A test of will,” he reminds you and he glances at you again, nodding at the two men who pass you. Hand against his chest; a gesture of goodwill and respect that the men return readily. “You should not fear pain. The Elder believes that pain is one of the cornerstones upon which strength is built. Hence the severity of your training.”

Yes, the intensity has been building rapidly but it has only made you more determined. So far, you’ve met—and often bested—every challenge thrown at you.

It feels good.

This is what you are at your core and every day of hard work and success fills you with new life, new energy to succeed.

Pain, however, is not something you would consider a good teacher. Perhaps in some instances but not in physical training. Pain breaks—it hardly ever moulds or betters someone.

“Speak your mind freely.”

He sounds mildly entertained and his expression is no better when you look at him.

“Just thinking about how poor your master’s logic is.”

Rafik’s steps slow but, as always, he appears curious about your words.

“You disagree,” he assumes wisely and his head slants to one side. “Yet here you are.”

That makes the faint smile on your face fall away. Your feet come to a standstill and he halts, too, turning back to look towards you. A gentle breeze flutters through the tents and canopies surrounding you.

“I don’t know what fancy tales he told you about me,” you bite out quietly and there is a warning in your tone. “But I did not need to go through the pain I did to become what I am.”

His reply is immediate and uncompromising. “Wrong,” he says simply, matter-of-fact, his regard unwavering. “You are who you are, at this exact moment, precisely because you went through what you did. It is a terrible truth of life, but it is the truth.”

The words land against your heart brutally, causing a falter in your composure.

As much as you hate it, as much as you want to hate him for saying it, there is truth to be found in his words.

“This way,” he says after a tense pause between you, gesturing with his hand towards the edge of the camp.

He moves in the direction of the enclosed tent standing slightly apart from the rest and you follow him silently, still digesting his words.

Rafik steps into inside first, holding the flap back until you step inside as well. It’s significantly cooler inside and you sigh in relief.

The tent is smaller and far less extravagant than others around the camp. It doesn’t look lived in, either. You spot a shabby looking table with a few pieces of parchment on it as well as a rickety-looking chair. Much to your surprise, there are few plants around as well.

But what truly catches your attention is the small, curled creature resting at the centre of the tent.

“Do you know what it is?”

You don’t respond right away, forcing yourself to swallow despite your suddenly dry throat. “Cerastes cerastes,” you whisper numbly, briefly looking at the man beside you who watches you with that rapt interest. “Also known as the horned desert viper.”

The golden viper lays curled on a bed of sand in a giant bowl placed in the middle of the space. Its slit eyes are open, seemingly focused on you, and the little horns sprouting from its head make it look even more dangerous. Deadly.

“Correct,” the man beside you confirms, folding his arms in front of him, his attention is still on you. But you’re staring at the viper before you, lost in thought. “The Elder thinks that since he bestowed your title upon you, it is now time to prove you have the strength to wear the moniker.”

You blink.

“What?”

Your head snaps in his direction and Rafik looks momentarily confused till his expression clears.

“Where did you think your title came from?” he wonders as he moves towards the viper. He gestures for you to do the same and you do so but with no small amount of caution.

“The Hight Table. They—”

He doesn’t let you finish. “And where do you think the High Table got it from?”

Oh.

It never crossed your mind to even question it. It was simply a name—a title—granted by those far, far above you when Tarasov first took you in. You feared the Russian back then. Anything above him had seemed like hell waiting to be unleashed. You’ve never dared to ask questions then.

“The poison.”

Rafik nods his head once more, not needing further clarification. You suppose it should worry you. The fact that you’re often able to understand the other’s mind so easily you pick up on true meaning with half a thought.

There has been more than one occasion when you’ve spotted the men from the tribe staring as you debate over dinner. Rapid-fire idea jumping that always ends with a half-cooled meal in your lap.

The Elder.

He’s been keeping you on his radar because he’s been looking for someone to potentially fill that fourth position in his ranks. An apprentice. A part of you can’t help but wonder how many there have been before you. None of them have succeeded though. That says a lot, too.

“The Elder wants you to prove your will once more,” Rafik announces and you just hold back a frown. “To become something more and learn an important lesson. Take it.”

“Excuse me?”

He appears unmoved by the tart disbelief in your voice. “Take it,” he reiterates instead, gesturing at the curled up viper.

It appears undisturbed but you doubt its contentment will last long.  

You work your jaw, your fingers folding into loose fists, straightening. “Desert vipers are venomous,” you point out forcefully light. “In some cases even deadly.”

“Yes.”

It’s clear what the command here is.

Put your life on the line.

To prove a point.

You can sense the way your expression hardens, how your body rotates and you stalk towards him, aggression lining every inch of your body.

A shift through his features when you halt in front of him, practically face-to-face.

He’s no doubt expecting you to unleash a storm but you simply gaze at him. Staring at him—into him.

The suffocating quiet lasts at least a minute.

Then you turn away from him and stride towards the bowl, your fingers clenching tightly as you ready yourself for the inevitable agony.

The closer you draw the more rigid the viper curls, sensing the danger approaching, and you stare at it for several moments.

The creature that has given you your name.

You reach out purposely slowly and wrap your fingers gently around it.

The viper hisses loudly, striking at once—blindingly swift and brutal, and how fitting you share a name, after all—and it’s like a shot of pure fire ripping through your forearm. Blood follows as the fangs leave your skin, and the reptile prepares to strike again but you’re ripped away before it can.

Men shout but it’s distant as they remove the viper, your surroundings growing fuzzy. Everything is drowned out by the roar in your head and the severe, numbing pain shooting up the length of your arm. You can already feel the swelling spreading and your knees fold underneath you.

You fall back against warmth and strength—into the very same arms that pulled you away, and a gasp of silent anguish leaves you.

Your heartbeat is already spiking—reacting to the venom which will only get worse, you know that—and you grasp onto the arms holding you in futile attempt to hold on.

Rafik’s face appears above you as he lowers you to the ground carefully, holding you in his embrace.

A faint, unhappy frown lines his handsome face but there is such light in his eyes. Like he’s mesmerised. Amazed, too.

“Remember this moment,” he murmurs gently and you cling to him harder. “This is the moment you chose to face death.”

The flesh of his palm comes to rest against the side of your face and a whimper of pain slips free. “One day it will give you power few can understand,” he continues like he’s sharing a secret he would never tell anyone else.

His face is the last thing you see as the dark and the pain gnaw on your insides, leaving nothing behind.

There is a sensation of weightlessness and hard, muscular arms around you as you’re lifted into the air, and pulled close.

Then, the faintest of murmurs, “Always exceeding my expectations.”

.

.

You burn for a long time.

The swelling gets worse before it gets better, and the only relief you find is in the bitter, tangy solution that you are forced to drink four times a day.

Sweating is even worse. During the daytime it’s near unbearable with the heat. Nights are better but just barely.

The first time you’re coherent enough, you wake up screaming, torn apart by your feverish nightmares.

Arms lock around you, trying to contain you, but you find no comfort in the embrace.

It’s only when those arms latch around you securely, and bring you outside, still wrapped in blankets, that you find some semblance of relief.

That becomes routine for a while.

You’re not sure how much time you lose to that haze of torment.

Wind tickles your cheek; a playful, kind thing that cracks your eyes open eventually.

The first thing you notice is the fire not too far from where you lay curled up in thick covers. The second thing you notice is the richness of the night surrounding you. The third is the man tending to the fire and lastly the dryness of your throat.

As if sensing your sudden wakefulness, Rafik ganders your way. One side of his face is bathed in orange light while another remains hidden away by the night as he meets you bleary stare.

His pensive expression drops and he stands, bringing a small cup with him as he squats before you. A silent offer as he extends his hand.

You stare at the cup for a long moment, not moving; not sure if you can move, either.  

Picking up on your suspicion, he offers you benign, “Drink, it will help.”

As suspected your left arm, now bandaged, stays at your side. A frustrated groan slips free and Rafik reaches forward, placing his hand at the back of your neck before tilting your head towards the cup. Such careful, gentle motion that it makes you frown as the heat of his fingertips tingles your skin.

To your relief it’s water.

The cup empties in a few mouthfuls.

“Let’s not do that again.”

Your voice is frayed, husky and you wince again at the swelling in your arm. You don’t want to see what lays beneath the bandages. It will take a while to fully recover, likely a week or two at least. His fingers linger against your skin and you listen to his faint hum of thought.

“You did remarkably well,” Rafik praises softly and looks up at him. His collected expression does bring a sense of serenity. “The Elder is pleased.”

You keep the eye contact, listening to the crackling of the flame. “Is he now?”

One of his eyebrow’s arches at the not-so-subtle mockery in your remark. He lowers your head carefully, finally removing his hand from the arch of your neck.

“It is curious that you fail to realise just how high his expectations are,” he states and his lips press into a thin line as he thinks about something for a moment before continuing, “And how few meet them, much less exceed them.”

This time, you don’t bother holding back your cynicism or venom. “And is that what I’m doing? Exceeding his expectations?”

Just as suspected, Rafik does not answer you.

His eyes narrow thoughtfully instead as they drag over your features. As always, he’s searching for something, digging for something. The camp is quiet, indicating it’s likely the middle of the night while the silence between you stretches.

Through the haze comes the memory of this being a frequent occurrence.

You and him and the night sky. The only way for you to get rest anymore.

“May I ask you a personal question?”

You snort under your breath, but a faint smile curls one corner of your mouth.

“We’ve been practically living together for four months,” you say and disbelief colours your words. “And now you worry about asking me personal questions?” you hesitate before adding a bland, “Ask away.”

He leans closer, his strong features filling your sight. Those dark eyes, the curve of his mouth, strong nose, peppering of facial hair and golden skin.

“What is it that you want the most?”

Your heart stutters at the delicate tilt of his voice. “What?”

Curiosity burns under the mask of coolness and you realise, then, that this is perhaps the most unguarded he’s ever been with you. Like he’s indulging in something he never allows himself to indulge in.

“Right now, at this very moment, what is it that you desire the most?”

Your mouth works quicker than your mind. “Viggo Tarasov dead.”

What more could you ever want? You’re done wishing for John to come back no matter how much you may ache for his love.

Rafik ‘tsks’ and shakes his head, turning away for a moment and towards the horizon before looking back at you.

“No—be honest with me,” he says and you marvel at the fact that he somehow manages to make that sound like a request and not an order. “That is bitterness and hurt talking but they are simply layers. Masks you wear to keep yourself safe. I want to know what lives inside your heart. And I know you have one, for I have seen it, no matter how well you try to hide it.”

You feel your pulse flutter at the intent way he gazes at you, at his assessment—so simple yet so ruthlessly accurate—and your lips part in an attempt to control your laboured breathing.

“I—” you choke out, pause, gather whatever little strength you do have and offer him a piece of yourself you rarely do with others. “I want to be free.”

Rafik stares down at you as fiery light dances over his frame.

“I want—I want to belong to myself, not to someone else,” you force out in a weak whisper. Your cocoon of blankets makes you feel safe, removed somehow, and with this man gazing down at you like you’re most interesting he’s ever encountered, the rest slips free, “This world of ours is my home, and I do not wish to part with it but…”

Inhaling deeply, you swallow down the knot in your throat and continue, “But I want to wake up each morning and not dread it. I want to live for myself and be myself. Feel the sun and the wind and know I can do whatever I want with my day. Go places I want. See and try things I’ve dreamt of trying since I was a little girl. I want…I just want to be free.”

Silence follows.

You’re not sure what to make of Rafik’s expression. Not sure what to make of him, or this place, or this entire situation. Not sure what to do with the torrent of emotions you feel boiling inside your chest. Longing, rage, bitterness, pain, determination.

Staying here is making you feel both powerful and vulnerable.

In truth, it scares you. Just how much you like it here.

“So you are a woman who dreams of sunshine yet soaks her hands in blood.”

That ceases some part of you. His words lack accusation, lack any sort of judgement but that perhaps only makes them more horrible.  

“Yeah, I guess I am,” you breathe and you feel your eyes burn. “Just a regular monster but I don’t mind it anymore.”

If your time with Santino in Chicago reminded you of anything is that sometimes in order to survive you have to become something awful. A choice just like everything else in life.

A glimmer of conflict creases Rafik’s expression before he extends his hand towards you, his thumb settling against the corner of your eye where a tear has spilt over. The touch is feather-light but he doesn’t pull back right away. Nor do you push him away, either.

“There are worse things to be than a monster, (Name).”

His voice is kind, soothing, and you close your eyes with a slight nod of your head.

“You should rest,” he tells you and his touch disappears. When your eyes flutter open, he’s already standing above you and reaches out, pulling the covers closer around you. “Sleep well, monster.”

Your eyes meet in the shadows of the night.

“You as well, monster.”

His mouth curls.

His smile is almost warm.

You jolt back to wakefulness, gasping for breath.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your heart drumming inside your rib cage. Pressing a palm tightly against your breast, you force yourself to inhale through your nose, counting frantically. Cotton sheets lay twisted around your bare legs and you kick them off.

Your feet touch the cooler floor and you clutch onto your forearm, feeling the phantom pain there.

The scars from the bite are tiny—you have to hold your arm close and squint to even find them—but the recollection of the suffering they caused is very real.

You rock your body, a touch frantic, as you try to shake off the memories. Your legs tremble when you stand and you stumble towards the bathroom. Goosebumps cover your naked body when you hug the sink and its coldness tingles your skin.

Your fingers manage to turn the tap on the second attempt and cold water gurgles out. Cupping your hands, you splash freezing water onto your face, then press the back of your palm against your neck. Water trickles down the curve of your neck and you sigh in relief. Your arms locked behind your neck, you lean your elbows on the sink, counting your breaths.

Your heart slows.

So does your breathing.

It’s silent.

You’re not sure how long you slept but it’s still dark outside. Despite the rest, you feel groggy and disorientated when you do straighten.

The reflection staring back at you is dreadful.

Bandaged ear, listless expression, deep bags under your eyes and cracked lips.

“Shit.”

There is no time to rest.

You go back to your room, throwing the wardrobe open. One article of clothing stops you almost immediately.

It’s still here.

You brought it with you the last time you came here and forgot about it.

Your jumpsuit. It’s a muted, sandy colour and still soft to the touch, clearly sown from highest quality material.

You left the desert wearing this. You suppose it’s only right that you should go back wearing it.

Your stomach rolls.

He did warn you. He did say that you coming back is an eventuality, not a maybe.

A self-fulfilling prophecy perhaps.

Putting it back on feels surreal. Despite it being years, the stretch of it still feels familiar and the fit is comfortable. Your blade comes next. The phone is too big to take and when you check there are no new updates on it. That makes your heart clench but you shove the worry aside. No time. Your hands hesitate over two boxes still resting innocently on the vanity though. No space for them on you but…

You open both, staring at the content inside. Two ampules rest in soft cushioned material. Both are smaller than your pinky but hold liquid inside. One clear, one red so dark it almost appears black. You take both out, holding them in your palm.

So much devastation and power in the palm of your hand.  

They should be terrified of you.

Maybe he was right. Maybe everyone should be. Maybe it’s time to give them all a reminder.

Exiting your room, you set out to find Sofia.

John will likely still be resting and it’s a good time as any to catch up with the manager.

Her earlier pounce had been unexpected. She will not catch you off guard like that again. Her words about Santino, however, still nag at you despite you trying to shove them behind another wall.  

You roll your limbs as you walk, and although it reminds you too much of stretching before your morning spar sessions with Saad, you still do it.

The private manager quarters are empty.

No Sofia, no dogs.

Suspicion doesn’t take long to take root in you.

You check on one more room and have your answer.

With brisk steps and a rigid expression, it takes you less than five minutes to hunt down Yassin.

The right-hand waves the person he’s speaking with away when he spots you approaching.

“Where are they?”

Yassin hesitates. Sofia no doubt told him to keep it from you.

Rage thrums through your blood at the realisation that they left you behind. No matter how bad your overall appearance might be, this concerns you as much as it does John. Your life is as much on the line as his is.

When the man still says nothing, you hiss a quieter, icy, “I will not ask you again.”

The shorter man edges back half a step, swallowing heavily.

“They went to Berrada. Left about twenty minutes ago.”

He tries to tell you how Sofia told him to not to tell you—

You push past him, not bothering to say goodbye. You don’t blame him despite your sharp tongue. Your mind slips towards a certain assassin and manager instead.

Thankfully, you know where you can find Berrada without needing anyone’s guidance. You’ve gone to him once before.

Well, not him specifically.

Rafik.

Using the maze of dark alleyways, you get to your destination in ten minutes. No one stops you on the way.

The guards waiting at the gates step up, hovering their hands over their weapons. One tenses when he recognises you.

“I seek an audience.”

The one who recognised you offers a slow, “You can’t proceed.”

Your head tilts as your eyes flicker down his body. There is only two of them—for now—but they should be easy enough to take care of. Should it come to that.

“On whose authority?” you demand, for once not bothering with pleasantries.

“Sir Berrada’s.”

“Tell him the Vipress is here to see him.”

The second guard’s features go slack. You’re not sure if it’s more surprise, suspicion or unease.

“You misunderstood,” the first one voices cautiously. “He is currently seeing someone but—”

Ignoring him, you walk past them before the second guard grabs your elbow. A blade presses against his inner wrist, kissing his unguarded veins.  

“You can try and stop me and lose that hand,” you inform him calmly. “Trust me, I’m someone he will want to see,” you reassure him and feel the grip ease, then disappear. “Smart man.”

The first guard gestures with his arm, showing you the way, and his forehead shines with sweat.

Ocean breeze ripples through your jumpsuit and hair and you hear a voice in the distance, increasing your step.

“—commerce of relationships,” Berrada’s voice reaches you. “I have given you a great gift—”

You increase your speed, the guard almost stumbling to keep up.

“Relations are only as good as long as both sides have a common interest,” you state amiably, matching his falsely pleasant tone as you walk onto the open terrace.

Torches light the area, giving the space a muted glow, and you pay no attention to the guards who point their weapons at you.

John and Sofia snap their heads in your direction, both varying degrees of dismayed. The manager has her hair pulled back, wearing her battle preferred leathers, and both dogs are clad out in their bulletproof vests, too. They came here expecting a fight.

As if there is any other way with John.

Berrada’s face splits into a beaming smile at the sight of you. The man in a dark suit jacket and white suit pants steps closer at once. His hand lifts, waving the guards away and the weapons lower.

“The Vipress,” he announces, dragging the title out, and raises his hand to point at you, a smile still in place. “Now there is a person of interest. We’ve been anticipating your return.”

He doesn’t need to clarify who the we is.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

John is boring holes into your face. Sofia is no better except she’s outwardly scowling at you.

Berrada’s expression turns thoughtful, his eyes zeroing in on your hand. It seems like his interest in John and Sofia has fled for now. That, or he was expecting to see you with them from the start.

“Yes, and with that ring on your hand,” he notes quietly, still staring at your hand. His eyes finally jump up to you when you halt in between the assassin and the manager. “Did you know that the original Camorra ring set was crafted right here?”

When no one responds, his lips purse, displeased. The displeasure if gone with a blink though. “Oh, yes. D’Antonios have always been fond of their little rituals. I imagine they like to pretend they’re better than most. More…civilised. Funny considering that their motto is blood for blood.”

Berrada chuckles, rolling the cigar between his fingers and you eye him, waiting for him to get to the point. “The original boss of Camorra, however, was a man of ambition. He made Camorra something more than a bunch of feral dogs running around. He made them the second seat at the table,” he tells you, waving his arm a little. You know this story. Gianna and Santino told you about the original Camorra boss when you were staying with them. “Yes, he had vision his heirs lacked. He did have three of them though. The original Camorra ring set: head, lady, three heirs and elite guards were all forged here.”

This, you did not know. Though you suppose it makes sense with how old Camorra is.

Berrada gives you a sly little half-smile and steps closer towards you. You show no outwards reaction.

“It is, perhaps, ironic that it is you—someone who is by Camorra’s standards no doubt considered to be an outsider—that should bring this ring back home now.”

“Inform them we’re here.”

Berrada chuckles again, raising his cigar to chew on the tip as he stares at you. “I already told Mr Wick how to find the Elder,” he says flatly. “A great favour. What will you offer me in return?”

His eyes slide away from you, to John, and then Sofia.

Your jaw tenses subtly.

Berrada appears amused.

His attention flickers down and he reaches to pat Ikar. Tension practically radiates from Sofia.

“I do so love this dog,” he says conversationally. “I will keep it.”

“Excuse me?”

You exhale slowly, hearing the stab of ice in Sofia’s voice. She would cut anyone’s arms off before letting them touch those dogs.  

But Berrada is testing her. He likes his little games as most powerful men with egos do.

He’s also her boss. Which means that unless she wants problems she would have to obey.

The man in question laughs under his breath, rising as he holds out his hand in a pacifying motion.

“My apologies. Sore spot, clearly,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. His attention slides towards you. “Then, if not the dog, perhaps a night with the Italian’s whore?”

You don’t so much as blink.

Since Chicago and your fateful decision to use sleeping with Santino as a cover story, you’ve heard the nickname spat at you many times over the years. It had never bothered you to be frank. People often fail to realise just how much power comes with being a whore. Humans often find themselves at the mercy of their desires. Even if you were Santino’s whore why would ever feel ashamed for seducing one of the most powerful men in your world? The Italian in question always took an issue with it, of course—as he does with any display of disrespect towards you—but you had told him dozens of times that, if anything, it works in both your favour for people to think that.

John doesn’t share your indifference, however.

A sound rumbles through the air. Some bizarre mix between a grunt and a growl, his humble demeanour splintering. He barely shifts but Berrada leans back all the same. You don’t need to look towards John to know that his expression is no doubt menacing enough to scare most.

It makes you remember Dublin—your last job together before everything went to hell after your birthday—but unlike then, his protectiveness does little. It certainly doesn’t change things.

Berrada laughs again, a touch forced this time. “I jest,” he placates, turning to walk back towards his desk. Well, it’s his desk most days. It belongs to someone else but that individual doesn’t like sitting behind a desk. “It is unfortunate that we cannot reach an agreement peacefully.”

He reaches for something on his desk—

BANG

A yelp and Sofia screams, falling to her knees, clutching onto Ikar who has collapsed from bullet impact. Not fatal, and no blood in sight, but your body still instinctively jerks towards them.

Her voice wobbles as she mumbles Arabic to him, stroking the dog’s head soothingly.  

“I am sorry, Sofia,” Berrada speaks, a gun still in his hand. “This was for you to learn.”

You finally drag your eyes away from the scene and turn towards him.

His bravado seems to wane under your death stare, and you hear the ping on the stone where Sofia has let loose the bullet she pulled out from the vest. From the corner of your eye, you see her hand slide down Ikar’s back. A secret compartment where she keeps a spare handgun.

“Don’t.”

John’s faint plea falls to deaf ears.

There is a split second of complete stillness and then like thunder chaos erupts.

A gunshot slices clean through Berrada’s leg and the man collapses with a yell of pain. His guards flurry into action but there’s three of you—five counting the dogs—and it’s a whirlpool of bullets, blood, and death.

You leap at the closest guard, your blade landing into his unguarded flesh and yank his gun free. Rolling across the ground, you shoot another in the face. Two more rush at you and you whistle.

Santana leaps over your body with a growl and sinks her teeth into one of the guard’s. You come to her aid, finishing off the man before shooting another in the chest and then head.

It’s over in under two minutes.

Sofia storms towards the still shrieking Berrada, her face scrunched with unspoken wrath. Ikar falls back, having gotten his revenge by sinking his teeth into the man’s crotch. Satisfaction hums through you at the sight of those bloody white trousers, and you don’t stop her when she raises her gun to his head.

“Sofia, don’t,” John cuts in before she can shoot the other man and she falters.

Her aim veers left and another gunshot booms through the air. Berrada screams again. He writhes, blood staining his clothes, and you stroll closer, staring down at him pitilessly. Both legs ruined.

“He shot my dog.”

Her words are brimming with fury. You hear John sigh behind you. “Yeah, I get it.”

The manager finally lowers the gun, turning to look at you. You’re still angry at her for thinking it’s a good idea to leave you behind, but this isn’t the time.

“Come on,” she says. “We gotta move.”

She marches ahead but you linger. The older man is trying futilely to ebb the blood flow but without medical assistance, he will not last long.

Not even a glimmer of pity resides inside your heart for him.

You turn to go.

“If…if you’re smart…you will not go back to that desert,” he spits out and you halt, glancing back at him over your shoulder. You cut the minimal distance you have created and watch the way he squirms on the floor, his face sweaty. “You…you have no idea what he—”

You stomp on his leg.

He lets out a wail so loud it echoes.

In the distance, a thunderstorm of bullets and shouts drowns him out. John and Sofia have encountered company. You press harder and Berrada gasps, practically convulsing from anguish. He tries, and fails, to grasp onto your ankle so you twist your foot instead. Blood gushes under your heel and the man splutters, staring up at you with genuine terror on his face. There is something satisfying about seeing him like this.

“Do not speak of things you do not understand.”

You hold the pressure until Berrada’s eyes roll to the back of his head, and he slumps to the side, unconscious.

You don’t particularly care if he’s still alive or not, either.

You’re already hunted. What do you have to fear now?

For the first time in your life, no chain is holding you back.  

You leave Berrada in his spot, following the trail of bodies Sofia, John and the dogs have created. You’re glad that you’ve visited this place once before because even with the pathway of death to follow the layout is confusing.

You’re almost at the courtyard when you hear a car pull up outside the premises. A burst of bullets and shouts follow and you hurry ahead. Screams and dog snarls sound and you push through a small tunnel when you spot a jeep ahead. Sofia is behind the wheel, shouting something. Ikar and Santana are already at the back, and John is marching back in the direction of the courtyard. You’re moving so quickly your bodies almost collide and he grips your forearms, his stare frantic.

“There you are,” he exhales, his fingers tightening around your arms. “Where were you?”

You pull out of his grip. “Having a chat,” you say dryly. “Let’s go.”

Sofia is leaning out of the window when you pull the backdoor open, and Santana greets you with a happy loll of her tongue.

You slam the door shut and John takes shotgun. The manager floors the accelerate and the jeep peels away with a spray of dirt.

Collapsing in the back seat, you check the pistol magazine.

Three bullets left.

For several, tense minutes no one speaks as you all wait to see if anyone will follow you. After the carnage you unleashed it will happen sooner rather than later.

“Which one of you suggested leaving me behind?”

In the rearview mirror, you watch them both, noting their taut expressions.

“It was a joined decision,” Sofia speaks first, her grip on the wheel constricting. “And not why you think.”

You wait, your own expression stiff, anticipatory.

“Berrada has been making cryptic remarks about you for a while now,” she explains and briefly meets your stare in the rearview mirror. “He’s been waiting for you to come back, and I don’t mean in a maybe-one-day kind of sense, either. If you were to come, I don’t think he would have let you leave. We planned to pick you up after so you can drop that attitude.”

John says nothing.

You consider them both, leaning back in your seat, and close your eyes.

They both seem to sense that it’s conversation over for you and you don’t contradict them.

—BEFORE.

.

It takes two weeks to recover fully. The swelling takes the longest to subside and training with your left arm becomes a painful, slow affair for a period of time after that.

You give Rafik a cold shoulder for a week while recovering, still resentful of the fact that you had to go through with this in the first place. But lessons are lessons. This was a good one, too. More pieces in the puzzle.

Despite the hard reset you had on your physical training, your academic one is flourishing. Due to more lenient apparatus while you’re physically recovering, you’ve been able to fully submerge yourself in your studies.

The sheer amount of knowledge you have absorbed during these months more than makes up for the viper bite. Rafik used a special salve created by the Elder himself to make sure no scars would remain, and the swelling would go down quicker. Same with the solution you were forced to drink during your delirium while your body was flushing out the toxins.

Supposedly a show of the Elder’s favour and an unofficial apology.

“Sleep seems to evade you even now, viper.”

Your head tilts towards the man approaching your spot by the fire leisurely.

He’s in light robes and no turban, revealing his pitch-black hair—a rarity even now.

He looks like he’s just rolled out of his makeshift cot and decided to wander into the night.

And there is something oddly intimate about seeing him like this.

“Says the man who is out here in the middle of the night.”

Your words are light with amusement and a slight smile appears on the man’s face as well.

Rafik lowers himself on the other side of the fire, glancing at you over the flames. The night air is crisp and you tighten the woollen blanket around your shoulders, cradling the cup more securely between your palms.  

“You looked in need of company,” is the only explanation he offers and your eyebrows jump up.

Your eyes leave him, journeying upwards towards the sky and your lingering smile widens.

“Just enjoying the view,” you reveal quietly. “Sahara desert truly is one of the best places to observe the stars.”

Something changes in the air between you. A slide into something more tense, unspoken.

“What makes you think we’re in the Sahara?” comes his measured question.

Smiling, you lift the cup in your hand. “Berber tea is a Moroccan drink.”

His response is immediate. “So you assumed you’re in Sahara based on that alone.”

Of course, he would expect you to explain your thought process.

You’ve done this dance a thousand times.

“No, I didn’t,” you say, amused, raising the cup to your mouth, and taking a deliberate sip. You’ve been out here for a while now and your drink is barely lukewarm but no less delicious. “Saharan desert viper was a pretty big give away though. Old man Anis also does star charting. No locations were explicitly mentioned in his notes but it did talk about Canis Minor at length. Last confirmation I needed to what I already heavily suspected. Sorry for snooping by the way. I understand the need for secrecy.”

As always, Rafik doesn’t let much slip. He raises one of his hands in front of the flame, soaking in its warmth.

“No apology necessary.”

Comfortable is one way you would describe the blanket of quiet that embraces you both. It envelops you and you peer at the flame, not really seeing it. Several minutes pass like this, neither of you speaking.

Your mind wanders to New York. To Santino, then John.

John.

“You look sad.”

That snaps you out of your deep thought, and your eyes jump towards the man before you in surprise.

He watches you as closely as always. It still catches you off guard sometimes. In many ways, Rafik’s mute scrutiny often reminds you of Santino and his heated looks.

Santino never hides though, never holds back. He blazes. That, perhaps, is the biggest difference between the Italian and the reserved Rafik.

“Probably because I’m alone,” you tell him and can’t help but wonder why he makes it easy to share. Maybe after these long months of working together and seeing each other on a daily basis, you can at least admit to yourself that you like him. “Because I am so deeply unlovable that no one wants me. Sometimes—sometimes I think no one ever will.”

John loves Helen.

Santino, despite his interest, loves power more.

You’re not the first choice for either of them.

Rafik’s head dips and you see him consider your words. You like the fact that he appears to weigh them carefully before offering his own thoughts. He always does.

“There is no shame in being alone.”

“But I don’t want to be alone.”

His eyes lift to yours at that, meeting again, and his hand lowers back into his lap. He watches you for a long time��so long, in fact, that his voice surprises you when he speaks next.

“There will always be a place for you here,” he says and you hear the sincerity his words. “This could be your new home. You do not have to be alone if you do not wish to be.”

Your attention drifts away from his solemn expression.

The offer is tempting. Even if you would never admit it. There could be a place for you here. You even like it here.

But what is this if not running?

Is this not pausing the problems rather than solving them? What is this if not letting Tarasov live out the rest of his miserable, wretched life and allowing him to get away with everything he did? Stealing and killing and thriving while you’re half a world away living in fantasy land.

No.

No, just like Santino you will have your revenge. One day—somehow, someway—you will kill Tarasov. You’ve come too far and sacrificed too much to let him go now.

He will fear you.

He will rue the day he ever thought that tying you to his will was a good decision.

If John is allowed to have his happy life and Santino is allowed to finally have his revenge, then you are permitted this, too.  

“Can I ask you a personal question?” you wonder instead, your voice low, contemplative.

His lips part like he wants to say something but he lets it drop at last second. This time, his slight grin is crooked but genuine. “Five months of living together and now you worry about asking me personal questions? Ask.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes, reminded of someone else who has a habit of turning your words around on you.  

“What does it mean?” you question, not bothering to hide your genuine interest. “The tattoo on your chest?”

You tried to recall the script and search for a translation in the bound books of the Elder’s private collection but came up with nothing.

His eyes find yours again but something is different this time. His expression is earnest but the look in his dark eyes is piercing, charged.

A preoccupied hum, and then, “An old Latin phrase,” he divulges, his words mild and lifts his hand, pressing it over his collarbone—the exact spot where those words live. “I had it inked onto my skin in my native tongue to remind myself of my path in life. Exitus acta probat.”

“The outcome justifies the deed.”

His blinks and slants his head in a vague nod.

“Somehow it does not surprise me that you know that.”

There is a compliment there but you don’t acknowledge it.

“Latin is often used in medicine,” you say, shrugging. “Also Winston.”

“You miss him.”

It’s not a question. It’s a deliberate and leading statement, opening the door for a discussion. You’re used to having half conversations with him. Each of you allowing the other to drop the topic when you don’t want to answer.

That’s precisely why you don’t bite. Winston is not someone you wish to discuss right now.

“Outcome justifies the deed,” you repeat deliberately, and return the cut that was mentioning Winston with a light, “Is that what you tell yourself when you obey the Elder’s will?”

Your attention focuses on his face, his reaction, but Rafik accepts the dig. He raises his hand to his face, rubbing his chin.

“Is that not what you tell yourself when Viggo Tarasov sends you on yet another mission?” he returns and your expression goes taut, your fingers clenching around the cup. Rafik drags his hand away from his face as he scrutinises you. “You kill in the name of your freedom. But have you ever wondered if it will still be freedom when it is paid for in blood?”

You have.

Of course, you have.

But parts of you that would have once been worried and cared and dreaded the answer to that question have been buried long ago.

The very people who hurt you made sure of that.

“Everything has a price,” is your harsh, cold response.

“Indeed it does.”

There is something deeper to his agreement, you can tell, but you have no way of telling what exactly.

Over the raging whirlpool of flames, you both watch each other intently.

You’re not naive enough to try and pretend that there isn’t attraction between you.

He’s vastly different from John who you still adore deep down even though you’re trying to root him out. He’s not Santino, either. Despite the fact that you would like to pretend that the Italian hasn’t been chipping away at your guard, you know better than that. He’s managed to slip under your skin though you will never allow him the advantage of knowing it. You will wall him off if you have to, force him out, and keep him that way.

You’ve had enough heartache to last a lifetime.

Rafik, however, is something else. Entirely removed from the life you know. With a mind so attractive it’s hard not to find pleasure in the time you spend together.

“Tell me,” you begin lowly, softly. “If I were to come to your tent tonight, would your master kick me out?”

You’re not even sure what works your tongue. Curiosity, perhaps. A test of your own.

Rafik goes so still it feels like you pressed a pause on his entire existence. It makes a pleased hum thrum through your blood. Not for the first time, you are the one with power. But this is by far your biggest victory.

“No,” he says eventually, equally as soft, but he watches you with a look that makes goosebumps explode across your skin even with the blanket wrapped around you. “But I would have to take you as my bride.”

His bride.

The only man you’ve ever entertained the idea of marrying before was John.

That didn’t end well.

A grin moves your lips upwards and you glance down towards the fire to break the tension between you. “No fun before marriage, I can respect that.”

You hope you didn’t accidentally insult him with your carelessness, and that it’s not the reason for his current pinched expression.

“You misunderstood,” he says and something about the hushed timbre of his voice demands your attention. Your eyes connect over the fire once more, and a shaky breath slips free at his next words. “You may not be my bride but I never said anything about you leaving that tent should you come.”

Neither of you looks away.

This is a special kind of battle. One you’re not sure you would mind losing.

Your pulse flutters and a different sort of warmth fills your veins the longer he peers at you.

There is a temptation there. Wipe everything and everyone away. Be so wholly selfish that it makes you more reckless than you’ve ever been before. It’s just physicality, just pleasure, it doesn’t have to mean a damn thing.

You’re your own person. You could claim yourself back this way.

It would be so...easy.

But your heart twists.

A faraway memory of John, of his lips.

An even closer recollection of green eyes, a crooked smirk, and sunlight. What I really want is every last bit of you that you’re still unwilling to part with.

“And what about your master?” you force out eventually and Rafik blinks. Just like that the tension is dispelled. “I half expected to find a secret harem of beautiful women stashed away somewhere but…”

The man before you straightens, his expression clearing, as he seemingly comes out of whatever spell he was under as well. That’s surprising. You don’t think you’ve ever managed to unravel his guard like this before.

“The Elder believes that one rare jewel is worth more than an entire empire,” he voices calmly, his voice pleasant, but there is throatiness to his voice that thickens his accent. “He does not need many when he can have all he needs in one.”

Interesting. You don’t let your surprise show though.  

“How romantic.”

Lifting the cup back to your mouth, you watch him over the rim just like he did with you months ago.

“Do you disagree?”

You shake your head, your cup now empty, and hum under your breath. “No, that’s a nice sentiment,” you note and wonder if you let too much of your hurt slip. “But I’ve found that’s rarely the case in real life. Why does he even think that? A man with so much power could have anything he wants.”

“Because he wants an equal,” Rafik explains smoothly and leans closer. “Because someone like that is worth waiting for.”

You play with the cup in your hand, pressing your chin into the warm material of the blanket as you listen. “Who could even equal the most powerful man in the world?”

A quiet intensity burns in his eyes when he answers. “Someone very special.”

Swallowing, you rise, placing the empty cup in the sand as you move towards the fire, placing another log into the devouring flame. Orange, yellow, and red explode in a visual kaleidoscope. Rubbing your hands in front of it, you feel the heat tingle against your fingertips and sense Rafik’s intent gaze on you.

“Do you have any campfire stories to share?”

Your question is both driven by curiosity and an attempt to divert the conversation towards safer waters.

Most nights, over dinner, men exchange tales from far off lands. Stories and old memories. Most of these stories are told in Darija, an old Moroccan Arabic dialect, leaving you mostly turning to Rafik who would quietly translate the tales while sitting beside you. You’ve grown to look forward to these stories nightly though few ever have happy endings.

All the men living here ended up here for a reason. Not many have happy or easy lives to look back on.

More than just service to the Elder bonds them, and you find comfort in that. Some nameless relief. Shared scars from pain you’ve endured.

Rafik smiles faintly at your inquiry, watching you as you trod back towards your spot. You reach for the kettle, pouring yourself more tea and hold out a spare cup towards him.

The man dips his head in a grateful nod, accepting your offer.

“Have you ever heard of the Terrible Sultan and the Golden Empress?”

You frown in thought, thinking about it as you hand him his cup. His fingers brush against yours, lingering, and you release your hold on it, swallowing.

“No.”

Walking back towards your spot, you seat yourself down, getting comfortable as you lift the pleasantly warm cup into your lap. It’s hard to keep an indifferent expression with him following every turn of your limbs so closely. The attention is not unwelcome but you don’t let it show.

“The Terrible Sultan was the most powerful ruler of his time. They say he ruled all land from the Black Sea to the Red Sea. As well as the golden continent in between, only growing his power with each conquest,” Rafik begins, his accent giving his words an almost dreamlike tilt. “He was ruthless in his pursuit of power and wealth. He was cruel. Feared. He did not care for others. Like his father before him—he wanted to be remembered, not loved.”

The man pauses for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, and you wait patiently.

“The Sultan wanted to claim the world for his own,” he continues after a stretch of quiet and you watch those strong fingers tap against his cup. “His reputation was already fearsome. Killings and brutality were all he had known and was good at. He saw it as his right. And while he was a conquerer who grew his empire, he was seldom loved or inspired a prayer wishing for his good health. But he was a fierce warrior who always fought his own battles which earned him the loyalty of his men. Eventually, he set his sights on a distant, unconquered land.”

Rafik takes a long while to continue after that.

You’re not entirely certain why.

“Little was known about this land beyond the horizon, and even less about its ruler,” he drawls, lifting his head in your direction as if to check if you’re listening. You’re not sure why. He knows you always listen when he speaks. He’s one of the few who manages to claim your attention so thoroughly. “The Sultan did not know what to expect but he was prepared for blood and frailty. He found only one of those things. Blood. But most of it was the blood of his own troops. He underestimated his enemies. Thought them weak. His arrogance cost him but he had the numbers and the resources so he persisted. The land he was trying to invade was not known to him, however, and every battlefield was used against him and his warriors. A great tactician was at play, he realised then. One, perhaps, even greater than him. Something he has never encountered before. So he caught one of the enemies troops. Tortured him for weeks and nothing. The man died before betraying his leader. Fierce loyalty, not fear, ruled this land. The Sultan was furious and bitter for he doubted even his own men would protect him like this. He concluded that in order to take this country he needs to bleed its heart. Find the leader and cut their head off.”

The fire crackles loudly and you blink out of your stupor, shifting in your spot. You’ve been so engrossed in his story, you’ve forgotten all about your tea.

Taking a sip, you savour the warm burn against your tongue as well as the tickle of different flavours against the roof of your mouth.

Rafik does the same. The glow of the light dances through the dark, inky pools that are his eyes and he recalls the tale with an almost wistful note in his voice.

“He set a trap, trying to act like he’s retreating,” he continues, his lips twitching like this next part is amusing him already. “But the enemy leader saw through the deceit, set a trap of their own. An ambush. They were attacked at night, and the Sultan woke up to a blade against his throat. He was taken in the fray. He swore death and ruin, his pride bruised. Yet the figure remained quiet until they were far away from his camp and other men.”

Another lengthy pause.

“What then?” you venture with a nibble on your bottom lip. “Did the enemy kill him?”

Rafik’s mouth curves; a slow, almost beguiled thing. “No, she did not,” he voices, placid as always, and you blink at the sudden turn in the story. “The figure to take the Sultan was a woman, much to his disbelief. He has heard of women warriors in other lands but all he knew of women was their beauty and ability to gift life. This woman didn’t try to hide, calling him a bloodthirsty monster who would not take her empire. The Sultan who has never met another who could ever match his iron-like will was suddenly faced with someone of equal iron. Another ruler. Beauty and rage. A great mind like his own.”

A gust of wind ripples through the camp, fanning the fire that climbs higher and higher. Spittle of embers flares through the air, adding to the canopy of the starry sky above. Your chin dips, your attention going back to the storyteller before you, only to find him already gazing at you.

“What then?” you prompt casually, and let a snarky grin grace your face, “Did she kill him?”

Rafik cocks one of his brows. “Are you hopeful for the Sultan’s death, viper?” he wonders, amused. “But no, she did not. The Golden Empress did not think killing him would be the answer.”

“Then she’s an idiot,” you input coolly, and noting his surprised expression add a flat, “If I am faced with the invader of my lands—who likely killed hundreds if not thousands of my people—and did even worse to other places, I would pull him apart piece by piece. Conquest means the slaughter of the innocent for greed.”

“So you would choose vengeance?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The man appears intrigued by your admittance. “Even if meant years of war and suffering for your people?”

He doesn’t need to elaborate for you to understand what he’s alluding to.

“There won’t be a war because the Sultan would have never left that tent alive,” you shoot back swiftly, by now more than used to your debates. Even this late, you feel wide awake. “Send a loud and clear message that if a conqueror like him can die, so will others who come to my lands, wishing to claim what’s not theirs. But I assume that’s not what happened so what did she do? Hold him hostage? Forced him to sign a treaty?”

Rafik makes a soft noise at the back of his throat—a noise that you don’t realise is a chuckle at first. It’s an oddly disarming sound that leaves you staring at him in surprise despite how brief it is.

It suits him and warms him.

Erases the overly calm and controlled man you’ve gotten to know. Nor have you seen him like this before. Relaxed, almost.  

“No,” he reveals, a ghost of a smile still lingering. “They fell in love.”

Silence.

You snort in disbelief, rolling your eyes. “Seriously? The man invaded her country and she fell in love with him? Smart.”

“Surely you can understand the thrill of meeting someone who understands you,” he murmurs, his gaze briefly flickering over your features. “The appeal of finding someone who is your match. Someone who is not less or more, but simply there. The perfect balance to you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and offer him a cool, “No.”

And perhaps that is a lie but there is truth to it, too.  

“Let me guess,” you say after he fails to respond to that. “They put aside their differences, their love showed them the way to a perfect union, and they lived happily ever after?”

“No.”

You’re sure your expression is as startled as you feel.

Rafik stares down at his cup while he sorts through something inside his mind. “They managed to grow and love one another fiercely,” he tells you softly, thoughtfully. “The Sultan called off the invasion. Told his men that there are other places to claim for he loved her so dearly, he saw how much her people meant to her. And although her people called her golden, he saw a retreat in her. She was his moon. An escape from the cruelty of the sun. He wanted her to be with him. Make her his equal so they could rule together but…”

“But?”

The man before you moves in his spot, stretching his legs out as he looks up at you. “But she loved her people and her home more. She felt like she was duty-bound to keep them safe and the land prosperous,” he explains, his voice pitching lower, sadder somehow. “So she stayed. Refused the offer of his heart and soul. The Sultan was enraged. He thought the Empress used him. Manipulated his feelings so he would call off the war between their countries. But despite his rage, despite all the bitterness, he still loved her. He couldn’t hurt her. So he left. Went back to his vast wealth and his golden halls and yearned for his Empress in silence.”

His voice trails off and you wait for more but it doesn’t come.

“That’s it?” you whisper sharply. “He just gives up on her? Surely he could understand why—”

“He did,” Rafik interrupts, a strain appearing on his face. “He understood her perfectly. Loved her even more for it. She thawed him in a way no else could. He sought her out eventually. They say the two met in secret throughout the years, their passion burning too brightly to be smothered. They would make love under the stars and in those places would bloom oasis full of life and hope. Their gift to the world even if they could never be together.”

You stare down at your lap, silent.

There is such bittersweetness to this tale. To know that they were happy but never happy enough.

“So they never got a chance to be together?”

You’re not sure why it bothers you quite so much.

“The end to this tale differs depending on who tells it,” he says after drawing a subdued breath. “Some say they both eventually married other people and moved on. Others say she died young and his grief was felt through the world till he, too, joined her in the afterlife, desperate to be with her again. Others say they spent their lives loving each other but never finding their way to one another. She would look up at the sky and feel the rays of the sun like his kisses on her skin. He would look at the moon and feel her soothing embrace, a memory of her laughter haunting his sleep and waking hours alike.”

“And what do you think?”

Those dark, dark eyes connect with yours and he watches you for a long while. “I like to think that they loved each other in that life and every life that followed it. Love like that does not die. That which we love, that which is meant to be, will always find a way to circle back and come back to us.”

The silence between you is somehow different this time. You mull over his tale inside your head, staring up at the sky above you.

It has awakened a strange longing inside your heart you’re almost familiar with. Like a distant, hazy dream you can’t quite grasp onto.

Rafik’s head is bowed when you finally look back towards him, regarding him with a hard, pensive stare.

“Got any more vaguely sad tales to share?”

The crooked curve of his mouth comes first, followed by those inky eyes when he glances up at you. They’re warm as he takes you in.

The flame continues smouldering between you.  

Together you sit by the fire through the night, talking about everything and nothing long after the wooden logs have burned to nothing, and the sky has spilt into an indigo haze.

.

.

With eyes closed and head tilted back, you listen to the sounds of the desert.

The wind and how it creates little whirlpools of sand. How animals shuffle and eat and sleep. Wind chimes.

So peaceful.

“Not reading?” Rafik asks from behind you, approaching your spot with measured steps. “Such rarity. I thought you would want to make up for the lost time.”

Your eyes crack open unhurriedly. Like usual the brightness blinds you for a bit before your sight adjusts and you slant your head in his direction.

This tent—decorated with lush maroon silk curtains, multicoloured pillows, teapots and cups for tea ceremonies—is one of your favourite meeting spots. Both for meditating and for discussions.

“I enjoyed our trip,” you reassure him because you can feel his unspoken question. “Thank you for taking me. Darija is beautiful.”

Your trip to Casablanca had been as incredible as you had expected it to be. Rafik accompanied you himself, showing you the sights of the city. The markets, the architecture, and the culture of colours and light. You had requested a chance to visit the city yourself, and apparently the Elder had decided to reward you for figuring out where exactly you were staying. A taste of freedom. Had you known that’s all it would take, you would have revealed this knowledge sooner. When you had told Rafik as such the man had only chuckled.

The trip had taken the entire day with both of you as well as a few others setting out well before dawn to make the long journey to the city.

You’ve enjoyed every second of it. The happy screeches of children running around, and the taste of all the food and tea you tried. But it was a journey of realisation, too. Being back in civilisation reminded you that despite enjoying your enforced getaway, you did miss life. Normal life. People.

Rafik comes to a stop beside you, at the edge of the tent, and you both stare out towards the desert.

His robes are different today. Fancier than usual. White with golden stitches. You try to ignore the brush of his sleeve against your bare arm.

There is that closeness between you. Some odd magnetism you can’t quite put your finger on. And one that you’re not quite sure what to make of.

You suppose it won’t be presumptuous to call you friends but…

There is always that but with Rafik.

“I could teach you if you like?” he proposes, glancing sideways towards you. His gaze lingers on your features and you stare up at him. “Then we can go back whenever you please.”

You know what he’s doing. What his mild suggestion implies.

It’s been longer than the agreed six months.  

He’s giving you another reason to stay.

“That so?”

He notices your tenser intonation; the way words drag out of your throat, almost reluctant. He doesn’t comment.

For several minutes, you stand side by side with your shoulder leaning against the support pole holding the tent upright.

Eventually, his gaze finds home in your body. You don’t let it show how aware you are of the said attention.

There is tension between you ever since that night by the fire. Like an unspoken we could that festers in the distance between you. Most days you are very good at ignoring it, especially in front of others. It’s significantly harder to do so when you’re alone.

His quiet scrutiny continues for a while.

“Look at you,” he begins softly, like he’s just realised something of great importance. “Look at the strength you hold yourself with now. You came to us seven months ago as a shell barely clinging to life. Now you stand firm and look at the sun with a desire for life. You did not let your pain consume you. You shed your skin and been reforged.”

You falter.

It’s peculiar how you don’t notice it anymore.

The steadiness with which you walk. The way your hands shake less. How fewer nightmares haunt you. They still persist but at least it’s become manageable. The muscle and strength you have lost after the wedding has returned. There is still some way to go but these seven months have remade you.

Swallowing, you tilt you head his way, and he adds a quiet, “You make me proud, viper.”

“Stop.”

A tremble through your limbs. It locks your throat, knits your brows, and you pivot towards him. Your crossed arms loosen, dropping to your sides.

His confusion is apparent.

“Stop what?”

You feel how your expression creases, your lips pursing into an unhappy line.

“Making this harder than it has to be,” you say quietly, knowingly. “We both know what this is.”

You know he knows.

You saw how he watched you when you glanced back at him at the market. The light in his eyes when children gifted you with a silken ribbon. How he watched you when you sat side by side on the beach, peering at the receding waves. Your longing expression had focused on the distant horizon where an ocean away your home was waiting.

And all the people you’ve left behind that you did not expect to miss as much as you do.

No matter how much you like it here, this isn’t quite the same.

You miss Winston trying to teach you chess. Miss his music recommendations and snarky comments that are often politely veiled insults. Miss his lessons that sharpen your own skills.

You miss Charon and his soothing, deep voice calling you “Miss”. Miss the way he always makes sure that your favourite food is on the menu, and how he always indulges in your silly attempts of discussion.

You miss—

Then perhaps you can be my exception, hm? My first real friend.

Santino.

It still startles you and unnerves you how often you catch yourself thinking about him, too.

How much you’ve missed them all. You always figured disappearing would be simple, preferable. Detach yourself from everything. No Tarasov, no debts. But the exact opposite seems to be true.

You’ve never realised till now just how much they soothed your loneliness.

“A goodbye,” Rafik murmurs. “Today was a goodbye.”

So he did know.

You’re not sure where to even begin with what you glimpse on his face for a brief second. His head turns towards the desert and you swallow any words you could say.

“Did you not feel welcome—”

You don’t let him finish. “I can’t stay here.”

His attention goes back to you, his voice soft, “Why not?”

“Because I can’t just…” you trail off, shake your head, chew on your inner cheek. You didn’t expect this to be so hard. Maybe it’s because truly have enjoyed staying here. Enjoyed his company even more. “I can’t let Tarasov get away with this. He destroyed my life. After all he’s done...”

You won’t rest till he’s bones and ash.

Not for your parents. Not anymore.

For yourself.

“There are moments—fragments, really—that shift the course of one’s life,” he says, his tone pensive. “You would choose revenge over peace?”

He’s peering at you when your head snaps back towards him. He’s so close you can feel his body heat and he turns to face you as well.

“This isn’t peace,” you argue weakly, your voice thinning with hurt. “It can be, I know it can be, but right now it’s just running. Hiding. Pretending. I’ve been putting it off like a coward because I do like it here,” you say because it’s true, and you mean it, and it hurts how a brief crack in his stoic expression appears before it disappears, so you add, “If I stay a day longer...I will never leave.”

Because you keep making excuses. Just one more day, just one more moment. Just another day of studies. Just another sparring match. It’s all for your own good, you try to convince yourself.

His voice is still that gentle lull when he asks you a faint, “And would that be so terrible?”

“No. No, it won’t be,” you breathe, your admittance raw, and step closer to him, deciding to finally put your cards on the table. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me. Thank you for your research, and training, and patience and...just everything. You are not what I expected you to be.”

Understanding dawns over his features and his bearing changes. A straightening of his shoulders. The very air around him seems to thicken with that authority you’ve only caught glimpses of a few times. “You know,” he says deliberately. “Since when?”

“I suspected from the beginning but I knew for certain after the viper bite,” you confess and try not to twitch under suffocating intensity of his stare. It’s different from Santino or even John—the former always fond, teasing, hungry; and the latter aways gentle, subdued, half-hidden. “It was never about proving a point or even being brave. I wanted to draw you out.”

Because if that hadn’t revealed his hand, nothing would.

His eyes darken at that, almost pitch-black, so you hurry along, “I’ve been practising with viper venom for over a year now. Since it was used to poison me during the Hunt. My threshold for it is higher. I didn’t go under right away and your words. Always exceeding my expectations.”

You can still recall the muted ring of it inside your head. You haven’t been able to shake it since.

Rafik’s chin juts up and you feel naked under that probing stare. He’s not hiding anymore. What you see before you makes you finally understand why they fear him. “So it would appear we were both testing one another.”

You swallow, your proximity grating against your senses. “Rafik is not your real name, is it?”

“It is not,” he admits evenly. “It is the name of my brother.”

His brother.

Of course.

The younger man who came to visit with his entourage two weeks ago. You had thought then that it was a ploy. That perhaps the supposed “brother” was one of his actual advisors playing pretend. The idea that he does, in fact, have a sibling startles you for some reason.

Maybe because they are so different.

The real Rafik is quick to smile. Charming. Able to weave conversation out of thin air much like his brother.

They bore striking resemblance to one another but you still had your doubts. There was affection there, too. They were close but one stark difference between them was clear.

It revealed itself when Rafik and sat down beside you that night by the fire, giving you a curious, yet critical stare.

And when you had asked why he was here and beside you, he had offered a rather simple response in return.

I’ve never seen my brother quite so taken with someone before. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

And he had stayed by your side the entire evening, even after his older brother had joined you in his usual spot on your left. Together you had talked for hours, long into the night, and it had been as pleasant and as easy as breathing.

He had left the very next day with a kiss on your knuckles and a playful gleam in his brown eyes.

I do not doubt that we will meet again, viper.

Unlike his older brother who is power and order, Rafik is a dreamer.

Not bound by anything or anyone.

“Why bother with any of this?”

Why bother with the whole charade for months when he could have introduced himself as himself from the start. You’ve been mulling it over in your head for a while. A trick? Some sort of test?

“Because you cannot wear a mask forever,” he tells you calmly and leans closer. That crackle of power coats him and now that he’s not suppressing it, you feel it acutely. “Sooner or later the truth slips through. I wanted to know you without titles or expectations,” a pause, and flash in those dark depths before he exhales, “Hello, my viper.”

It’s funny.

Coming from anyone else, it would be possessive. Perhaps even twisted. Like claiming ownership of someone.

He makes it sound tender.

It should please you that you were right about his intentions in regards to hiding his name. It was a test after all. But not one you expected. And not one you did very well on.

“Hello, Elder,” is your hushed greeting, and a chill nips at the skin of your neck.

Finally face to face with everything out in the open.

Your throat is dry and for once it has little to do with the Saharan heat. “Do you stand by your word? That I can leave? It’s been over six months.”

His rapt attention splinters. It gutters him of any previous warmth to be found, leaving something colder and dourer behind.

“There is no happiness for you on this path,” he states, his words brisker that you’re used to hearing from him. It seems to sharpen his accent, too. “You’ve walked it once before and where did it lead you?”

A hushed breath escapes you. “To you.”

The Elder dips his head in a slow, wilful nod.

“Yes. To me,” he says, his mouth a firm line. “I understand the vengeance that drives you. But you will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me. I tried to show you a different path. Wanted to help you realise your own potential. Encourage your research with my present.”

Those words. There is something almost damning about them.

Denial and anger swell swiftly. “You don’t know what it’s like,” you mutter, your words chipped with ice because he taught you to force calmness into your being. He’s the most powerful man in the world. He should petrify you as should the possibility of his wrath. But he doesn’t. “No one does. You have no idea what it’s like seeing his face and seeing him thrive. He…wait…what…what do you mean present? You haven’t given me any.”

He tried to give you that golden dagger after your spar but aside from that…

“Haven’t I?”

Your mind scrambles, picking apart the last seven months with him. Did he mean food and shelter? Did he class that as—

Encourage your research with my present.

Research and present.

“It was you,” you breathe, straightening as realisation hums through you. “The flowers, for my birthday, that was you. Why?”

There had been no card on those flowers, and you assumed that it had been Winston who gave them to you based on your conversation the night before.

Just how long had he been waiting to summon you? How closely has he been following your progress?

“I heard about your spiral,” he voices, a touch forlorn, reading your expression. The confusion. “I had hoped to extend a lifeline your way. I’ve hoped that it would give you a reason to go on. When it didn’t work, I had you summoned.”

He’s right. The flowers didn’t give you a lifeline.

Winston and Santino did that. By pushing you to crawl back to your feet. By demanding that you fight back. For yourself.

Their faith in you was the lifeline.

“And now I wish to leave,” you tell him faintly. “Will you let me?”

Because he doesn’t want you to. He doesn’t need to say it for you to know it. It’s written in the very fabric of him. It can be found in everything from the way he’s standing, speaking, to the way he’s surveying you.

Silence hangs over you for a long, long time.

Finally, the Elder shifts closer, reaching for you.

His hand is large, warm, and dry when it comes to rest against the side of your face.

“You are bound by a debt,” he reminds you. “Should anything befall Viggo Tarasov before it is repaid, I will know.”

A ball of acid sits at the back of your throat. “And after the debt is repaid?”

His disappointment is clear. He no doubt expected his warning to be a deterrent.

“After,” he states icily. “He is yours to do with as you please.”

Your heart flips.

“Your word.”

It’s practically a demand.

Reckless, reckless, reckless, a voice that sounds too much like Winston hums. But just this once you don’t heed the warning.

He leans closer. “My word.”

It sinks into you; a roar of vicious victory. One day, you will be able to kill Tarasov without fear of consequences. One day. Your freedom first and then—

“It will destroy you,” he states mildly, his eyes tracking over your features, and you tense. “Your desire for vengeance will poison everything in your life, and one day, you will find yourself back here but a part of you will be gone. It will hurt you and maim you if you do not control it. Do not let that fire consume you.”

He leans so close you feel the warmth of his breath when he presses his forehead against yours. Your eyes flutter close, a tingle racing down your spine.

You’re more alike than you would ever dare to admit.

Drawn by a bone-deep need to be understood. Challenged.

“I am, however, a man of my word,” he murmurs and you feel the tingle of those words brush against your mouth. “You are free to leave, ya amar.”

The weight against your forehead disappears. And the faintest brush of his lips against your forehead follows—nothing more than a whisper of a phantom—before it’s gone, too.

He lets go of your face, and your eyes snap open when you feel him pull away.

Your sight blurs in front of you—a smear of his white robes—and you only see his back as he turns away from you, facing the desert once again.

You can’t see his face anymore.

“Go now,” he declares, his voice cold, aloof. “While I still allow it.”

You’re not sure why you hesitate but you do. Just for a heartbeat.  

Then, you take a step back, and another before spinning around and walking out of the tent.

You pretend that you don’t feel his stare on your back until you disappear from his sight.

A bump shakes the jeep and you jolt.

Sand greets you.

You said goodbye once and now here you are.

You had left the desert with the knowledge that even if you were to change your mind last minute the camp would no longer be there.

For security, it would be relocated. Less lack of trust and more common practice.

That’s why you went to Sofia and then Berrada. Berrada should have been the line to contact Elder with.

The Elder.

You rub your face.

Maybe he will not wish to see you. It’s been years. And now here you are. Coming back only because you’re in trouble.

The jeep crawls to a stop.

The journey here had been mostly silent, all of you lost in your own heads. Your only topic of discussion had been your next step which is apparently to wander out into the desert and hope that the Elder will want to see you.

You walked away from the desert, from the man himself, years ago and had spent that time forgetting you ever came here. To avoid the temptation of simply giving up and disappearing again. Every time it got hard, running away had seemed like the most obvious choice.

You push the door open, jumping out and the heat hits you like a brick.

You’ve forgotten how suffocating this dry climate can be. Still, you wager your attire is significantly more comfortable than John’s pitch-black suit.

Sofia lets out Santana and Ikar, too, giving them some water.

You ignore the conversation between the manager and the assassin, wandering further ahead, and lift your head towards the sun. The camp could be anywhere after so many years. Trying to go back on memory would be useless.

Despite that, you still try to recall as much as you can, turning from one direction to another. East is Casablanca. You drove west, deeper into the Sahara—

“Water?”

Sofia stops beside you, offering the bottle and you take it from her, drowning a large gulp.

She wants to say something. You both watch the horizon, and you don’t have to wait long.  

“Come back with me,” she speaks up suddenly, and you turn to look at her. Her expression is firm, no-nonsense. The one she uses on unruly patrons. “Stop this suicidal plan. I can hide you in the city.”

Thinking back on her earlier words about Berrada, you only offer her a small, indulgent smile, “For how long?” you question lightly. “This is the High Table, Sof. They will never stop coming. They will rip Casablanca apart piece by piece. And they will kill you, too. I can’t do that to my friend.”

“We’re not friends,” is her immediate and tart retort.  

You dip your head. “Right.”

She huffs a breath, visibly frustrated.  

“What if it doesn’t work?”

You think about that for a while.

Dying out in the desert is not the worst way to go given your lifestyle.

It would be slow, sure. But at least there would be minimal pain.  

You imagine your slight smile is a touch sad when you turn towards her, your hair fluttering in the breeze. “Everyone’s story ends at some point, right?”

Her expression turns icy at that. She takes a few steps closer and you’re practically face-to-face.

“You stand there and act like you’re so alone but I think you’re too much of a coward to face the truth,” she snaps and you blink in surprise. Her voice drops, softening, but her stare is still cutting. “There are people out there who would fight for you. If only you asked.”

You can feel John’s attention on you both but doubt he can hear you from his spot by the jeep.

“You’re right. There are,” you agreed quietly and she seems to deflate at your easy admittance. “But I got myself into this mess, and I will climb out of it myself. I’m not dragging my family down with me.”

You don’t need to say it out loud for her to know she’s included in that statement.  

“If I don’t make it back—”

“You better shut your mouth,” she snarls. “If you think that—”

You step closer, wrapping your arms around her. It’s brief but tight, and you inhale the scents that are uniquely her. It lasts only a moment before you loosen your arms, releasing her.

“I’ll be seeing you,” you tease.

She swallows visibly, her forced glare not as effective as she would no doubt like it to be.

“You better.”

Then she turns sharply and marches away without looking back and you bite back another smile.

One proud woman.

The jeep peels away minutes later and only a speck of darkness is left as your companion.

You pivot west and begin your trek.

Five minutes pass before John catches up with you.

“What are you doing?”

“Walking.”

A defeated sigh slips out of him. You almost make a comment that this is what talking with him is like on a good day but fight back the urge.

Much to your surprise, he lets it drop.

The heat is merciless.

Despite that you both still put one leg in front of another, walking for over two hours in complete silence.

Mentally, you try to prepare for both the worst and best-case scenarios.

Best: the Elder finds you and you manage to find a way to get your Excomunicado lifted.

Worst: you both die out here.

“We should talk.”

His voice startles you so much you almost flinch.

John’s breaths are louder than usual, his skin shining with a layer of sweat. At least he knows enough to not start removing clothes. That will only dehydrate him faster.

“About what?” you wonder, pushing your legs harder to get you up a steep dune. “Everything I wanted to say to you I did back at your house.”

You drag the back of your hand across your forehead, controlling your breathing. Unfortunately, you have a sinking feeling you already know what he wishes to discuss despite your words.

“About what happened,” he begins warily. “At the Continental.”  

Your feet slow until you stop completely, giving him a curious look.

“Let me tell you what happened,” you say calmly, cordially. You don’t want to waste energy by being angry at him right now. “You nearly killed two of my friends, and shot the third in the head with his condition currently unknown to me. And here I am, hunted, because I loved you too much to let you die.”

He doesn’t react to your words, so you can’t help but ask, “So tell me, John, what is it exactly that you wish to discuss with me?”

He gazes at you, silent, and once you would have given anything to have him look at you with so much emotion.

“Do you still love me?”

You laugh. You can’t quite help it.

Shaking your head, you turn away from him, “Go to hell.”

“V, wait,” he mutters. “V—”

Something, a coil, snaps.

You round on him and he has to stumble to a stop.

“You swore a life debt to me. A life debt,” you hiss, your voice crackling with rage. Your throat aches from it, and it feels like a furnace has suddenly woken up inside you. John, for once, appears taken aback by what he sees. “I called it in and you as good as spat on it. Spat on everything we ever stood for. I practically begged you to listen but you didn’t. It might have broken my heart but at least I could understand your decision to leave, to be happy even if it was with someone else. You know why? Because I wanted you to be happy. But how do you justify this? How?”

His brows knit and his mouth parts. “I thought that it never would have ended. I did what I thought was right.”

You nod your head with a tepid smile. “I know you did,” you reassure him and he squints at you, surprised. “I don’t blame you for going after him. I would have done the same. Do you at least regret it?”

He hesitates. His head lowers.  

“It was a mistake,” he whispers. “I should have listened to you.”

A sound tickles the roof of your mouth and you look up towards the sky. The sun is starting to set. With the night will come a very different challenge.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

He knows it isn’t but it’s now a choice between the truth you both know, and a lie he might try and convince himself of.  

“No,” he admits, still staring downwards. “The only thing I regret is that it’s causing you pain.”

He gazes up at you and you sigh, trying to relax your body. The explosion came out of nowhere but you suppose it’s the shock finally wearing off.  

“That’s the problem right there, John,” you mutter and there is a note of defeat in your voice that makes his expression crease. “You think this is just about Santino but it isn’t. You nearly killed the people without whom I won’t be here today. You killed men I knew, men I worked with, men who had lives that I knew about. Even when I had nothing, I had Ares and Roberto and Santino. My friends. They never gave up on me though they could and should have.”

That seems to do it. This time the realisation on his face is different. Like he’s finally grasping how much bigger this is. How much more pain he’s responsible for. You suppose from his perspective it’s easy to assume it’s only about the Camorra head but Santino is not the only person in your life. He never has been.

“I just wanted you to listen. That’s all.”

You don’t stop him when he decreases the remaining distance between you.  

“I can’t change what happened,” he admits, his expression softening, and a distant ache hums against your heart. He reaches out, cautious, his warm hand touching yours. “But I can make amends and I will. I swear.”

You used to dream about his skin on yours. Dream about kissing him and having a life with him. Dream about all you could achieve together—an unstoppable unit of raw skill, and with unmatched potential.

Together you could have had anything.

Together with this man of focus, will, and integrity.

Except that’s all it was. A dream. And John’s dream was stronger than your own.

You’ve grown tired of holding his happiness against him. It’s not fair to either of you.

You’re not his lesser anymore. You’ve worked for years to be regarded just as good as him. You’re not that young, naive girl who used to shadow his every step and watch his back with blind adoration.

Let him prove a point for once.

You’re tired of chasing impossible dreams—chasing him.

“Your word means nothing to me.”

Your hand slips from his.

.

.

You’re burning.

It’s oddly peaceful though. Familiar.

This is better than water. But anything would be better than water.

You’re alone. But you suppose that’s only right, too.

You’ve lost count of the time. It feels like you’ve been lost in this desert for weeks, if not months. You’re not even sure which one of you collapsed first. You or John. Maybe you helped each other till neither of you could go on.

Peaceful.

You never thought death would be so peaceful.  

“How did we end up here, I wonder?”

Your eyes crack open at that voice.

Everything blurs. Golden, bright glow blinds you as everything spins but you still see him.

Oh.

You’ve worked so hard to hold yourself together, to push everything back and focus, that seeing him is like a punch right through your chest.

Suddenly it’s like a floodgate has been opened and you feel the sting in your eyes.

Your cracked lips part and only a pained, dry sob escapes you, “Santi.”

He’s standing above you, gazing at you before he lowers himself down so he can see you better. He’s a hybrid. A man of past and present that you’re seeing morphing into one. Dark shirt, wild hair, a too familiar silver chain around his neck that all point to the past—to when you first met him. But then there is his expression. The playful gentleness of his eyes, and the slant of his mouth that makes him look like he’s a breath away from smiling. This expression you know. Heat and gentleness and—

And love.

You saw this expression at Naples. You’ve been seeing it for years now. Even if you always chose to turn away from it, from him.

“Hello, amore.”

It’s a whisper, a caress, a hug, and a kiss all in one and your expression crumbles.

Golden sun shines upon him—another remnant of Naples, of watching him napping in the sun—and this brightness is so different to the last time you saw him.

Clinging to him, your hands covered in his cooling blood, and so very desperate to hold onto him. Pull him back to life by force if you have to.

He was so still.

You held onto him like you could force the warmth back into him. Share your life with him like he has shared his with you so many times.

He can’t be here. He can’t be real because last you saw him he was being rushed to surgery. While all you could do was stand back and watch, hoping that the blood you gave him would help him stay alive. Your life force, now coursing through his veins.

“You’re not real.”

Your words are a croak and his head tilts.

He looks unbothered but your assessment, only vaguely amused.

“Of course not,” he shoots back breezily.

You blink, trying to clear your vision, now reduced to clinging to his voice instead.

Everything blurs again.  

“Then why…why are you here?”

This time amusement from his expression fades, leaving something solemn behind. It’s an odd sight. You don’t see him like this often and you want him to smile. You want him to live—

“Because you are dying,” Santino states promptly, but not unkindly. Those green eyes soften when he reaches out, his palm hesitating over your jaw. “Because you did not want to be alone. So here I am.”

You’re unsure if you can say anything in response to that.

You’re just glad he’s here. That you’re not alone after all. That here, at the end of it all, death wears a familiar, loving face.

“Maybe we’ll both die together,” he muses suddenly and you blink, realising that your eyes had begun to close. You find him laying beside you, face-to-face, and exhale softly at the proximity. He looks so real this close up. It reminds you of Naples. “Rather poetic if I do say so myself, no?” he adds quietly.

A soft teasing. Crinkling around his eyes. You want to reach for him even though there is no strength left in you for that.

“No,” you exhale. “I won’t let you.”

His mouth curves; a grin you don’t see often because it’s softer, crooked. It’s your smile. That one special smile he only ever bestows you with and it only hurts more.

Wind teases his brunette curls, wild and untamed as him, and you’re not sure why his smile transforms into something more sardonic.

“We both know no one would miss me, amore.”

You can’t believe he would still think that. Surely he doesn’t? Surely he knows—

“I would,” you choke out, fragile and wet, your eyes burning, burning, burning— “More than anything.”

The hardness, the arrogance both recede at that—like dispelling a cloud with your fingertips and those green eyes drag over your features.

“Ah, well if we both somehow survive this and see each other again,” he whispers and like always the low roll of his accent washes over you like a wave. “That might be nice to hear.”

You want to see him again. So very badly.

“I promise.”

Santino smiles again. Fainter, understanding.

I choose you.

He did, didn’t he?

You still owe him a trip to Paris.

Maybe in a better and kinder world...

Maybe in that world, you would have met him first. Maybe in that world, you would have loved him forever. Maybe in that world you’re together and happy and Paris is a flight away every weekend.

Imagine you and me—and everything we ever wanted.

“Will you stay?”

His mouth parts and he shakes his head slightly, almost in disbelief. His fingers come to rest against your face and even though you know it’s not real, it feels real. Real because he’s touched you like this so many times before the gesture is known to you. It lives in your bones and right now, it’s like phantom fingers are touching you after all.

“Where else would I go, hm?” he wonders softly, and his forehead ghosts against yours—not quite touching but close enough for you to feel a little less afraid as your eyes slip close. “Always.”

Your lips part—

A harsh yank.

Everything tips. The world unravels around you.

Santino is gone from your side.

Everything goes dark again.

You’re floating inside a sun.

The suffocating heat singes your edges but you’re not helpless. Your own fire burns just as brightly and you will not be devoured.

You refuse to be.

You rebel. You trash.

It’s so hot you can’t inhale without feeling liquid flame sliding down your throat. Like water—

A jolt.

A wheeze slips loose and you blink.

A buzz of voices, soft and muffled, reach you but you can’t decipher what they’re saying. Your body feels like lead. Something wraps around you—warmth and strength, strength and warmth, and…

You lean into it for a moment. It scratches at something deep down. Like a phantom limb expect it’s a sensation that sits in your gut.

It doesn’t fit right.

Because it’s not right.

Then comes the coolness of water wetting your lips. Your fingers reach blindly, trying to grasp on to something. Anything.

Then quiet. A whistle of the wind. More water. Something else, not water. A tangy, bittersweet flavour. The heat recedes, fading.

Soon enough you feel the coolness of the wind against your sore skin.

Your eyes flutter open. Sandy dunes and a maroon carpet greet you. A far away, enchanting chime of bells. Your head rests on plush pillows.

For several minutes, you don’t move a muscle.

But you can feel it.

The way he watches you.

That intensity can be felt even without you putting him in your sight.

Then, comes that achingly familiar, low voice, “Welcome home, viper.”

. . .

an: any survivors? anyone still alive after that? I can’t even type this without tumblr lagging and honestly I’ve pulled a nearly 24hr hustle to get this chapter out so I’m dead tired. If you’re still here, if you’re still reading, if you’re still with me - thank you from the bottom of my heart. I’m both very scared and very excited about your reactions.  

[ghostly-cabbage]

Frigid (Chapter 6)

Genre: Horror, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers  

Chapter Rating: T (Language)

Word Count: 6,435

AO3  FFN

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And here Danny thought he was done with getting punishment for the day. He hit the gym floor: hard. 

It made his vision go black for a second. Fucking ow. If he got another concussion he was going to be pissed. At this point he was giving the football players a run for their money.  

His awareness came back to him in spots at first, dancing across his vision, then all at once. Lucky for him—it was just in time to see Skulker firing another volley of ecto-missiles at him. 

Shit.

He curled up and summoned a dome shield. The projectiles exploded on contact one after the other. It deafened the sound for the most part, but he still felt like a fish whose glass bowl was being tapped on. The explosions ceased, green tinted smoke obscuring his sight.

Danny didn’t wait for the dust to settle. He dropped his shield and launched himself straight up at the place he’d last seen Skulker, fist coming into contact with the bottom of Skulker’s chin. The ghost grunted, sailing upward and punching a second hole through the roof of the gym. 

Danny cringed as glass, broken light fixtures, and wood fell down. At least it was the weekend. There’d probably be enough time to patch it up. What was a little more property damage on his record, right? 

Ugh.

“For once you had great timing,” Danny said to the empty room. His legs melded together into his tail and he listened carefully to his surroundings. “If I didn’t know any better, Skulker, I’d almost think you’re stalking me.” There was a beat, before the sound of a net launching from a gun broke the silence. Danny twisted on instinct, narrowly dodging the net. It whooshed past and stuck to the wall behind him.

Skulker returned to visibility. He floated across from Danny, scowling. 

He growled. “Silence, whelp. It’s easier to lure you out when you’re not busy being a prisoner in this human infested place.” 

Well, that was half of it at least.

“Aw, so you do care about my schedule. I’m touched.” Danny pressed the palm of his hand over his core. His tail flicked and he crossed his arms. “But you know that shit you just pulled isn’t going to fly.” 

“Please, Ghost Child,” Skulker sneered. “I was merely toying with those puny humans. I wasn’t going to harm them.” 

“Ever heard of psychological trauma?” Danny dead-panned. He didn’t wait for an answer and fired an ecto-blast straight at Skulker’s chest. It connected with a hollow crack and Skulker let out a shout. He dropped ten feet before catching himself. Danny rushed forward, aiming a kick to the side of his face. 

Skulker held up his arm, blocking the blow with the back of his forearm. The force of the kick resounded against the metal with a clang. 

Danny pulled back out of close range, noting the sizable dent in Skulker��s arm. 

Skulker roared and held up his arm to fire a wrist-ray. Danny strafed to the side, expecting the hot fizzle of an ecto-ray. But nothing happened. 

They both paused, Skulker's eyes narrowing. He inspected his dented arm. 

“Now look what you’ve done, brat.” 

Danny lifted his arms in an exaggerated shrug. 

Skulker held his arm out, attempting to fire the ray again. Nothing. The ghost made a frustrated sound. 

“Here, maybe this’ll help.” Danny’s breath went icy as he shot a jagged spike of ice at Skulker's arm. He watched with giddy satisfaction as the ice punctured and tore a hole through the metal. 

Skulkers arm exploded. 

Danny squinted against the flash of green, going intangible to avoid the metal shrapnel. He blinked the inverted spot from his vision. Skulker’s arm was completely gone, leaving nothing but a jagged hole with wires that stuck out, arcing thin forks of electricity. Danny bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He floated on his stomach, steepling his hands underneath his chin.

“Sucks, man. You never wanna overload a jammed ecto-weapon.” He clicked his tongue three times in a row, shaking his head. “You’d think such a great hunter would know that.” 

“Of course I knew that!” he snapped. “You’ll pay for this, Ghost Child.”  

“Oh no, I’m so terrified,” he said, grin plastered across his face. Man, two days of R&R really did a ghost some good.  

“Insolent whelp,” Skulker said. A mechanical arm extended from his back, unleashing a football-length green rocket that headed straight for Danny. It looked like a homing missile. 

Danny shot upwards out through the bigger of the two holes. He put on the brakes, and skirted to the side just as the missile zipped up past him. He let energy build in his palm. 

The thing about homing missiles was most of them weren’t great with tight turns. The rocket spluttered as it twisted to come straight back down. It made it an easy target. 

He fired an ecto-blast. It exploded on contact in a brilliant sphere of green. Danny phased back down through the roof. The explosion shook the lights, making them flicker more, but it’d been far enough up it didn’t cause any other damage. 

Danny twisted in mid-air and flew at Skulker. His eyes widened and he turned his defenseless side away from Danny, back-peddling. 

He fired an ecto-ray at Skulkers undamaged shoulder. He didn’t pack as much power into it as he could have. He banked, cutting an elliptical circle while holding the ray on target.

“You know, as much as I appreciate the practice, we’ve gotta stop having these here at school.” He didn’t let up on the beam until he’d flanked Skulker. He zipped in while the ghost was still recovering. 

He went with the same roundhouse that Skulker had blocked before. His foot slammed into the side of Skulker’s head, sending the hunter spinning sideways. Danny charged a blast in his palm. He lifted up his left hand and squinted his right eye closed, using his thumb to line up his shot. Who said he was only a show off when people were watching? 

At the moment Skulker stopped tumbling and righted himself, Danny unleashed his blast. It hissed through the air and Skulker had no hope of dodging it. It slammed into the shoulder joint of Skulker's good arm which, already weakened by Danny’s ray, popped off like the limb of a cheap action figure. 

Skulker let out a wordless scream of frustration. 

A smug grin worked its way onto Danny’s face. He was getting too damn good at this, if you asked him. 

Danny closed the gap between them. He grabbed the holes where Skulker's shoulders should have been and somersaulted forward, flipping the ghost over his head. Danny threw him down, directly into a basketball hoop. 

Skulker, of course, being much larger than a basketball, didn’t make it through. Instead, his head wedged into the hoop, his legs churning helplessly in the air. 

Danny spluttered. “Oh my God.” He burst into laughter, wrapping his arms around his stomach. 

“Oh my God, I wish I had my phone. That worked even better than I thought it would, holy shit.” He dropped a few feet in the air involuntarily.

“Laugh while you can, Ghost Child,” Skulker grunted. He could easily phase out, but he seemed to know when he was defeated.  

Danny leaned back, rotating upside down in the air as he laughed. “Of all times that Sam and Tuck aren't here.” He wiped a tear from under his eye. “Hey— Hey, Skulker.” He flew up to Skulker. 

He glared at Danny through the net. 

“This is what we kids today call getting fucking dunked on.” Danny snorted and descended into more laughter. 

“You’re enjoying this far too much, whelp.” 

Danny held his sides until the hilarity of the visual started to die down. His breathing evened out and the tickle in his chest faded.

“Hey, the amount of times you’ve trapped me in something awful, I think I deserve this.” He sighed, content, his shoulders sagging as a last chuckle left him. “This is exactly what I needed after detention today.” Danny reached for the thermos on his belt. 

“Anyway—” he uncapped the thermos “—same time next week, then?” He pressed the button and the thermos kicked on. He pointed the beam at Skulker, watching as it dragged his warping form into its confines. 

The thermos dimmed and Danny twirled it in his palm, blowing the wisps of smoke from its end. He really needed to empty it when he got home today. 

“What is that? How’d it do that?” 

“Holy F—” Danny jumped. The thermos slipped from his grasp and he fumbled it a few times before he caught it and pulled it back against his chest. He turned towards the voice, shocked to see a familiar face. 

Wesley-fucking-Weston.

He was peeking in through a gap of a gym door.

What the fuck? 

“Uh... How long have you been standing there?”

And how the hell had Danny let a human sneak up on him? Let alone some gangly asshole who didn’t seem to have an ounce of self-preservation in his whole body? 

Wesley hesitated, scanning the gymnasium again. He stepped the rest of the way into the gym. 

“Uhm, for a bit?” 

“Right… and where’s your friends?” Danny slowly floated backwards. 

Why was this dude determined to be up in his business? As afraid as Wesley looked the first day of school, Danny thought he wouldn’t willingly get within a mile of another ghost. Guess he was wrong.

“I ditched them and snuck back into the building,” he said, like it was obvious. “People here at school say you’re a ‘good’ ghost,” he added. Danny’s eyes drifted around the room as he contemplated turning invisible and flying through the roof. 

Was he going somewhere with this or…? 

“Are you?” 

His eyes snapped back down to Wesley. 

He cleared his throat.“Uh. I try to be?” Danny was no stranger to students at Casper approaching him after a fight to try and talk or even flirt with him. He shuddered at the amount of times Paulina or even Dash had asked him to hangout or go get something to eat. 

But this wasn't like those times. Danny hated to admit he was genuinely intrigued, and even impressed by Wesley’s audacity. 

“If you’re unsure enough to be asking, why would you come alone?” He hadn’t meant it to be threatening, but Wesley took half a step back towards the door. He licked his lips. 

“Because I have questions about ghosts.” 

 Danny’s face twisted. He hooked the thermos back on his waist and ran a gloved hand through his hair. “Why ask me? Listen— there’s plenty of people in Amity that know about ghosts. You don’t need to ask a real one.” 

Wesley lifted a hand and rubbed at his temple. “Yeah, but all they ever talk about is you. Either how great you are or how you’re secretly a menace to society.” 

Huh, he must have talked to Valerie. 

“Then what question is important enough you decided to approach a ‘dangerous’ ghost… by yourself?” 

“I just—I want to know why ghosts here are so different, and who better to ask than an actual ghost? I guess I figured with how much people drool over you that you were the least likely to kill me. I mean you could’ve on the first day if you’d wanted to… There’s obviously some truth to what people say about you.”  

Danny blinked. Okay, that made some sense. But then… 

“Why do you want to know that specifically?” 

Wesley turned his head. “It’s personal.” 

...Alright, sure. 

He let out a long suffering sigh.

“Listen, I hate to disappoint, Person-I’ve-Never-Met-Before, but I haven’t really been outside of Amity Park much…” He knew the answer, of course he did, but he didn’t exactly go around as Phantom spouting off his ghost knowledge. There were things about ecto-biology he knew that only a Fenton would know... and some things only a half-ghost would know.

Wesley looked stricken. It was a weird look on him.

“But you’re still a ghost, can’t you just—” he flexed his hands in front of him like he was trying to grasp something— “make an informed guess?” 

Ugh, God.

Danny dragged a hand down over his face. 

Fine. 

“If I tell you what I think, will you actually get the hell outta dodge the next time there’s a fight?” When people tried to stick around, they were more likely to get caught in the cross-fire. While Danny wasn’t exactly fond of the dude, that didn’t mean he wanted Wesley hurt. The thought of him or anyone getting hurt because of him made him twitch; he ignored the spike of nervous energy that thrashed in his core. 

Wesley looked up at him, blinking green eyes. 

“Wait, that’s it?” 

“I’m dead, dude. What else could I want?” He’d love for Wesley to leave him, Fenton him, alone entirely. But he’d take what he could get.

Wesley faltered. “I dunno.” He muttered something else under his breath, something a normal human would have missed: “doesn’t make sense why you’d want that either though.” 

Danny shook his head and floated down a bit. “If I had to guess, it’d be because of the portal.” 

“Portal?” 

“Yeah, the Fenton Ghost Portal?” That at least was common knowledge around Amity now.

Wesley squinted his eyes. 

“You haven't heard of it?” Danny asked, exasperated.

“I don’t know! I’m new here!”

“Clearly.” 

Wesley made a face like he was about to say something stupid. “Okay, sure, there’s a portal. What’s it have to do with ghosts?”

Holy hell. 

Why was he doing this again?

“It’s’a portal directly into the Ghost Zone, dude,” he said incredulously. “Ya’know, The Infinite Realms? Land of the Dead?”

Wesley paled. 

“Wait that’s… How’s that possible?” 

“How should I know? Do I look like a scientist to you?” 

“I mean… Kinda?” He gestured vaguely to Danny’s person. 

He looked down. Oh yeah, hazmat suit. Right. 

Danny wiggled in place. “Not the point, alright? Are you going to keep interrupting me?”

Wesley made a face. “You’re the one asking me questions!” 

Danny waved a hand, flustered. “Okay, okay, shut up.” God, Wesley was so annoying. “Portals open up naturally all over the world, ‘kay? Well, here in Amity there’s a stable portal that stays open, meaning a constant influx of Ectoplasm. Ectoplasm is an energy source.” 

“Which means...?” 

“I’m getting there.” He twitched his tail. A motion which seemed to confuse Wesley, if his expression was anything to go by.  

“Ghosts are made of ectoplasm, and use it for energy blah, blah.” Danny twirled a hand. “What I’m saying is that here, ghosts have almost constant access to the Ghost Zone and Ectoplasm. It means unlimited energy. Ghosts without access to ecto-energy have to try and build up energy from other ambient sources like electronics, peoples emotions, weather, you name it. It takes forever to build up enough to materialize or interact with humans or solid objects. So ghosts in other places are probably less solid, making sightings and interactions fewer and far between.” Danny blew out a breath. “That answer your question?”  

Wesley was silent for a second, face wrinkled in thought.

“I guess… That makes sense—but—” 

“Cool, glad to help. Well, this has been—something. But I’ve gotta—” Danny started, only to get interrupted when someone burst through the gym door. Wesley jumped, letting out a less than manly yelp. 

It was a basketball player with tan skin and broad shoulders. One of the Seniors if Danny remembered right.

“Jesus Christ, dude, there you are! Do you have a death wish or—” the dude stopped short as his eyes landed on Danny. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “P—Phantom!” He had that deer-in-the-headlights look that people gave him. 

“Hi.” He held up a hand in greeting. “Anyway, I got the ghost, so…” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m just gonna...” 

He went invisible and headed in the direction of the nearest supply closet. He still had to get his stuff before he went home. 

“Imma big fan!” the basketball player called after him into the empty air. He smiled and shook his head as he phased through the wall of the gym. 

- 

Danny was half-way down the hall from the entrance, human once again with his bag heavy on his shoulder, when the doors flung open and two familiar silhouettes filled the entryway. 

Oh no. 

“Everyone outta the way! That ghost won’t know what hit it once we—” His dad’s booming voice stopped when he saw him. 

“Danny?” his mom called. She pushed past his dad and lowered her ecto-weapon. “Sweetie, what are you doing? Are you okay?” She hurried up to him. The surface of her goggles made it impossible for him to see anything but his own reflection. Her voice was tight and gentle as she grabbed him by the chin, turning his face this-way-and-that to suss out any injury. 

Danny silently thanked whatever higher-power might be listening that he didn’t have any bruises on his face. His back was probably another story. He hadn’t stayed in ghost-form long enough to heal it. His backpack hurt everywhere it was in contact with him. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, leaning away and trying to wave her off. Her hand dropped and she gripped him by his shoulder. 

“One of your teachers called and said there was a ghost and the alarm wasn’t working.”

“Oh, that’s crazy. Why didn’t it go off?” 

Dad came up to stand next to his mom, Fenton Bazooka hefted on his shoulder. 

“Don’t know Dann-o, but we intend to find out!” 

“Uhm, I heard stuff coming from the gym a bit ago actually.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Sufferin’ spooks! Come on, Mads, before we miss it!” His dad said and took off down the hall. 

His mom took a few steps to leave before she turned to him. “We’re going to be having a talk about your detention today, so no going to Sam or Tucker’s, alright?” 

He sighed and shoved his left hand in his hoodie pocket. Of course Mrs. Merriweather had called his parents. 

“Fine,” he huffed. 

“Love you, hun!” And then she was off. 

Detention during the first week. His parents must be so proud. He ran his fingers through his hair, digging his fingertips in and messaging his scalp, mussing his hair.

He’d said he’d try harder this year, and he’d meant it. Even though it didn’t feel like it there had been a steady downtick of ghost attacks. Had been since after Pariah Dark and that whole mess. Hell, even the thing with Skulker was more like a game nowadays than it was serious. 

But that didn’t mean all ghosts felt the same way. Especially the ones that popped up now and again to “test their skills on the one who’d bested Pariah Dark in combat”. Those were the worst.   

Danny pulled his phone from his pocket and opened the group chat. 

Dead “Allegedly”: Hey Tuck did u disable the school ghost alarm? 

He wasn’t even at the bottom of the Casper steps when a reply chimed in. 

Hacker (Derogatory): Nah, man. I wish tho 

Emo’s Not Dead: Why? 

Dead “Allegedly”: Just wondering, Skulker showed up and the alarm didn’t work or smth

Hacker (Derogatory): huh, maybe he disabled them? 

Dead “Allegedly”: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

…

My parents know I got detention so I can’t hangout tonight. Didn’t say anything about games tho, Doomed later? 

Emo’s Not Dead: Hell yeah, hope you guys are ready to get owned lmao 

Hacker (Derogatory): Bro, do you even have to ask? I’ve been working on a new loadout and not to brag but it’s pretty sick 

Danny rolled his eyes and put his phone back in his pocket. The Ghost Assault Vehicle was parked up over the curb and onto the grass in front of the school. Dad must’ve drove. He didn’t really want to walk, he needed to make sure he had enough time to sneak into the lab and flush the thermos. 

He walked up to the back of the GAV and pulled the handle. The door unlatched and swung open. Another thing that proved Dad drove. He never remembered to lock the GAV or the Speeder. 

Danny hopped in and tugged the door closed behind him. He reached for his core and the icy transformation washed over him. It eased the ache in his back and he breathed out a sigh of relief. He turned invisible and slipped up through the roof. He turned towards home and started flying. 

The sun hadn’t set yet, and wouldn't for another hour or so, but the shadows were still long. He could feel the sun’s dull warmth through the material of his jumpsuit. The nights were already getting longer and colder. The wind whisked past him with the type of fall chill that cut straight through sweaters and coats. The streets and cars blurred underneath him and a thought bubbled up from the back of his mind. 

He couldn’t remember what it was like to feel cold. 

Not in the human way, the “coming in from outside and sinking into soft blankets with a cup of hot cocoa” kind of way. The negative temperatures of the Far Frozen, of space, hadn’t fazed him since his cryo-core settled.

Like a stone settling in his stomach, he wondered what else he’d start to forget about being fully alive as the years went by. He tried to push the thought into the back of his mind.

The amalgamous shape of the Ops Center glinted in the evening light ahead of him. Danny flew around the side of the building and phased through the wall directly into his bedroom. He tossed his bag towards his desk.

He turned human again a few feet above his bed. He let gravity take hold of him, falling onto the mattress. He bounced a bit before sinking into its surface. His back felt better already. He sighed, wondering if he could get away with a nap before dinner. 

Maybe. Provided a ghost didn’t show up. 

He peeled himself up off the bed and crouched by his bag. He snatched the thermos and headed downstairs. 

The portal hummed, the only noise in the otherwise silent lab. His soft-soled sneakers patted quietly over the metal panel floor. Danny uncapped the thermos and flushed its occupants back into the Ghost Zone. He puffed some hair out of his eyes and closed the now empty thermos. 

Right. Nap. Suffer through the “you need to try harder young man” talk. Then Doomed. It was their second “weekend” this week. He wanted to try and have some fun. After the shitty start to the week he deserved it.  He’d worry about his homework later.  

***

Saturday night brought dark roiling storm clouds that blotted out the stars. The wind howled, stripping orange and red leaves off their branches. The air tasted of rain and stray drops peppered the grey pavement beneath him.

Danny flipped up the hood of his hoodie as he skirted the edge of Amity’s Central Park. Just because he was immune to the cold didn’t mean he liked being rained on. He could stay intangible if he wanted but he was way too lazy for that. 

He flew a languid loop in the air as he changed directions to head towards the mall. It’d been a quiet patrol, nothing out of the ordinary. 

Which, on a night like this, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. There was a lightning storm building up high in the clouds—which meant more ambient energy. He could feel it the same way he could feel heavy concentrations of ecto-energy. The buzz on his skin, soupy and dense. It tore him in two directions, amped on the energy and nauseous at the feeling of electricity. 

Why couldn’t it have been a snow storm? 

He tucked his gloved hands into the pocket of his hoodie and meandered over the parking lot, careful to fly below the power lines and telephone poles. 

A shiver prickled down his spine and he hiccupped over a cloud of mist. Yep, right on time. He heard distant screams coming from the mall.

He perked up, shooting towards it, the roof of the mall a grey streak. As he got closer he could tell what part of the mall he was headed towards. 

Best Buy. Great. 

Danny heard glass shatter and a stream of floating electronics burst out through the sides and ceiling windows of the mall, a maniacal cackling laugh from above him. 

“Technus,” Danny acknowledged, eyes narrowing. The levitating electronics whisked past him and circled Technus. 

“Oh, yes! It is indeed I, Technus!” he cried. His voice grated on Danny’s ears and he pushed his hood back down with a hand. 

“What’s up? Mad I wiped the floor with your boyfriend on Friday?” Danny grinned, floating up to be eye level with Technus. 

The ghost choked, swallowing his laugh.

“What— I— No! How dare you, Child,” he snapped. The wind whipped past them. “I’m here for my own gain! How dare you insinuate that Skulker and I are anything more than—” 

“Huh, I never mentioned Skulker specifically,” Danny said dumbly, tapping a finger against his chin. 

“Why you—” Technus lifted a hand and a clump of electronics flew at Danny. He dodged with a laugh. 

“Everyone knows, it’s okay,” Danny called. He forced energy into his hand, flinging a few blasts at Technus. 

The other ghost ducked under one, blocking the other with a wall of technology. He glared at Danny and pulled the machines towards himself. Like pieces to a puzzle, the tech slotted onto his skin, creating a makeshift canon. 

“You know, Child, the capabilities of modern technology grow faster and more powerful by the year.” The cannon whirred, the inside going from black to a glowing green. “Can you guess who that benefits most?” Technus said over the wind. It fired and Danny scrambled to bring up a shield in time. 

 “You’re fast as ever, child, but we’ll see how well you can stand up to a few more!” He fired, this time the ecto-blast hit harder. Hairline cracks appeared in Danny’s shield. 

Uh-oh. 

With a whine the cannon shot again. Danny dove straight for the ground just as it shattered his shield. Technus laughed. 

Okay, so he needed to avoid getting hit by that, holy shit. Danny glared up at Technus. His mind churred, trying to come up with a way to get an opening to use the thermos. If he could just—

A flash of pink streaked through the sky. It struck Technus in the center of his back and he dropped with a scream onto the roof of the mall. The technology, no longer being controlled, started to rain down. 

A red flash and the sound of a jet sled drew Danny’s attention. 

Valerie.

She twisted mid-air, the nose of her board pivoting as she drifted to a stop. 

“Hey, Red!” he called out to her. She turned her head towards him, the eye panel of her mask reflecting his cold glow. 

“Phantom,” she said. It didn’t hold as much of its usual contempt. She must be in a good mood. She also wasn’t shooting at him. He smiled and decided he’d try his luck. 

“How about a truce?” He flew towards her. 

“Why would I do that when you haven’t told me anything about that new ghost?” 

Danny’s shoulders sagged. “I told you already that I don’t know anythinnnnnggg.”

“And I already said I don’t believe you.” 

Danny let his legs fade into his tail and he flew an anxious figure-eight. 

“Come on, Red! It’s Technus!” He stuck his arms out to gesture down to the ghost. “We hate Technus!”

“Hey! I resent that, Ghost Child!” Technus yelled from where he was picking himself up and dusting himself off. 

Danny gestured more insistently. 

Valerie crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot on her sled. “Oh yeah, he brings back such great memories.” 

Oh. Wait. He shouldn’t have— 

“Like that time you almost killed me!” She snapped. 

“Red, I’ve told you before that I knew—”

“‘—knew it wasn’t me’ blah blah blah.” She opened and closed her hand in a talking motion. “So you say, Ghost.” 

“We can hash it out again later! But can we take care of Technus now please? Because he’s sort of escaping.” 

Valerie looked down to see that Technus was, in fact, fleeing, electronics clumping into a massive platform beneath him as he flew away. She sighed. 

“Fine, Ghost Boy. Truce.” 

“Yes!” Danny peeled off in a blur, Valerie right behind him. Val was a great ally when he could convince her to team up. He hoped she secretly thought the same of him. 

Valerie was stubborn and could clearly hold a grudge like no other. But over the years, it felt more like she chased him out of obligation. Like she couldn’t admit she might be wrong about him. So she just did what they’d always done. 

Danny didn’t blame her. There was real anger and frustration behind her words when she talked to him, but he’d be stupid not to notice she missed her shots on purpose these days. 

Technus turned and fired his arm cannon at them as they caught up. Danny skirted to the left, rolling into a loose corkscrew, flying underneath Technus’s floating pile of technology and popping up on the ghost’s right. He unleashed a ghost-ray at Technus with so much force it carried him off the makeshift platform. 

The ghost caught himself in flight with a triumphant cackle. It died in his throat as he looked up.

Valerie was right on top of him. A pink blast of ecto-energy hissed through the raging air and into Technus’ arm cannon. The tech burst into pieces, falling in a black heap to the ground. 

“You think that would slow me down, you stupid girl?!” Technus sneered, flying backwards. He sent a ghostly clump of appliances careening into her path. She pulled up at the last second. 

“You children just don’t know when to stop meddling in other people's business, do you?” 

“Nope,” Danny called as he flew by, firing a barrage of ecto-blasts. Technus brought up a shield that deflected them. “Maybe don’t steal shit and trash the mall every two months and I’ll think about it.” 

Valerie came in from the other side, rapid firing with her hand held blaster. Danny flanked him, an ice-ray at the ready. A few shots found their target before Technus moved his shield. He screeched over the wind. 

Technus held out a hand and a crackling ball of electricity built up. It snapped and flickered yellowish green. The sky above them heaved.

Technus held out his hand towards Danny and they locked eyes. 

Danny came to a dead stop in the air. His core stuttered in his chest. Fear, raw and paralyzing, crashed through him like a freight train. For a second he thought he might black out, fall like a stone from the air. They stared at each other. 

He wouldn’t.

Technus knew better. 

He couldn’t.  

With a stunned blink, Technus moved his hand and released the electrical charge far from Danny. It went wide and collided with the mall sign. The sign exploded like it’d been struck by lightning. Plastic and glass flew through the air, and with a terrible creak the pole swayed before falling into the parking lot like a felled tree. It narrowly missed a car.

Danny let out a shaky breath, trying to still the tremble in his hands. It was raining harder now, pinpricks of cold slicking down his hair.

“Phantom, what’re you doing just floating there? Move!” Valerie said, slowing down just enough to talk before speeding off again. 

Right. He needed to snap out of it.

He shook his head and started flying. Technus was still trying to get away with all his stolen tech. 

Danny let out a slow breath, trying to hold it steady. He reached for the cold and tried to get a lead on Technus. His hand glowed blue as he shot an ice-ray into the clump of electronics. He let out a yelp and wobbled in the air. 

Danny tilted and flew closer to Val.

“Red, keep him distracted, I’ll try and get him in the thermos,” he said, unhooking it from his belt. 

“Don’t tell me what to do, ghost,” she growled. “...but fine. You better get him though. I have my own shit to do.” 

“Would it kill you to use my name once in a while?”

She pointed her blaster at him. 

“Okay! Okay! I get it, sheesh.” He held up a hand and dropped back, letting Valerie move ahead. She went after Technus with no mercy, throwing ghost grenades and raining ecto-blasts down on him. 

 Technus reassembled his cannon, trying to hold his own. He fired at Valerie but she was nimble, avoiding each one. 

“Would you hold still!” Technus snapped, bracing himself against the kick of his ecto-gun. 

Danny grinned and went invisible. Having someone to draw the fire was always useful. He circled Technus, sneaking up behind him, uncapping the thermos as he got close. 

“Hey, tell Skulker I said hi.” Technus whirled around just in time to see the barrel of the thermos illuminate. His eyes stretched wide and an angry noise was all that escaped him as the thermos pulled him in. 

All the technology that Technus had been controlling broke apart and pelted towards the ground. 

Shit. 

He reached out with his powers, catching as much as he could. He winced at the mental strain. He didn’t use his telekinesis for this magnitude of stuff very often. He needed to practice it more, it was still relatively new after all.

 Most, if not all of the technology, was busted, but that didn’t mean he wanted to let it destroy more stuff. He guessed that a refrigerator landing on a car wouldn’t buff out easily. 

He maneuvered the electronics towards the curb in front of the Best Buy, setting it all down as gently as he could. He breathed a sigh of relief and wiped rain from his face with a sleeve. 

“Nice, thanks for the help, Red.” He shot her a smile. 

She holstered her weapon. “You better put that ghost back where it belongs.” 

“I always do,” Danny said. “See ya next time?”

Valerie hummed. “We’ll see.” Danny expected her to jet off, but she lingered. “You mean what you said about that new ghost?” 

Danny folded his legs underneath him and sat in mid-air. 

“Cross my heart hope to die,” he said with a grin.

She groaned. 

“But, yeah. I don’t know what her deal is. She didn’t seem very interested in throwing hands with me, that’s for sure.” 

Valerie held her chin. “Weird... The last few new ghosts have destroyed half the town trying to get to you.” The last bit of her sentence took on a suspicious tone. 

He held up his hands. “Hey, I don’t know either. It’s not like I like getting pounded flat every few months, Red.” 

“Why do they want to fight you specifically?” 

“I don’t know,” he lied with a shrug. He looked up at the clouds, blinking through the rain. “Could be the whole ‘Protector of Amity Park Thing’.”

Val scoffed. “Oh, please.” Danny could imagine that she was rolling her eyes. “So... what? They want to get you out of here to claim Amity for themselves?” 

“Who knows. Probably.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to say how glad I am that we have you instead of one of them?” Her voice was testy, a tone Danny knew well. 

“Your words not mine.” He gave her a lopsided smile, forcing down the discomfort worming through his gut. He should leave before she got too worked up. He had one too many scars from when she’d decided a truce was over.  

“Well, it’s been nice. But we should get out of this rain. We’ll catch our death out here. Hah!” He pointed finger guns at Valerie. 

“Phantom… I’m gonna give you a ten second head start—” 

Danny turned tail and flew, a genuine laugh working it’s way up from his chest.

[gossip-girl-of-middleearth]

Please tell us about the cinema, I beg you

Oh boy...that accursed night. If you think fanfic plots are chaotic, just wait for this story.

Story under the cut:

So, I just got this job at my small town’s local theatre. I genuinely enjoyed it, and was quite content with the way things were going—fun shifts, cool coworkers, and a nice boss. So I thought.

I was only two weeks in when the “incident” occurred.

At the theatre, we had to collect a walkie talkie radio at the start of every shift, and sign it in and out with a piece of paper in the office.

It was a little clunky and annoying when cleaning cinemas with vacuums, but nothing to cry over.

One night, I’m put to work with a new supervisor I hadn’t met before and some new coworkers (they’d all been there a while, but this was my first shift with them).

For a little context, I’m 19, and most of the other employees were like 15-17. So, I was basically being bossed around by pretentious, power-tripping kids. Fun.

King Kong vs Godzilla had just been released, so of course, the theatre was packed that night — 130 people per room.

Now, we usually have 20-30 minute intervals between sessions to clean the cinemas, but with the release of a new movie, it was cut down in half, sometimes less.

I was cleaning the most popular cinema that night, and was first told to take my time, as it needed to be spotless. Also, side note, can people please not throw popcorn everywhere? It’s a pain to clean. Then again, I don’t work there anymore nor ever will, so do what you want, I suppose.

My little coworker told me to take my radio off my belt and put it aside to get a good vacuum going through each aisle, as it apparently made it easier, as the cord would sometimes get wrapped around the radio stem.

Fair enough.

I did so, and left it on the wooden platform of the rows to begin vacuuming. He leaves and I get to work.

However, he comes rushing back a few minutes later and says, “what the hell are you still cleaning for?? We’ve got a hundred people waiting outside???”

I’m over it™️ at this point because I only took this job to see the behind the scenes of how a cinema works. I shrug and go, “okay”

I pack the vacuum up and try to leave hastily, as he’s being very antsy and pushy.

He gets frustrated and grabs the rest of my cleaning crap to leave, and tells me to hurry up behind him.

My hands are full and I can’t grab the radio, so I say, “what about the walkie talkie?”

I swear I hear him say, “leave it, there’s no time!”

I shrug and think it’s weird, but trust him to know better.

However, once I dump my crap and prepare to leave, as a hundred people are pushing in behind me, my intuition tells me to grab the walkie talkie.

I rush back in to where I left it, and find it missing

I have a brief moment of “oh shit”

However, I think to myself, “it’s okay, you only took this job for shits and giggles. If they fire you, you have your other job anyways. What’s the worst that can happen?”

If only I knew.

An hour goes by into my shift, and I’m cleaning another cinema with the same coworker. I’ve kind of shoved the walkie talkie thing to the back of my mind, because I was doing a closing shift that night and could probably get away with not facing my manager about the sign out sheet.

However, at one point the boy goes, “where’s your radio??”

Sheepishly, I say, “uh...I left it in cinema 3, like you told me to?”

He sort of pales and I think this little skinny high schooler is about to pass out.

He starts yelling at me and tells me that I need to get my flashlight and start checking every single row in there.

I go, “fuck no, the movie is still going? You want me to flash a torch in the peoples’ faces during King Kong?? The one cinema hosting the entirety of the sweaty balls side of reddit right now???”

He gets very shitty and says, “I’ll do it myself, wait here.”

By now I know I’m in the shit, but shrug and remember I can always escape through the vents if need be.

Now, there was this really fucking annoying 15 year old boy I was working with that night, who’s the definition of the “well aCtUaLlY” guy irl

He comes sprinting into the theatre I was cleaning, and starts literally interrogating me over this walkie talkie. Like, he thinks he’s the “bad cop” or some shit. Other coworkers closer to my age had already warned me about him before I even met him.

The other boy I was working with apparently couldn’t find it, and just didn’t want to deal with the consequences that night so much, that he called his mum to come pick him up early.

Weakling child.

It was at this point that I quietly arrived at the conclusion of “they think I stole it”

I didn’t understand why, it’s a fucking walkie talkie? What’s the big deal? Go get a Dora the Explorer one to replace it from Target??

I let my inner Mickey Milkovich come out, and play cool.

Him: you fucking stole it

Me:

This 15 year old Ben Shapiro-looking fucker starts grilling me, and literally places me under theatre arrest. I wasn’t allowed to leave the room I was cleaning, in other words.

He gets uncomfortably close—just me and this weird boy in this dark theatre—and goes, “I want you to be brutally honest with me...did you take the walkie talkie? I won’t tell the manager that you did.”

If you guys know me well enough from my blog, then you know this boy suffered a great deal of aggressive sarcasm in response.

He gets pissed (brown-noser), and tells me to continue cleaning, as he leaves the theatre.

Only ten minutes go by until he comes back, but this time with “good cop”.

I roll my eyes, and turn the vacuum off.

They stand at the bottom of the cinema blocking my entrance with their arms folded, and start interrogating me about stealing it.

I give them some more Mickey Milkovich sarcasm, as I had already explained to them a hundred times what happened.

They involve the manager (snitches) and now I’m really in trouble.

They force me to go into the cinema whilst the movie is still playing to look for it. Begrudgingly grabbing my flashlight, and preparing for rightfully angry people as I search their crotches in the middle of a highly anticipated movie, I head inside theatre 3.

Fuck doing that though, I watch the movie instead with the people and eat some popcorn.

Figuring a reasonable amount of time to search had gone by, I sadly leave the cool laser battle scene, and head back out.

Me: “I searched and couldn’t find it.”

Power-complex 15 year old with a punchable Ben Shapiro face: “Did you look everywhere in the cinema??”

Me: “Yeah, I shoved a flashlight up seat 33’s asshole and checked it myself.”

Some more pissy exchanges take place, and I’m told to go clean another cinema.

I’m having fun at this point, because I’ve worked enough jobs to know this situation was being dealt with incredibly immaturely by the other staff.

Regarding accidents like these in the workplace, and given how big the cinema chain is, they should know insurance covers a simple walkie talkie, and that assuming the new employee stole something which is misplaced is a bad way to integrate them into your company. It’s simply a bad look for your business.

I’m cleaning another cinema when all three come in, and tell me they’re going to put cinema 3 on lockdown when the movie ends, and check everyone’s bags.

I’m amused at this point, so I really just go “damn bro that’s wild”

They do exactly that, and it’s as awkward as you can imagine.

People are angry and annoyed—all 130 of them at 9:30pm huddled in a group, having their bags searched for a damn walkie talkie.

After discovering no one had actually stolen it, like I said, they start interrogating me again.

“Are you sure it was cinema 3??? Is your memory perhaps failing you???”

“If I say yes, will I go home sooner?” (my shift ended 15 minutes ago, and I wasn’t allowed to leave)

Naturally, I stayed another 40 minutes, and had to search the entire building. I’m talking arcade, toilets, offices—everywhere.

It is eventually deemed completely lost, and I basically end the night saying, “well, I ain’t about to strip nude for you all for a full body search, and although I’ve never had such a fun shift anywhere else, I’m not a fan of work environments that promote skepticism and cohort-wide distrust. I ain’t coming in next week, or the week after that, or the...well, I think you get the point.”

I leave my badge behind, and basically book it out of the cinema an hour after my shift was supposed to end. I worked illegally longer than I was supposed to, and wasn’t given the legal shift break.

I received text messages and emails from the head office shortly after, asking if I was coming back, and ignored them for a little while, as although I can handle irl confrontation, virtual ones spook me?

Anywho, the walkie talkie actually costs $1000, but as mentioned before, I, an adult, recognise insurance covers these sorts of things, especially in companies as big as these.

So, moral of the story, don’t leave 15 year olds in charge of adults, because most of the time, they’re too young to realise what insurance policies are :)

[hermits-that-craft]

Stuck Au - Forgetting and Leaving

Once again I am writing for the amazing @target-block and his amazing au

TW - Fighting, death, watchers, forgetfulness, magic, curses, Look The End is definitely not cannon to the au

It started small. The three men didn't realise what was happening at the time. Eye colour, the sound of laughter, the way their friends spoke. Impulse sat awake, struggling to remember the way that Zedaph's face would change when he's laughing, or the face Tango would pull when he's concentrating on a prank. Grian would stare into the distance, trying to remember how Mumbo and Iskall's laughter sounded. It's worse for Ren, who Grian and Impulse have both found stood staring into the distance, struggling to picture Doc's eyes and smile.

They talk about it, they do tell the others about how they struggle to remember, but the others can't help. Sometimes it's because they've never seen it, sometimes its because they can't remember. It hurts. It's painful, forgetting.

It's worse for Impulse, who fiddles with the flowers around his wrists wordlessly. It hurts, the one thing, the one constant reminder of his friends, his family is lost, gone forever.

If they ever make it back to the server, he can't imagine that they'd forgive him.

---

"Uh, shishwammy?" Keralis' voice is quiet, and the wide eyed man nervously turns something gold over in his hands. "I found something, and I'm not sure who it belongs too."

There had been a lot of that, over the past few weeks. Best case scenario, it was something someone had dropped. Doc and Scar had been doing that often. Worst case scenario had appeared a few times. A shulker box of Grians, a trinket of Ren's, Redstone supplies that Impulse had left lying around. Xisuma sighs, hoping to see something that he recognises as someone elses.

"What is it?"

"A bracelet. It's pretty, I found it before I-" Keralis' voice cut off, as though he was carefully rethinking his words. "Before I came back here. The season 3 hermits could have lost it."

Xisuma looks over the bracelet carefully. He has to admit, it is familiar, but he can't picture why. It's like he's forgetting more and more things, not just about the past season but about the missing hippies. It does look familiar, and Xisuma believes that it looks similar to the hairclip that Tango wears.

"We'll bring it up in the meeting."

"Spank you Shishwammyvoid!" Keralis says, walking off towards the seats Xisuma put down. Xisuma smiles, hoping that he's right about the braclet being one of a set.

---

"Hey, Orchid, Rose?" Ren calls out. "A persons here."

"What?" Grian yells from inside the house. Impulse picks up his sword, holding it tightly.

"A person. Has appeared. On my crops." Ren sounds upset, and Impulse walks over to the window. 

"What the-"

"What do they look like?" Grian asks, walking over to the window. His eyes widen as he looks at the cloaked figure, a mask over their eyes and a smile adorning their face. Grian falls to the floor, trying desperately to forget what he saw, what they mean. Impulse looks surprised at Grian, who can't be bothered to mask his fear anymore. Impulse looks out of the window again before he slowly creeps around Grian, who's thoughts swirl around his head. He barely hears the door open through his panic, though he does hear Ren yelp, snapping him out of the panic enough for him to look up as Impulse drags Ren into the house they had made.

"Grian, do you know who they are?" Impulse asks quietly. Grian nods, then he stops, shaking his head before nodding again. "What they are, then?"

Grian nods without hesitation. He takes a deep breath in, trying to avoid the expectant look on Ren and Impulse's faces.

"A watcher."

---

Tango and Zedaph walk through the portal, or more so Tango rows them through the portal. It would be a funny sight, the final two members of team ZIT rowing through a nether portal on their way to the meeting, until the hermits see Zedaph. Zedaph is wrapped in blankets, his hair messy and eyes tired. He looks terrible, and though it's a clear improvement from when he wasn't fully with the hermits and could only see out of empty eyes, but its still upsetting. Mumbo and Doc both appear similar to Zedaph, though Iskall is doing slightly better, Stress having allowed him to work on his base. Scar looks over to Doc, and the two men try to make their way to each other before Cub and False seperate them, apologies falling from the pairs lips.

"It's good to see everyone back here." Xisuma says, and it's obvious that he means it. If anyone hadn't appeared at the meeting none of the hermits would have been calm. Not even if they appeared five minutes late. "I think that we need to prepare to leave this world. We can't stay here, it's hurting us too bad."

"We can't just give up on them." Iskall says. "We can't leave them!"

"We wouldn't be leaving them." Wels says, stepping forward. "Because I'l staying behind to wait for them."

"No." Doc says, tears in his eyes. "We can't lose more people. Wels, we can't."

"You wouldn't be losing me. I'll be going to sleep until they arrive. I'll be fine."

"You still need to eat."

"Which is where I come in." Cub says. "I'll bring him food once a month."

"We can't abandon-"

"Do, we can't let you have a break down every time you see a line of the HRN." Cub snaps, and the hermits go silent. "You're destroying yourself, and you're only going to get worse the longer we stay here."

"Why you-"

"Please don't fight." Scar puts himself between the two men, his hands on both of their chests. He's the only hermit brave - or stupid - enough to get between the two men, but it calms both of them down enough. "Did you have more to say, Xisuma?"

It's clear that Scar wants to stay with Doc, but Cub pulls him away from Doc once more. Xisuma looks between the two men, and TFC pats Doc's back sympathetically. Cleo winces at the sad look that Scar sends Doc, clearly longing to talk to the man.

"No, the floor is open for anyone to bring anything up." He says, sending a look to Keralis.

Everyone looks between each other before Keralis stands up. He's just got back from visiting the season three world after he remembered that he left some things there, and its clear to everyone that he is glad to be back.

"This is only really for anyone who was on the season three server, but I found something that someone left. A gold bracelet."

Zedaph looks up from his blanket fort standing up with a purple blanket wrapped around his head and shoulders. His eyes are wide, staring at Keralis with tears in his eyes. He stands up, his hands holding the blanket around him. Tango notices, his heart in his throat, as the ring around Zedaph's finger glows, and he takes his hair clip off, choking out a sob.

The bracelet in Keralis' hands glows bright, the man staring at it with an astonished look. 

"Where did you find this?" Tango's voice is full of sorrow, sadness and guilt. Keralis blinks a few times, surprise written over his face.

"In season 3." He says. "I went back a week ago, I had left some clothes there and I wanted them back. I found it on the ground."

"He's dead." Zedaph mumbles. "He wouldn't have taken it off he-"

A tear slips down Tango's face as Keralis gives him the bracelet. The red eyed man turns it over in his hands, rubbing off some of the lose dirt. The glow dims slightly as the engraved words reappear on the bracelet.

Team ZIT

---

Impulse grips his sword tighter, Grian having fully calmed down from his panic attack. Ren leans against Grian as Impulse checks the window. The person, the watcher, hasn't moved, though they stare at him through the window. It must be time to leave season 4, though it feels like they haven't been there for more than a week. It's strange, they haven't seen a watcher before now, and Impulse doesn't want to see one again. He walks to the door, turning to the two men.

"I'm going to ask them to leave." He says, walking out before he can hear Grian tell him not to. The watcher smiles at him, their face a picture perfect example of nothingness, a blank slate with a smile.

"Hello, player." They say, their cloak flowing under them. "If you would kindly hand over the blo-"

"Leave." Impulse glares at them. "Get lost, we're not hand shit over to you. You can go and take your holier-than-thou attitude and get off Ren's crops." The watcher laughs wickedly before smiling at him. They take a step towards Impulse and all of the cells in his body scream to run, but he stands stock still, holding his sword tighter. He can see, out of the corner of his eyes, Ren and Grian watching them through the window, and Impulse refuses to let the watcher closer to his friends.

"Fine then." They say. "I will leave, you will be forced to go through the updates without our help."

"That's fine by me. Get lost." Impulse growls.

"Don't be rude."

"Don't be a bastard then." 

The unsettling smile turns into an unsettling frown and the watcher runs at him. Impulse dives out of the way, rolling into a kneel before throwing himself at the watcher, his sword slashing across their back. They scream, their wings throwing Impulse away from them. Impulse rolls again, kicking their feet out from under them. The watcher kicks him in the chest. Impulse hits the side of the house, the wind thrown from his chest. He ducks under their sword, stabbing at their chest. They block his attack. Duck. Slash. Block. Stab. Kick. It goes on and on before Impulse delivers the final blow to the watcher, his sword entering through their chest and exiting from their back.

"You will never remember what you need to." The watcher curses him, and Impulse can't dodge the magic they send his way. He frowns as the magic doesn't just hit him, but goes through the house and hits Grian and Ren.

"Rose, Daisy, come have a look at what I just did." Orchid calls, trying to remember his friends real names. Rose comes out, his red sweater in taters, he'll need a new one soon. Daisy follows him, pulling the hairband out of his long hair.

"Great job Orchid." Daisy sends him a thumbs up, though he frowns.

"Why does it feel like we're forgetting something?" Rose asks.

[adultswim2021]

Ephemera Week (2002)

It’s still ephemera week, and we’re still talking about John K. I said most of my piece on him in the last post, so don’t expect there to go full bore on this one, except I forgot to say he’s animation’s Jerry Lewis. His current stuff is basically Hardly Working. I will not elaborate, because I’m being mean to you0.

MARCH SPECIALS!

In March, Adult Swim advertised a run of one-off specials. A couple of them were already covered because they fell under the parameters of “Adult Swim original production”. They were Welcome to Eltingville (March 3rd) and Saddle Rash (March 24th).

Day in the Life of Ranger Smith | March 10th 2002 - 11:00 PM (Originally aired on Cartoon Network in 1999)

This was one of two specials commissioned by Cartoon Network re-imagining Yogi Bear. The artist what took this assignment was John K, who I REEEAALLY skewered in last night’s post, didn’t I?

This is about Ranger Smith harassing animals and writing them up for violating park rules, basically. It’s short! I remember liking it at the time! Okay, maybe I’m going crazy here, but I distinctly remembered a part at the end where Ranger Smith is in bed and he solemnly confides in the viewer that the noises of wilderness give him nightmares and then it just ends. Did I imagine this? It does end with him in bed, but this doesn’t happen in the version on YouTube (which is from the Adult Swim airing). Huh.

Boo Boo Runs Wild | March 10th 2002 - 11:15PM (Originally aired on Cartoon Network in 1999)

Boo Boo Runs Wild was another one of these stand-alone Yogi Bear John K specials. This one was 30 minutes long. The Ranger Smith short was a brief 7 minutes; I’m guessing they aired a couple Capt. Lingers or something to fill time.

This one is about Boo Boo reverting to his feral nature and causing BIIIIG problems! This special would later go on to be kind of a weird trolling thing Adult Swim would do where they aired it every Sunday for a few months, even promoting regularly. This was like 2006, I think? They’d also air it as part of April Fools. Is that Adult Swim admitting this special sorta sucks? Does it sorta suck? Again, I liked these at the time and REFUSED to actively rewatch these for this write-up. Sorry.

The Jetsons: Father and Son Day/The Best Son | March 10th, 2002 11:45PM (Originally aired on CartoonNetwork.com in 2001) Our John K rock block ends with a pair of Jetsons shorts, Father and Son Day and The Best Son respectively. This is kinda the same deal as his Yogi Bear shorts, but these were exclusive for Cartoon Network’s website. I remember watching them on there. They are as bad as you’d expect late-period John K internet shorts to be, though the second short is a superior version of Spielberg’s A.I. (in that it’s shorter).

Night of the Living Doo | March 17th, 2002 - 11:00PM (originally aired on Cartoon Network, 2001)

Night of the Living Doo originally aired as wraparound segments during a Halloween Scooby Doo marathon on Cartoon Network. It’s kinda like an episode of the Scooby Doo Movies, which shoehorned in a guest star each episode. Suddenly my man Dick Van Dyke be running a carnival and shit. That’s the Scooby Doo Movies. At the end of the night they played all the wraparound segments in one uninterrupted sitting, so the viewer could appreciate it as an actual full-on Scooby Doo episode. Night of the Living Doo functioned both as an extension of that series as well as a parody. The guests were Gary Coleman, David Cross, and the very cool band Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. It was all very self-deprecating and had jokes about the absurdity of Scooby Doo tropes. Well trod territory by this point, sure. But this is better than most irreverent Scooby Doo things. It didn’t hurt that I was a HUGE David Cross fan when this aired. Is this where I tell the stupid-ass story about getting mad at a message board guy for not liking David Cross? Sure. Okay, yeah. When this aired on Adult Swim a guy on Kon’s (hi Kon) message board posted something about not finding David Cross funny, shrugging that he didn’t get the hype. He cited this and his appearances in the Men in Black movies, and nothing else as proof for his lackluster comedy skills. It’s kinda like deeming Eddie Murphy as a bad comedian after watching Dr. Doolittle.

The point of this special is that David Cross is a little wooden and stilted, like in the old Scooby Doo Movies episodes. This poster revealed that he never heard David Cross’s stand-up or seen Mr. Show, explaining “I don’t watch puppet shows” A response that still baffles me to this day. Why Mr. Show isn’t a-- WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT? I’m not even sure if there was EVER a puppet on Mr. Show*. David wasn’t even a guest on Crank Yankers at this point! SO WHAT THE FUCK? To this day whenever mutual pals from that board get together and watch a movie or show and a puppet appears we make a joke about this guy. Good story? No? Fuck you.

Other stuff about this show: When it originally aired on Cartoon Network it was a little bit longer than the Adult Swim version. There’s a missing scene. I think it’s David trying to play an improv game with a mummy or something. At one point I had it on tape, but I’m not sure I kept it. Sorry.

*sorry to be coy here, but I do know of at least one puppet on Mr. Show, episode 204 there is brief footage of Grass Valley Greg putting on a puppet show for his staff. This CAN’T be the source of the confusion, can it? It’s literally like, 5 seconds.

MAIL BAG

This’ll teach me to skip a day cuz this really piled up. Thanks, guys. I love all the attention. It is my favorite thing.

I never really saw oblongs as something for the hot topic set. They had Invader Zim and Squee for that kind of shit. Oblongs feel like it was always directly targeting me: the shut-in comedy nerd who would appreciate will ferrell and the sklars being in a thing. Since they ended up doing the exact same show with Janeane Garofalo and David Cross a few years later it seems like that was the goal.

Yeah, I guess that also makes sense. There were a few elements that were kinda gothy but this show was mostly just Angus Oblong ahem, clowning around (puckering mouth to stifle laughter like Chris Elliott in Cabin Boy)

What are your thoughts on the other adult animation blocks of the past couple decades? Spike's notriously failed attempt. Animation Domination. Apparently Syfy has had their own going?

Spike was irredeemably bad. People think this shit is easy. Animation Domination is sorta legit, but it’s anchored by mostly crap. That ADHD thing was kinda good and underrated. Is that still going on? I wish I were more diligent about watching/recording that. Some of them bumpers were good. Also, we mustn’t forget MTV’s oddities. They were kinda the first cable network to court Adult Animation as their thing. They deserve some kind of credit for that. I’m sure they’re doing fine.

I'm having a nice big thing of spaghetti for dinner with some chicken parm? Jealous?

I’ve never had those are they good

What does Ephemera mean? Why is this happenening? Why aren't you talking about 10 Home Movies episodes in a row like a good boy.

In dude time, my friend. In dude time

What would be your Adult Swim dream come true?

Having a complete archive of Adult Swim blocks on a harddrive like Don Giller has with his Letterman archive. Even the commercials and shit. I know of a guy who was a regular taper of the entire block from night 1 but I’m not sure he kept up with it when they went nightly. I should ask him if he still has his tapes, huh?

That or they bring back the BUILD YOUR OWN DVD thing but with blu-rays and you can make your own bumps, which was a different thing they had. THEY SHOULD COMBINE THEM. And you can master it in SD if you wanna put 10 hours of stuff on a disk.

All this is archival bullshit dork shit. Real answer: Clay Croker comes back from the dead and every block is hosted by Space Ghost. That’d be it, right?

If anyone has genuine/better answers please write in with them I wanna keep this conversation going. ‘kay?

McDonalds reintroduces limited edition Adult Swim Toys. You can get them all (plus an extra to keep wrapped for collectors purposes) but you have to spend 20 dollars at McDonalds to grab them all. This is the last day of the promotion. You have to personally eat everything you buy but you can take it home. You can only buy one of each food item. What are you getting? I know the longer the mailbag message is the quicker you are inclined to give some glib remark but indulge this one for once.

Oh wow. I’m literally going to take this seriously. I’d roll in as breakfast was ending. Get myself a McChicken Biscuit and a Bacon Egg & Cheese McGriddle, hashbrowns and a Coffee. Gobble that knob on down. Wipe my mouth with a napkin. It’s lunchtime, bitch. Big Mac, Large Fries, BIG ass soda. You feel me, dude? Lemme tally up. Okay, probably need more. 20 piece nugget. Take that home cuz I’m probably gonna have to save some for dinner. That’s probably 20 bucks right there, especially if you go to the McDonalds on Burnside where all the menu items are more expensive because of the amount of security they have to hire (did you know that different McDonalds have different prices even in the same city? I didn’t until very recently). If this somehow doesn’t satisfy my price point I get a Vanilla shake and eat it anally DURING my BIG D squirt sesh, so it’ll spend as little time in my body as possible. Wait, do I get something for this? I might do this tomorrow just cuz. It sounds like a funky thing to do

Do you think you'll open an Adult Swim mueseum at some point? You seem to be the only steward of its history.

Unless I’m hired to by a large corporation, probably not. Also I don’t think I actually have much in the way of merch other than DVDs. I stopped being a DVD completist at some point around Freaknick The Musical. Oh, I never EVER bought a Robot Chicken DVD, EVER. I literally had a nightmare once that one appeared in my collection.

Hey! Please keep us abreast any time you put more of your garbage on eBay. Maybe you can put your wedding dress on there, you big girl.

Fucking sexist/trasphobic behavior.

Check out my eBay auctions I got season 18 of NCIS up there and some other things :)

The Ripping Friends blow chunks. I don't care if a rapist or the opposite of a rapist (a virgin who volunteers, lol) made it. It sucks a high hard one like when Ozzy banged the Cheiftan's Wife in that Black Sabbath TV Funhouse cartoon. Tell me more.

Tell you more?

Name one rap song you tolerate lol. You can't say anything by weird al or marky mark.

I guess I like the song the pest sings from the motion picture The Pest

Are there any good podcasts on adult swim?

The official one hosted by Matt Harrigan is good, but I’ve only bounced around on it. I don’t know if there’s any formal recap ones. I simply don’t know!

HE'S GIVING HIGH HARD ONE TO CHEIFTAN'S WIFE? UH OH!

Buddy, you are BANNED for LIFE from my MAIL BAG! You drive me CRAZY!

[sevfanfic]

A Touch in the Dark - Chapter 5: Jar of Stars

Word count: 1,545 

Classes began and the castle was filled with the constant buzz of life. The first few days were very hectic as students got settled but you were able to manage everything on your plate. You found yourself searching for Severus among the crowds often and when you exchanged glances you smiled at him and he would grin softly for a moment then return his face to it’s usual look. One morning you decided to sit next to him at breakfast.

“Good morning, professor.” 

“Good morning, Miss Y/L/N.” 

You watched as students filled the large dining hall. A frown fell over Severus’ face as he watched the children, he couldn’t help but show his dislike of the dunderheads.

“You don’t like children very much, do you?” You laughed. 

“I tolerate them.” He chose his words carefully. 

“What are you going to do if you ever have your own?” The question slipped before you could think about what you were asking. He looked at you with a furrowed brow.

“The thought never crossed my mind.” He spoke quietly. Maybe having a family was possible for him but the idea of it seemed very distant. 

You looked away feeling embarrassed about asking such a personal question. The two of you remained silent for the remainder of breakfast, you smiled and gave him a friendly nod goodbye when it was time for classes to begin. Your students had already been sitting in your classroom when you arrived. Classes went by quickly but during one of the last classes of the day, a 5th year slytherin student was being difficult. 

“Please keep the chatter down.” You raised your voice, targeting the students in the back row. The boy who had been talking during your class looked at you and rolled his eyes, he continued to talk with his friend. You made your way down the middle aisle and placed both hands on the edge of his desk.

“I know you don’t care about listening but others do. So either stop talking or you can leave.” 

“Why would I care about what you have to say?” He spoke with a spiteful tone.

“Because I can make things very difficult for you,” you smiled at him, hoping that he’d back down, “so make your choice.” 

“I’ll leave,” The boy began gathering his things and mumbled to himself “bloody creature of dirt.”

“Alright, please report to your head of house for detention tomorrow.” You walked back to the front of the class not letting the insults bother you, “Now where were we.” 

After finishing the lecture you walked to Severus’ office hoping to find him available to talk to. You knocked lightly on the door and heard him speak to enter. 

“Miss Y/L/N,” he looked up from his papers for a moment and then quickly returned to what he was doing, “what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if I could ask for advice?” You walked hesitantly toward the large desk. Severus didn’t look up.

“Yes?”

“Is it… Petty of me to give a student detention in the first week of school?” 

“No, presumably they deserve it?” He looked up with a raised brow.

“Yes, well I believe so. He called me a ‘creature of dirt’ but-”

“He deserves far worse than detention,” he looked furious, “who was the mongrel that called you that?” 

“Vincent Blythe.” 

“If that dunderhead has any ounce of self preservation he’ll never use such terms again after I’m done with him.” Severus looked back down at his work. He knew that the boy was referring to you as a mudblood. He hated the word and felt that it had caused too much damage to this world because of those who stood by it’s flawed ideology. You were impressed by the amount of rage that emanated from the man that sat in front of you.

“I hope you understand that you are not-” he paused and waved his hand as if bating away his disgust, “-not a ‘creature of dirt’.” He spoke quietly, almost in a whisper.

“I know, it doesn’t bother me.” You paused. “One other thing,” you stepped closer to his desk, “I’ve been practicing some non-verbal spells and I’ve hit a road-block.” Severus looked at you with a curious glint in his eyes. “I spoke with Flitwick but I am more confused now than I was before.” 

“Non-verbal magic is an advanced form of magic, it takes years to master. It may be too advanced for you.” He spoke cautiously.

“I can do it,” you stood tall in defense, “I just need a little help, that’s all.” 

“Very well,” Severus smirked and stood from his desk, “show me what you can do so far.”

You spent most of the evening with Severus practicing new spells. He admired your eagerness to learn and how much you improved in that short period of time. Watching you warmed his heart and he was eager to have more moments like this. He noticed how you nibbled your bottom lip when you were trying to concentrate and how excited you got when you were successful.  Soon it was time for dinner, you thanked Severus for the small lesson and when you turned to leave he stopped you.

“Come back tomorrow after dinner, I’ll be able to help you more.” He gave you a small smile and you nodded with delight.

Your meetings with Severus in his office became a habit. The two of you usually sat in his office working silently on grading papers and quizzes for about an hour. After that he began his lessons on non-verbal magic. You listened intently to every word hoping to one day be as talented as he was. At times you’d go off on long rants about your students and random ideas. Severus always listened patiently. He didn’t mind that you got distracted easily, he enjoyed hearing your thoughts.

“Focus, you need to clear your mind and visualize the spell.” Severus spoke with a stern tone. You furrowed your brow trying to do as you were told. You struggled with clearing your mind completely but each time you attempted you did better. You visualized the spell and soon you could feel the magic tingling at your fingertips. The feather you had been staring at began to float. Then you tried a different spell and the edges of the feather began to burn and it disappeared in a poof of smoke. 

“I think I get it now.” You beamed at the tall man who looked amused. You had spent many evenings practicing and you felt confident in your new abilities. 

“Good,” he turned and went to the closet at the back of his room. He searched for a moment and then produced a small jar, “this is for you.” He spoke in a low voice, almost mumbling.  

Inside the glass jar was a dark liquid. He handed it to you and when you touched it small particles of light began to shimmer as they floated in a dance-like pattern. It resembled fireflies and stars. You smiled in amazement.

“It’s so beautiful, what is it?” You held the jar close to your face examining its contents.

“It’s a potion that is meant to resemble the night sky, if brewed correctly it will also display the current phase of the moon.” He waved his hand over the glass and you watched as a small moon appeared amidst the dark fluid. One lazy day he had been thinking about the night you stood with him in the tower and how peaceful you looked gazing at the night sky. During one of your side tracked conversations you mentioned how much you loved the stars and moon. You described how as a child you dreamed of becoming an astronaut and you thought Severus wasn’t listening but he was. He paid attention to every detail because he wanted to know you. 

“It’s amazing,” you looked at Severus, “thank you. This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever given me.” You wanted to hug the man in front of you but you weren’t sure if he’d appreciate it. So you held the jar against your chest, close to your heart. 

Watching you smile and hold his gift close made Severus melt, he felt his heart grow warm and he revealed a small smile. 

After realizing you had been standing there staring at each other for what seemed like hours, you awkwardly spoke, “It's getting late, I should go.” Severus watched as you gathered your stuff and fumbled with your books. Suddenly, words blurted from his mouth before he could even realize he was speaking. 

“Have dinner with me.” He watched you intently, hoping to glean an idea of what you were thinking.

“Like a date?” You spoke slowly.

“I suppose,” he muttered, “If that’s alright with you?” Severus was genuinely nervous about what you would say.

“Yes, that’s alright with me.” 

“Good,” he could see your cheeks brighten from across the room, “have a good night, Miss Y/L/N.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

When in the hall you brought a hand to your cheek hoping to cool the redness. He made you feel like there was fire under your skin and it fueled your ever growing attraction. 

[hitsuackerman]

Why Did It Have to be Him? pt. 4 (Aizawa x Reader)

a/n: sorry this got delayed :( this was supposed to be uploaded a lot earlier but then my laptop is basically dead at this point huhuhu legit waited for 30mins just for the chrome to stop lagging T.T welp... thank quirks for company laptops XD

that being said... here is part 4 for our Daddyzawa! <3

ps. i had to put an age for this fic :3 so you are 17 as the rest are 16 xD

Warnings: Student-Teacher relationship, Age-gap, Cursing, Not so subtle flirting

Link: Part 1, Part 2, part 3, part 5

Materlist for my other fics :) here

All aboard the Aizawa-train!: @yukiimanic​ @leeeah-loooser​

A few days have passed and you were now fully settled in your dorm. There wasn’t much to it but Aizawa managed to persuade you to buy new sheets and curtains to match. You weren’t exactly sure why but you complied nonetheless.

Monochromatic that’s how you liked things. Since he gave you full control as to what colors you could choose, you simply went for black.Of course, you made sure that a pop of color would add life to your room. A few trinkets here and there, your room looked good to go. Simplicity is key, that’s what you kept reminding yourself.

But it was rather ironic how your “love life” wasn’t as simple. It was much easier to see him back in your house. Now that you were living only a mere block away from the teacher’s dorm, it only made things much harder. Though, you understood, it was still frustrating not being able to see him as much as you wanted.

While doing your assignments, your phone rang. Not bothering to see who the caller was, you picked it up. Slowly, the corners of your mouth turned upwards. Right on schedule.

“Not disturbing anything, am I?” He asked. In the background, you could hear the keyboard’s soft tapping.

“Nope. I’m just about finished here.” Gathering your books and papers, you neatly stacked and put them away. Looking at the time, there was still 45 minutes before curfew starts. “I am hungry though, so I might have to run to the nearest convenient store~”

“Isn’t the fridge stacked with snacks, though?” The typing sounds had stopped and you heard a soft grunt.

“It is but they don’t have those juice packs I like.” There was some risk to this but you wanted to see him. It was hard enough that all you could do inside the classroom was to sit and stare at him. “Of course, I’m not implying anything. I do plan on leaving in about 5 minutes or so.”

“Do as you please, (Y/N).” He let out a soft chuckle before hanging up the call.

Grabbing your sweatshirt and wallet, you silently exited your room. Thankfully, the majority of rooms had their lights on. And, technically, it wasn’t curfew so you could still manage to buy a few snacks the dorm’s fridge had to offer. Shaking your head, you knew you couldn’t fool yourself.

Ever since the kiss, he became even more intoxicating. His musky scent and how you felt his arms wrapping around your small stature (compared to his at least) was addicting. It was a picture hard to forget, him straddling you in the comforts of your bed. The strands of his soft hair caging you from the outside world. Or maybe it was how his hot breath brushed your cheeks that made things even more irresistible? Closing the doors to the building, you were met with the row of streetlights. Each of them casting enough light to ensure safety to those who would walk the streets at this time of night. Of course, everyone knew this area was safe, afterall, only an idiot villain would dare attack near UA.

A little further and you could see the neon sign of the convenience store. Near the entrance, a man caught your eye. He was wearing an all black ensemble and his grayish pale skin made him look unreal. Yet, the all too familiar bun caused your heart to race.

Upon seeing your figure approaching his, he could feel the smirk forming on his mouth. It had only been a few hours since he last saw you but it was inside classroom settings. The secret glances you two would give each other was fun but he somehow wanted more. When you passed by him, he could make out the faint smell of your lingering body lotion. Very stimulating to the senses.

Trailing behind you, his eyes began to linger all over your back. Sure, you had a sweatshirt on but in his eyes you looked too good not to hug. When you turned towards the small aisle for chips, he glanced at the ceiling. The cameras were on the other side of the store. As you were choosing what junk to munch on, he leaned forward and rested his head on your shoulder.

Jumping at the sudden sensation of his warmth radiating on your cheek, all the heat travelled upwards as your eyes met his. The dullness to them now replaced with a hint of playfulness. His calloused hand began to brush yours. Slowly making their way up before he let go to grab a bag for himself.

Once again, your stomach felt all the butterflies going crazy with his touch. Chewing on your lower lip, you let out a shaky sigh as he lifted his head. Slowly walking away without looking back.

Such a tease.

Two can play that little game, you thought.

Aizawa made his way towards the refreshments. Searching for the perfect drink to pair with his chips, he settled for a can of beer. It wasn’t allowed but he could easily sneak it in knowing it was almost curfew. In his peripheral version, he could see you choosing as well. Following your hands, he saw how you had just chosen a can of soda.

“Got everything you need?” He asked.

“Not yet. I need some chocolate.” Pulling him towards the aisle with chocolates, you saw your target. The one you had been craving for a week now. Scanning the area, you saw how the coast was clear and it was your turn to make your move. “Hey, can you hold these for a sec?”

Handing him your stuff, you turned around and began to tug on the hems of your sweatshirt. His eyebrows jumped at your small actions. When you began to strip off your sweatshirt. The heavy material lifted your undershirt quite a bit. A bit of your skin got exposed to the coldness the store had to offer.

The coldness had no effect on Aizawa. Instead, he felt heat growing in his system. His mouth suddenly felt dry. His finger twitched and his jaw clenched. The hold he had on the goods tightened. Upon seeing you bend down to grab a bar of chocolate, the neckline of your shirt was big enough to expose the black strap of your bra.

‘Behave, Shota.’ His mind scolded him. ‘This is the only line you should NOT cross. At least not yet.’

Through your peripheral vision, you could see just how much your plan had worked. His squinted eyes only gave away his deposition. Flicking your hair just as you faced him, you caught a hold of his stare and blinked innocently.

“What’s wrong,” You took a step forward as you got a hold of your things. “Shota?”

His eyebrow jerked and his mouth was now a desert. Not wanting for things to get out of hand, he walked past you and made his way to the counter. Every ounce of his concentration focused on not pinning you against the wall and giving the cashier a show. Biting the corner of his tongue he paid for his purchase and waited outside as you paid for yours.

“You okay, sensei?” The last word was rather breathy, just as you intended it to be. Seeing him controlling himself was rather fun. He was struggling and the signs were very subtle. The only thing giving him away were his twitching eyes and furrowed brows.

Grabbing the bag of food from you, he led the way back to campus grounds. His eyes scanning the area and taking note of the small cameras set up on the street lights. The both of you were now approaching a blind spot. Letting out a rather long sigh, he held on to your wrist and pulled you into the dimly lit area.

“Be quiet.” Aizawa instructed.

Your eyes widened as you began to realize what he was planning on doing. The cameras would surely pick all of that up but then again, if he knew the area well then it should be fine. Heart now racing, you chewed on your inner cheek as the both of you were now approaching the blind spot. The small alcove one of the buildings had.

Things were now a blur.

The small squeak that escaped your mouth as your back hit the wall was immediately muted when his lips crashed into yours. Literally taking your breath away, you eased into the kiss. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled the elastic band from his hair. On your tiptoes, you leaned on to his torso for support. Your knees were now barely functioning.

Knowing what was running through your thoughts, he bent down a little. His hands held tracing whatever curves your body had to offer. When you began to nibble on his lip, his hand grabbed your knee pit and lifted you. More than happy that you instantly clung your legs around his waist.

Tugging on his hair, he accidentally let out a small groan. Feeling your soft lips making their way towards his neck sent was enough for him to tighten his hold on you. The sucking sensation that followed made his member twitch and his pants tighten. A chill ran down his spine when your tongue trailed its way up to his jaw.

“Fuck...” He growled once your noses were touching once more. Running his tongue across your lip, you parted your mouth to give him entry. Tugging on your lower lip, he went back in with a much more long and thorough kiss. When he parted his lips from yours, his hot citrusy breath brushed your face. “Don’t tease me unless you know what you want, kitten.”

“Oops.” You brushed your nose against his. Your heavy lidded eyes hazy with need. The way he gave you a pet name hit differently. “My bad~”

The tips of his lips began to travel down your neck. Using his nose to move the neckline of your shirt, he licked a patch of your skin before biting on to it. The small moan echoing in his ears made curious. What other sounds could he make you do if he were given the chance?

‘This isn’t the right place, Shota.’ Once again his thoughts managed to save him from moving any further.

Pecking your lips once more, he put you down and patted your head. Despite the dimness, he could still see how flushed you were. Fixing himself, he looked at his watch and gestured that it was time to head back.

“Just in time for curfew~” You teased. “I won’t get in trouble now, right?”

“(Y/N).” He brushed his fingers with yours. The short contact the both of you shared was something his body still yearned for. “You are aware that you're still 17 right?”

“Yes.” Your step still had a certain hop to them. “And I’m aware that my birthday is coming up.”

“I’m not implying anything.” He handed your bag of food. Now giving a safe distance between you two. “I just want us to be careful. You’re still young.”

“Are you doubting?” The slight sadness in your voice was something you couldn’t hold back. “If it clears things up, I really am serious about you. I was shocked but elated that you were more than willing to try if things would work out. But, if you really don’t want to do this then I’ll back out. At least it’s still early and won’t hurt as much.”

“I never said I didn’t want to do it.” He stated. “What happened back there, I almost got carried away. I wouldn’t want you to regret this or… us.”

“Us?” The smile on your face was rather adorable for him. You felt your cheeks heating up at the confirmation that there really is something between you two and that it wasn’t just you carrying the feelings.

Lifting the corners of his mouth, he patted your head once more before picking his pace up. Ready to head back to the teacher’s dorms.

“Wait for my call later,” He glanced at you over his shoulder. A smirk on his face. “Kitten.”

“That I will, Aizawa-sensei.” You replied with a huge smile on your face.

Running back to the dorms, you carefully opened the doors. Making sure that no one was around, you snuck across the hall and took the stairs. The dimly lit hallway towards your room made things easier.

Moments later, you were now munching on chips. Your phone rang and for the rest of the night, till one of you finally caved in to slumber, Aizawa and you spent it on talking about whatever topics came to your mind.

At the end of call, both of you agreed that convenience stores would now be a recurring thing.

- - - - -

if you want to be tagged in part 5 :) feel free to leave a comment :)

[moonlightkitkat]

“Are you going to yell at me, too? I deserve it.” Félix/Marinette + Lila (Btw Congrats on getting past 100 followers)

Aw thank you so much! I’m so sorry that this took so long to finish! I wanted it to be perfect and i ended up writing a Sick Marinette+ First meeting Felix+ your prompt lol. I hope you enjoy it!

It had been two days since she’d gone to school, having gotten sick from running around Paris while it was raining. While it sucked having a sore throat and a runny nose, she was relieved all the same. Being sick meant that she had the luxury of staying in bed all day, or going downstairs and watching movies while staying all bundled up on the couch. It had given her a much needed reprise from Lila and Chloe and all of the drama at school, for which she was grateful. Alya had come over at lunch and after school to bring her her homework, and she even stayed to help her with her homework. Of course, Marinette needed to wear a sick mask so she wouldn’t cough all over her, but it was nice to just spend time with Alya again. 

Alya had told her all about a new kid in their class, and how absolutely rude he was. “You don’t get it Marinette, he’s not Chloe rude, he’s stuck up rude. Won’t talk to any of us, and whenever we try to talk to him he just ignores up and keeps his nose in his book!” Alya ranted to her as she walked her to school. Since she’d already missed two days of school and she felt back to normal, save for a sore throat and an occasional cough, shed decided that she was okay enough to go back to school. She wore her mask just to be safe, not wanting to get any of her classmates sick. When Alya heard about it, shed taken the responsibility of walking her to school, refusing to let her be late on her first day back.

It was nice, walking to school with her, just being with Alya again and not having Lila around them. Marinette had noticed that Alya hadn’t mentioned Lila once around her, much to her relief. Maybe she had finally realized that Marinette just didn’t like Lila, and gave up on trying to make them be friends. She could only hope that was the case.

“Oh yeah, Lila was sitting in your seat while you were gone, I hope that’s okay.” Ah, there it was. “Really? Why?” She didn’t really care about why, as long as she didn’t have to sit next to her or deal with her trying to take her seat today, but she supposed she might as well let Alya spill whatever it was.

“That guy i told you about, Felix? He was assigned right next to her, and he shoved Lila out of her seat!”Marinette’s eyes widened at the thought of a new kid just randomly shoving someone, but then again, it was Miss No Personal Space Lila, so she couldn’t blame him. “Really? Did you see it happen?”

Alya shook her head, her brow furrowing as she recalled the story. “We were all doing our worksheets in class, and all of a sudden Lila was screaming! When I looked back at her she was on the ground, crying and holding her arm. Poor thing.. She hurt her arm and needed help with writing.. Anyways, she’s terrified of him now, which is why Ms Bustier moved her over with me.”“Did anyone see him push her?”

“Nope. We were all so busy with our work, and she was in the back with him… If he did anything else to her..” Her friend growled, clenching her hand around her phone. 

Looks like she missed out on all of the drama these past two days. She wondered what Felix was really like. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Alya, but she didn’t know whether or not she believed her considering Lila’s involvement with it all. 

Walking up the steps of the school, Marinette pulled her mask up to cover her nose as she coughed, pausing as she finished her coughing fit, her throat burning by the end of it. A warm hand patted her back, and when she looked up, she saw Nino behind her, offering her a plastic cup of water. 

“Thanks Nino,” she said hoarsely, lowering her mask and accepting the cup, gratefully sipping it, sighing softly as the soreness from her throat fading a little. 

“No problem Mari. You gonna be okay during class?” He asked as he followed them into the school, offering a loving smile to Alya. 

Nodding, Marinette finished her water, tossing the cup into the trash and pulling up her mask. She’d brought some cough drops with her, so she’d be sucking on those during class. They worked like a charm, but she didn’t want to waste one before class started. 

When they walked into the room, all of them jumped in surprise as Lila ran up to Marinette, hugging her tightly and letting out a pitiful wail. “Oh Marinette! Thank goodness you’re here!”

Marinette’s eyes went wide as she was hugged, panicking a little as the girl who had threatened her weeks ago and had been quietly bullying her these past few weeks hugged her tighter and nuzzled her. Seeing her panic, Alya quickly pulled Lila away from her.

“Whoa girl Marinette’s still sick, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

The brunette’s eyes widened, and she quickly moved away as if she had the plague. Even some of the class stiffened, and she suddenly wondered whether coming here was a good idea. 

Clearing her throat, Lila offered a less enthused smile to her. “Marinette, can I ask you a favor?” She asked in a voice so sweet it made her stomach turn. Before she could answer, Lila continued. “There’s a new kid sitting next to me, but i’m really not comfortable sitting next to him… He’s been bullying me.”

The whole class gasped at that, looking up at the empty back row. It seemed Felix has not arrived yet. “Bullying you? What did he do?” Alix growled, standing up and staring down at them, looking like she was ready to murder someone. Alix never did like bullies, and Marinette couldn’t help but wonder how she react if she found out about Lila’s treatment of Marinette. 

Trying not to seem pleased with the attention on herself, Lila shifted almost nervously, glancing at the door and then around the room. “Oh… I really shouldn’t say.. If he finds out I told all of you..”“If he tries anything ill kick his skinny butt!” Kim yelled, the other members of the class muttering in agreement. 

“You’re safe with us Lila, you can tell us,” Mylene added, offering the girl a sweet smile.

Letting out a soft sigh, Lila straightened her posture and smiled up at them. “Thank you all, I’m really lucky to have such a sweet class! Okay. I know you all won’t let anything happen to me.”

After pausing for a few moments, her smile fading to a look of shame. “He didn’t just push me.. He was pinching and kicking me too. He’s been giving me mean notes between classes, and they were so mean i just had to throw them away! He’s even been bullying me online, and I tried blocking him, but he just made another account to keep bullying me!”

She let the class take a minute to roar with fury, all beginning to plot with how to deal with him. “So Marinette, i was wondering if I could sit in your seat, I’m just really not comfortable sitting with him..”

Marinette frowned, looking up at the classroom, seeing several open seats. “But..” She croaked, wincing as her throat burned. Turning away from Lila, she started coughing again, bending over and taking a few shaky breaths as it ended. “There’s other seats,” She whispered, the only way she could without her throat is hurting.

Lila pouted, sniffling and looking anxiously around the room. “But I want to sit next to Alya, i feel safer with her here.”

Looking back up at the open seats, she pointed to the seat behind her. “Ivan?”

Shaking her head, Lila stepped closer to Alya,wrapping her arms around herself. “Please Marinette? I really don’t want to be near him. Besides, should you really be sitting behind Adrien when he’s sick? He needs to keep his health up for modeling!”

To her dismay, when she looked over at Adrien for some support, he shifted nervously in his seat, staring at her feet in shame. “I… I really can’t get sick Marinette… If i do, my dad might take me out of school…”

She stared at him in shock, her eyes wide with disbelief. She could understand why he didn’t want her to sit behind him, but it still hurt. 

A loud sigh came from behind her, making her jump. “You’re blocking the way,”an unfamiliar voice said dryly. Jumping out of the way, Marinette looked up, her eyes meeting a pair of blue grey eyes. 

Sighing again, he looked her up and down. “I take it youre my new deskmate?” Offering a small nod, he glanced at Lila before gesturing for Marinette to follow him. Lowering her head in disappointment, Marinette followed him to the back, sitting in the aisle seat. Setting her bag on the ground, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a cough drop, popping it into her mouth. 

She sat there in silence, her heart pounding nervously. The silence between them was uncomfortable, neither of them having introduced themselves. It wasn’t that Marinette didn’t want to per say, but her throat was too sore for her to manage. Just breathing hurt, but the cough drop helped immensely. 

She felt Felix’s eyes on her, and she stiffened, chewing her lip as he looked over her. “So, are you afraid of me too?” he asked quietly, and Marinette paused. 

Was she scared of him? She asked herself, unsure whether or not she was. Reaching into her bag, she went to pull out her notebook, and he sighed softly as she ignored his question.

Felix was certainly surprised when he walked into class today, seeing a new target for Rossi to harass. He’d quietly listened in, staying out of the class’s view, wondering who the small girl with pigtails was. Apparently this was the friend of the liar’s true seat partner, and Lila was just interested in stealing her seat, spreading more rumors about him it seemed.

He didn’t care for liars. Living with a father who was well centered in politics made it difficult for him to stomach them. He’d read the tabloids, the headlines accusing his father of an affair with a woman who wasn’t his mother. Others read of child abuse, or his father cheating, seeing other mistresses. All were untrue. Seeing strangers lie about his family, a family they knew nothing about, and involving a child into the drama, it had made him wary of opening up to anyone, afraid that they’d manipulate him like they did his father. 

This girl seemed to be wary of Rossi as well, and not as prone to believing Rossi’s claims. She’d seemed rather suspicious when she spoke, and when the class started to gang up on her, that’s when he chose to make his entrance. He didn’t mean to spook the girl, but at least she didn’t start a coughing fit. 

When he sat down, he was surprised that the girl actually followed him. Surely her friends had spread some rumors about him didn’t they?

Looking at the girl up and down, he could definitely tell she was still sick. Her forehead was a little clammy, and her eyes were red and slightly puffy. She looked tired, but whether or not that was from being sick, or talking to Rossi, he didn’t know. The girl was so stiff next to him, and he frowned, feeling something in his chest grow heavy at how scared she looked. “So, are you scared of me too?” He asked quietly, wondering why he was even bothering him. He never cared about what people thought of him before, so why now? 

To his surprise, she completely ignored him! She instead turned away from him, fiddling with her backpack, her hair falling over her shoulders as she leaned over. Sighing softly, he shook his head, opening his book to read, wondering why he’d even bothered asking her. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her pull out a pen and notebook, flipping it open, the sounds of the pen clicking and then scribbling on the paper filled the quiet air. He tried to ignore her, but the notebook came into view as she pushed it over to him. The stubborn part of him wanted to ignore it, and for a little while it won out. He managed to pretend not to see it, but the longer he ignored him, the more curiosity ate at him, and eventually he looked down to read the note. 

I’m not afraid of you, just a little overwhelmed. I’m Marinette, sorry for having to write this down, my throat really hurts :(

So she wasn’t ignoring him when she went down to her bag. Picking up the pen she offered, he wrote back to her. Didn’t your friends over there talk about me?

He watched the girl glance down at the group at the front, Lila’s laughter filling the air as she leaned over to Alya, excitedly telling her something. Well… they did.. But I don’t believe anything Lila says. If she said that you pushed her, she probably forced herself to fall.

So she wasn’t trapped in Rossi’s web of lies. That was probably why Rossi was so eager to choose her out of everyone in the class to switch seats with, even though there were several free seats available to her. He’d wondered why she had been so determined to switch seats with her.

He wondered just what this girl could’ve done in order to upset the girl, though considering Rossi had claimed bullying just because he refused to talk to her and fawn over her like the others, he suspected that it didn’t take much to get on her bad side. 

What did you do that made Rossi so upset with you? he wrote on the notebook, watching as her brow furrowed at the question before lighting up in recognition.

Lila? Oh nothing, unless you count telling her to quit lying to my friends and telling her that I would tell them all about her lies if she didn’t stop. Why don’t you believe her lies? She pouted as she wrote this, her brow furrowing.

So Rossi was threatened by Marinette, interesting. He wondered what on earth this girl who smelled strongly of freshly baked bread and desserts who was barely as tall as his shoulder could have managed to do in order to make the girl feel threatened by her. 

She claimed to know my father. My father doesn’t take the time to entertain young girls with big mouths. She also claimed to be related to a famous writer and lots of other great celebrities. Anyone with any sense, or at least a humble bone in their body, would not so openly share these with a stranger. I can recognize a liar when I see one. Boasting connections is what weak, scared children do, not truly powerful and well known figures. I should add that this is only true part of the time. There are many celebrities who boast about their connections and riches shamelessly.

Like Chloe?

A soft chuckle escaped him, and he nodded, sparing a glance down to the blonde in the front row, staring daggers into the side of Rossi’s face as she tried to get Adrien’s attention.

Precisely. I doubt either of them are too different. If neither was threatened by the other, or as petty, im certain those two would have teamed up already. Neither of them are smart enough for that though.

To his surprise, Marinette giggled at that. It was low and deep, a sign that it truly did hurt her throat in order to speak, and that she had most likely lost her voice. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but smile. 

Before they could continue their conversation however, Ms. Bustier walked into class, calling their attention to the front. The two continued to write on a piece of paper that Marinette tore out of her book so they could continue to chat, and Felix was surprised that he was looking forward to each note she wrote. She was the first person who didn’t hate him in the class, and he appreciated that. It seemed the two were alone together in the class, the only two not under Rossi’s spell, and the only two who dared to speak against her, even if he was the only one who could talk at the moment. 

Perhaps it was that silence, and that they had both had to put the effort into writing their responses, able to skip the dreaded smalltalk and have a real conversation, that had made Felix warm up. Or perhaps, it was far too early to tell, and she would only use him too.

When lunch came, Marinette had been whisked away by Alya, much to hers and Felix’s dismay. She’d barely been able to grab her bag and purse, Tikki napping inside, before the reporter had grabbed her wrist and stormed out of the classroom, fussing about how Marinette needed to go home and rest during the break. Marinette couldn’t even protest against being kidnapped! Her throat hurt too much, and all that came out were pitiful noises and croaks that just made her throat hurt. Before she knew it, she was seated on the couch, bundled in a pile of warm blankets that threatened to pull her under and sleep for eternity, and a mug of warm soup that her mother had made for her. Despite her earlier protests, she realized just how exhausted she felt now. she managed to eat half of the soup and place it on the table before she promptly passed out in her burrow of blankets, utterly exhausted and in desperate need of a nap. 

Who knew that a nap could do so much for someone? When she woke up, she was all cozy in her cocoon of blankets, feeling better than she had earlier today, and much more calm and relaxed. It was hard not to relax when you were curled up on a comfy couch, all bundled up, with a small Kwami stroking your hair softly as she gently woke her up.

“Marinette,” she cooed in a gentle tone that was similar to her maman’s whenever she was sick when she was little. “Class is in half an hour, do you want to stay here and continue to rest?” It seemed that Marinette skipping school was only okay if it was when she was sick. 

Shaking her head, she yawned, stretching out and looking up at the tinu kwami. She really should go back to school, she didn’t want to miss anymore this week. Besides, she just had a nap, she should be able to last the rest of the day. Tikki gave her a worried look when she wrote this down on her notes app, and Marinette offered to leave early if she was feeling sick later. Satisfied with this compromise, Tikki flew to her shoulder, hiding behind her pigtail while Marinette got ready for classes.

Alya was gone when she woke up. According to Tikki, she’d left not long after Marinette fell asleep. She didn’t blame Alya for this, she wouldn’t want to just watch her friend sleep for an hour either. Besides, she was probably cuddling with Nino back at school. ‘It must be nice to have a boyfriend,’ she sighed softly, her thoughts drifting to a certain blond. She was still upset with him though. He hadn’t stuck up for him, even though they were friends. While she understood his concerns, she was still hurt that he didn’t speak up earlier when LIla tried to steal her seat.

Her thoughts spread to another blond as she walked to school, bundled up in her jacket and scarf, munching on crackers as she crossed the street. Felix seemed nice, even if the whole school thought otherwise. Marinette knew how it felt to have the class against you, to feel like everyone was out to get you, and that you were alone. It helped at first, having Adrien there with her, knowing that she wasn’t alone, that there was someone who could help her, stick up for her. To her dismay though, the model hadn’t done anything close to that, simply avoiding her gaze during any confrontation, and coming up to her afterwards to try and smooth things over. She frowned at the memories of all their talks, how Adrien tried to be the peaceful mediator to someone who isn’t interested in anything other than making her life miserable. 

Felix though.. He seemed different, and she could only hope that it wasn’t her wishful thinking that brought up these thoughts. He knew right away that Lila was lying, and had taken action, even if it was just telling her to follow him. Still, he had been kind to her, and it had been a long time since she’d felt such kindness. To show her appreciation, she’d brought a box of treats for him, carried in a plastic bag that her maman had placed it in, so it was germ free. Since she didn’t know what he liked, she had requested for one of each cookie type, and her parents were all too happy to accept her request.

Hopeful that Felix would like her gift, she walked into the school, stunned to see her classmates all circled around the very blonde she was hoping to see. He had a neutral, almost bored expression on his face, but she noticed the way his hand tightened around the strap of his bag, betraying his nervousness. It wasn’t like she had to walk close to hear what was going on, her classmates yelling accusations of him hurting Lila. 

Frowning, she made her way to the group, pulling up her mask as she neared them. “Seriously that’s not cool dude,” Nino shook his head in disgust. “If i hear that you treated Mari like this…”

A new wave of anger rippled around the group at this, and a small bubble of pride and happiness swelled in her chest at them protecting her. If only they were protecting her from Lila, and not her friend. She tried to speak up, but no sound came from her. Wincing, she forgot that she couldn’t speak yet, and went to unwrap another cough drop, only for Kim to bump into her, knocking it from her hands. “Whoa what the!” Turning around, Kim’s brown eyes met hers, and she offered a small wave. “Oh! Sorry Marinette, I didn’t know you were there..”

The class quickly turned their attention to her, all suddenly going quiet, sheepishly waving before leaving the circle, sending dirty looks at Felix as they fall retreated to the class. It seemed that now that she was here, they weren’t as willing to threaten and gang up on Felix, which was a relief

“What… are you here to yell at me too?”

Felix sounded tired, he sounded so tired.What had they been saying to him? How long had they been doing this?

Frowning, she shook her head, pulling out her phone and typing out a message before showing him. I couldn’t yell at you even if I tried, which i don’t want to do. Are you okay?

The tension seemed to leave his shoulders, and he offered her a small nod. “I’m fine. Are you feeling better?”

Yup! I napped all of lunch, but I still wish i was sleeping if I’m honest with you.

“That’s good. So, shall we head to class?” 

Glancing at the clock on the wall, she frowned. But there’s still ten minutes left. Did you eat yet?

Now it’s his turn to look sheepish, and he shook his head. “Our classmates.. Kept me busy im afraid. I’ll be alright without a meal though.”

Well that wouldn’t do! Shaking her head, she pocketed her phone, and took him by the hand, dragging him over to the bench under the stairs before rummaging through her backpack. 

“Marinette, you don’t have to-” she pulled up a granola bar and a croissant, relieved she’d had some in her bag. Tikki must have slipped it in, which meant there was definitely chocolate inside. If only she’d managed to heat it up..

When he didn’t take it, she frowned, and held them out to him, motioning for him to take it. After a few seconds of hesitation he took the treats from her, looking down at them before looking back at her. “Are you certain?”

Smiling brightly, she nodded her head, and he relented, taking a bite of the croissant. His eyes widened as he swallowed, and he quickly ate the rest of the treat. Satisfied, Marinette leaned back against the bench, closing her eyes and relaxing while he ate his makeshift lunch. 

After a few minutes she heard a happy sigh, and she knew he was done. She waited until the bell rang to open her eyes though, enjoying the quiet peace. Sighing, she reluctantly stood up, following Felix into the class, ignoring everyone’s glares at the blonde. Taking her seat, she pulled out her notebook, flipping to a clean page. Don’t worry about them, I’m not going to let them do that again. I’ll talk to them and tell them what you’re really like, or at least that you are a lot nicer than they think. 

A small smile spread on Felix’s face as he read the note, and he pulled out a pen to write with. Thank you Marinette. At least you’re on my side.

She smiled brightly at that, and was so happy that she’d managed to befriend Felix. It was nice knowing that someone was on her side, and it was nice having someone to talk to. Perhaps sitting in the back wasn’t as bad as she’d first feared. The sound of pen hit paper caught her attention, and she looked down as he slid the notebook over, snorting at what she read.

So, do you always carry spare croissants in your backpack?

[hecallsmehischild]

Heads up. #Wrestling with God stuff under the cut.

Background: I do believe that God takes an active role in our lives. I do believe that there is an enemy force, and for lack of better words and more information I say “demons”. I grew up on the road with my parents, who have a small Christian music ministry, and I have had a front row seat to several rounds of what has been termed “spiritual warfare” meaning, an attack from said enemy in some way (on equipment, on mood, on health, on circumstances) and ensuing prayers for protection and to send them off. No, not EVERYTHING is an attack, bad stuff happens all the time and I don’t see any point in trying to cast out the flatness of your tire, however truly bizarre and perfectly timed things are highly suspect. One more thing, I believe that mental illness and a demonic attack are two separate things and should not be confused with each other or addressed in the same way (that’s actually EXTREMELY damaging). However, there is an overlap that I believe goes like this: the mental illness is like extra large cracks running along a wall that protects you, bigger than the normal cracks in other peoples’ walls, and if there is an intelligent enemy then those cracks are very enticing tactical targets.

The situation: Things have been kind of weird for over a week now. At first I was pretty convinced the anxiety was me, but it’s not normal even considering my diagnoses. I’ve never experienced that excessive level of anxiety that wouldn’t stop for days. I know that’s a thing that happens for people, but it’s extremely abnormal for me in particular, which is a red flag. This did not correlate to a Bipolar swing in either direction, and the fear I was experiencing didn’t have a stable root. What I was terrified of would move from topic to topic, as if it had nothing to do with the topic itself and I was just trying to figure out why this was happening and latching onto The Most Likely Reason. At one point, I couldn’t even finish one of my favorite meals., I was picking at it and only ate half because I forced myself. I’d become terrified I was going down the road to an eating disorder.

Sergey and I consulted with the pastor who married us. He is someone who has pastored a tiny church in a bad area for 40 years and didn’t leave it because that was where God told him to be. This is a guy who has seen way more spiritual warfare in way more facets than I care to ever encounter. After talking with him and getting some guidance, Sergey and I prayed together. We prayed for ourselves and for the house. And the next day I was full of joy and strength and I was pushing all my projects forward and feeling like I could celebrate being alive every day. That is also not a state of mind I am capable of inducing, for the record. If it were, that would be how every single day goes.

The anxiety has not returned to the level or intensity that it was in the first three days. But for the last couple of nights, anxiety of slightly lower level (half to three quarters the intensity) came back. Two nights back, it left as soon as Sergey and I prayed. I can describe the feeling no other way except that fear and mental confusion rolled off and receded, and I suddenly realized how cramped my lungs had been and I was gasping for air. And I had mental clarity, where a moment before, I couldn’t think straight. Again, these are things I can’t induce.

Last night it hit again. I was desperately tired, but I couldn’t sleep. Every thought was like a hot stove that I couldn’t get too close to, or rest on, or I’d be burned. I went from thought to thought, trying to find something I could rest on (because my brain literally cannot do “nothing”) and I couldn’t, everything was full of anxiety, and the worst thoughts were about food and eating disorder fears and being institutionalized.

I really don’t know what is going on lately. I have a couple hunches, but the truth is I’m pretty new to dealing with this away from my parents. I’m used to it whenever I go on a tour with Mom, but it crops up in my new home setting now. The last time we really dealt with anything remotely similar is after we asked my abusive friend to leave almost two years ago. Since then... I mean, if this is warfare, it feels like a siege with intermittent attacks on the wall. It hasn’t gone on for months or years, so maybe it’s premature to call it a siege, but I’ve never had one go on like this. It’s just. Very strange. And I don’t know all the ways one is supposed to deal with this.

It is time I learned, though. Mom won’t be around forever, and neither will our Pastor. And I have glaring cracks in the wall that I’m incapable of mending. I may be talking about this from time to time on here. Reminder that the #wrestling with God tag is there for blocking if it bothers you, and I’m overly conscientious about tagging posts with that.

[writemywaytoyourheart]

Onrsa- Chapter 5: Lost and Not So Found

pairing: vampire!jungkook x female reader

genre: angst, horror, drama, romance

word count: 1.5k

warnings for this chapter: noooone yet

Enjoy~

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It’s been a week since the last body was found.

If anything, the amount of time and no word from the killer has made the pit of anxiety in your stomach worse than it was a week ago. It seems almost like the murders never happened, like someone made up a scary story and all that’s left is the absence of four innocent people that you don’t even know. The air feels different and everyone can sense the emptiness that the poor victims left behind when their lives were unfairly taken.

You and Ga-In haven’t gone out at night since laundry day and going anywhere alone (even in the daytime) is breaking the unspoken rule between you two. You’re pretty sure she’s sick of you by now after being cooped up in the tiny apartment together for seven days in a row.

You drag your feet across the ground on your way through campus, a sluggishness in the air as everyone else seems to be lagging today as well. Some unspoken feeling in the air that there’s no reason to rush, but also a hint of underlying anxiety.

Something is off.

But, no one knows what it is.

You reach the cafeteria and numbly grab a tray, noting that the usual hum and buzz of casual conversation has dimmed considerably. You turn to scan the room and go over it twice, anxiety becoming a pit in your stomach when you don’t see Ga-In at your usual table.

In fact, she isn’t here at all.

You aren’t going to let yourself panic, she’s probably just being a slowpoke coming from her Biology class.

Although, she’s usually here way before you. The only other time she wasn’t was when she was sick at home with the flu.

No, don’t panic unless you have a reason to panic.

You make your way through the people that are all huddling together and whispering, but you really couldn’t care less about their stupid gossip. All you want is for Ga-In to come strutting through those cafeteria doors like the model she is, you’d feel a lot better if she did.

You sit and start unwrapping the silverware to eat your salad when some random boy plops himself down next to you and shoves his phone in your face.

“What the fu-”

“Have you heard the news?” He interrupts your exclamation of surprise and you just stare at him in confusion.

“I- what?” You have no idea who this kid is, let alone why the heck he’s talking to you right now, but when he says ‘have you heard the news’, your stomach twists for the nth time today.

This boy just continues as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, and you two have been best friends for years. “There’s a missing person case now.”

Your heart drops to your feet and your throat constricts painfully, “a- a what?” You stand up shakily even as you’re speaking. You can barely hear his response while grabbing your backpack, your head swimming and screaming at you to run and find her.

She’s fine. You saw her just this morning, you were in math class with her not even four hours ago. She can’t possibly be the one missing.

You keep repeating this mantra in your head, blocking out the kid that keeps talking about……whatever the heck it is he’s saying now. You bow to him and excuse yourself, slipping away and speed walking out of the room that’s now getting louder as people spread the word of the unfortunate soul who must’ve been the next target.

~

You step outside of the building and hold your hand up to cover your eyes from the bright sun; a few students are walking around campus, carrying book bags and chattering away without a single worry except what to eat for lunch, or that paper Mrs. Jong insists is due tomorrow, even though last week she definitely said Friday.

And you really, really don’t care. 

You run as fast as you can to the science building, flinging the door open and scaring a few students when you fly past them. Ga-In’s class is in room 502, so you hurry along the hall; eyes frantically scanning the numbers on the doors. You eventually find the right room and stop short; grabbing the handle and yanking the door open, you see a full classroom of about a hundred pairs of eyes staring at you.

Oh.

This is awkward.

The professor turns to look at you and you scurry inside to his miniature podium, “I- I’m really sorry, but I was just wondering if Kang Ga-In was still here.” The man smiles gently at you and shakes his head, “I’m sorry little lady, she left almost an hour ago after my last class.” You nod and bow, whispering a thank you and another apology for barging into his class, before you hurry out the door and close it quietly behind you.

Now what? What on earth are you supposed to do?

You try to close your eyes and keep a straight head but every time you let your mind wander, you see Ga-In dead in a ditch with two holes tainting her beautiful body and no answer as to who, how, or why.

You need to find her. You can’t just stand here.

At that thought, you take off running out of the science building and back outside where people are now swarming the sidewalks and the randomly placed grassy patches. You spin around, looking in all directions, wracking your mind for any place she might have gone. Someone across the campus grounds watches you quietly, but your mind is racing so fast you don’t even notice them. 

Where could she be?

Where could she be?

WHERE ON EARTH IS SHE?

By now you’re almost in tears.

A second later you jump about ten feet in the air when you feel a hand grab your shoulder. You fling around and position yourself as though you’re about to karate chop the heck out of the assaulter, before you see who it is.  

“y-y/n?”

“Seungwook?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” He smiles and laughs at the position you’re currently in, “what are you doing?” You sit there and blink blankly for a moment before straightening up and miming dusting your arms off, “I’m, uh, just looking for Ga-In. You haven’t seen her by any chance?”

Seungwook looks thoughtful for a moment then nods, “actually, I have. She was walking into the dance building when I passed by a couple minutes ago.” Your heart soars and you grab his hand, bowing over and over again.

“Thank you! Oh my gosh, thank you Seungwook, you’re an angel! I have to go, I’m sorry!” He laughs at your antics and watches with an amused smile when you dart away towards the building he mentioned.

You hurry into the dance building and see Ga-In through one of the windows in a dance room, she’s putting some shoes on and tying them. You throw the door open and run inside; wrapping your arms around her waist and holding on tightly.

“y/n? What’s the matter? What are you doing?” Your surprise attack knocked her a bit off balance but she managed to catch herself. The relief in you is almost suffocating, but then a tiny blossom of anger and betrayal sparks into a flame and you pull away with a scowl on your face.

“What’s the matter with you, Ga-In?? You scared me!” She looks totally confused as you cross your arms angrily in front of her. “Why- how did I scare you?” You scoff and throw your backpack in a corner of the room before turning on her again, “I thought you were kidnapped! There’s a missing person case, and you don’t show up to lunch and your professor hadn’t seen you since class ended!”

Ga-In looks guiltily at you and shrugs, “I sent you a text that said I wasn’t going to be going to lunch today. I thought you got it. I’m sorry y/n….” You huff, the anger already leaving your system at her stupid puppy dog eyes.

“Well, I never got the text. What are you even doing anyway?” She looks down shyly and shakes her head, “nothing.”

“No, no. Tell me~” You whine and pull on her sleeves, knowing when you do this it always makes her laugh. “Ok, ok! Let go of me, silly.” You smile and let go immediately, plopping yourself on the ground and waiting for her explanation.

“I needed a mirror so I could practice my….. -del -alk…”

“You what?” She mumbled the last part and you lean closer to hear her better. “I needed a mirror to practice my- my model…-walk.” Your chest warms at her confession and you hug her long legs, “Ga-In! I’m so excited for you! So, you decided to pursue it?” She nods slightly and you reach out to high-five her- which she responds to by gently tapping your outstretched hand.

What a cutie-

“Wait.”

“Hm?” You look up at her sudden question and the nerves immediately come back at her next words, “what was that about a missing person?”

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a/n: y’all are in for a twist in the next chapter ;) thanks for sticking with me! I promise Kookie will show up soon, I really do. I just have to get the leading up to stuff over with

[datninjalyfe]

Stay, Part 1: Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Punishments Begin

For the rest of the week, the boys hardly talked to one another.  The  four that were punished worked on different floors of the dorms, but because there were only 3 floors (plus the basement, but they were told the janitorial staff would clean the basement) to Katsuki’s demise, Todoroki and Izuku were put on the same floor. In addition to cleaning the dorms, their school work doubled and each night as they had to work on combat training with Aizawa, who pushed them so hard for hours.  By the time the day was done, they were so exhausted.  On the first day, Aizawa targeted Katsuki.  He thought Aizawa was actually trying to kill him.  

“Again.” Aizawa said as Katsuki tried to dodge Aizawa’s binding scarf, but it was to no avail.  Every time he tried to dodge it or blast it, Aizawa would snatch him and erase his quirk.  He ran, jumped, avoided and used his quirk over and over again, until he could no longer make more than a slight blast, despite him sweating profusely, but he couldn’t spark up.  “Again.” Aizawa said.  He could hardly move.  Aizawa’s hair fell and he closed his eyes.  He started to walk away and told the rest of them, “You aren’t done until you’ve all finished running a mile.  Then go straight to bed.”  

They obeyed, but the mile was brutal.  It took all Katsuki’s energy to keep running and telling himself he could take a nice shower when he got home.  When he was finished, as he left the training facility, he fell against the grass, head-first, and just laid there for just a minute.  

He felt strong hands pull him up off the ground, wrapping around his chest.  “C’mon, Kacchan.” Izuku said, helping him up.  Katsuki wanted to say something, pushing himself up, but he was too tired to even see straight.  Izuku looked tired too, breathing heavy.  He leaned into Izuku’s arms for a moment, his eyes closing, but Izuku let go of him, and handing him his backpack, he said, “Here you go, Kacchan.”

When he could, Katsuki mumbled a, “Thanks.”  but was too exhausted to say anything else. When Katsuki got to his room, there was so much homework Aizawa gave him from today’s lecture and without being in class, he had to learn it on his own.  It was already nearing 21:00, and he needed a break, but decided it was better to get studying.  

He awoke the next day, startled from the alarms.  He was still at his desk—his head was laying against his book of defensive techniques. He cursed quietly, but when he tried to turn, his face hit the book again.  He was ridiculously sore and just as tired, but he did his absolute best to clean the floor he was assigned to, which in his opinion wasn’t nearly as bad as day one.  This time, however, Izuku was assigned with Kirishima, which made him a little excited that he might get a chance to see Izuku the next day.  He finished the grueling physical lesson that evening.  What made it even worse was Aizawa hardly gave any feedback, only saying the words, “Nice try.” and “Again.”  Katsuki used a light explosion to push dirt up towards Aizawa. Thinking Katsuki got him, he tried his best to muster an explosion, but it was incredibly weak, and almost immediately, his quirk was stopped.  He cursed again, trying to launch attack after attack, but it was to no avail.  Izuku tried to use One-For-All, reaching hard within, but Todoroki was the only one who was able to get close to touching their teacher.  He was stopped as well, almost instantly by Aizawa.  They might as well have been swiping at air.  The boys finished with a run and  they were told to go ahead to bed, when they arrived, once again there was a mountain of homework.

He awoke the next morning more excited.  He thought today would be the day he would get to spend with Izuku, but to his horror, Aizawa assigned Kirishima and Todoroki to work together.  “Why does Shitty Hair get to have more than one partner two days in a row?” Katsuki snapped at him.  

Aizawa narrowed his gaze. “Because he didn’t sneak out to go to a nightclub, that’s why.”  Aizawa put his hands in his pockets and walked away.

Katsuki huffed.  He worked on the top floor, doing the same thing he’d been doing the day prior.  Izuku had the second and it took all of Katsuki not to go down to the second floor just to say two words to him.  Despite all the hard training, Katsuki hadn’t stopped thinking of that night after he’d been arrested.  Someone in class had reminded him of his arrest, but truthfully, he’d do it again in a heartbeat to get one more night with Izuku.  His dick grew a little harder.  His fantasies took over his mind, his heart beating loudly in his ears as he thought about Izuku licking and sucking on Katsuki’s fingers.  He thought about bending Izuku over a bed, grinding against him.  

A text from Camie brought his mind back to reality.  “Fuck,” he said, realizing he hadn’t gotten nearly as much cleaning done as he thought. He pulled out his phone, the message reading: ‘wanna see me again tonight?’  He thought about ignoring it, but instead wrote back: ‘getting arrested is a real cock block.’

He waited for a response and once he was sure she wouldn’t text him back, she did.  ‘so, you’re not going to see me?’  He was brought back to being with her.  It was fun, he had enjoyed himself immensely, but after these grueling punishments, no one was worth this.  

Izuku might be, he thought.  He was absolutely exhausted.  He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since falling asleep on Izuku’s chest.  He just passed out, but it felt as though he just blinked and then his alarms just went off.  When he actually thought about it, he remembered how he and Kirishima had fought about her.  Feeling bad for Kirishima, he texted her his number and said, ‘here’s a friend of mine that might be happy to talk to you.’  He thought about texting Izuku a couple of times, typing out a few words, but then deleting them.  He did this, over and over again.  He sighed heavily, shaking his head.  Without thinking about it, he typed out the words: ‘we should talk.’  It was simple, to the point.  He was about to push send, Aizawa’s voice yelled out from his bracelets.  “You can have a lunch break now.  Half an hour only, then back to work.”  

He headed downstairs to grab lunch. It was the first time in the few days they got a little bit of a break to eat.  There was fresh pot of rice steaming.  Katsuki was already eating at the table when the others started their spooning rice into a bowl. Todoroki sat across from Katsuki, who rolled his eyes.  Does he have to sit here with us?  But then Izuku sat down.  Directly next to Katsuki.  Izuku smiled a little when Katsuki realized he must’ve been staring.  

“Is it okay that I sit here?” Izuku asked.  “I can move, if it makes you uncomfortable.” Izuku started to get up.

“NO.” Katsuki yelled, reaching out and grabbing Izuku arm quickly.  Everyone became really quiet, as Izuku quickly turned around and put a hand over Katsuki’s that had grabbed his bicep.  The two looked at each other, their eyes locking into place for a moment. Katsuki hardened his grip as this, feeling Izuku’s muscle tighten in his hand.  Izuku mumbled something Katsuki didn’t listen to and sat back down, but Katsuki still didn’t let go.  After the strenuous few days they’ve had, it was nice to be able to be this close with him.

“Kacchan?” Izuku asked, breaking their gaze and looking at the hand that Katsuki still had on his arm. Embarrassed, he let go and broke apart the chopsticks to eat.  

“Dude, I don’t know what to do.” Kirishima said sitting down at the table, breaking the awkward silence.  “Camie texted me.  She—she said she wants to meet up.”

“Wait, Camie texted you?” Todoroki asked, coming up to the table, surprised.

“Who’s Camie?” Izuku asked.

“She’s a girl from Shiketsu.” Todoroki said.  “Bakugou and I did our remedial training with her.”

Kirishima went through his phone and held up the picture of Katsuki being arrested.  Katsuki went to yell at him, but Kirishima ignored it, pointing to a girl in the background.  “That’s her, the one next to Bakugou.”

Izuku looked at the picture. “Oh.”  He looked away from the phone, his cheeks turning pink.

“What?” Todoroki and Bakugou asked at the same time.  They exchanged looks before turning back to Izuku.

“I saw her at the licensing exam the first time around.  She’s powerful, for sure.” Izuku said.

“Wait, you saw her too?” Kirishima said.  “Am I the only person who hasn’t said more than 4 words to her?”

“She’s powerful?  She’s an airhead.” Katsuki said, completely ignoring Kirishima.  

“I’m not sure what her quirk is, but it might be something similar to a transformation quirk.” Izuku started.

“Her quirk is glamour.  Like an illusionist.” Todoroki said.  “She probably made herself invisible by manipulating her surroundings.”

“Maybe.” Izuku said, looking into his empty bowl.  “But she definitely transformed from Uraraka back into herself.” Izuku blushed.  “Does she make herself naked when she doesn’t glamour?”

Todoroki shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.  Why do you ask?”

“She was naked when she transformed—or rather, unglamoured herself at the licensing exam.” Izuku said.

Katsuki blinked.  He knew that she’d probably had sex with others, but the words blurted out of his mouth before he could stop himself, “Wait, did you fuck her at the licensing exam?”

To his relief, Izuku shook his head, but then said, “No.” but then quietly added, “I’m not a virgin, though.”

“You’re not a virgin?” Kirishima asked.  “No offense, but you give off a super virgin vibe.”

“I had sex in middle school.” Izuku told them.  He laughed a little, but Katsuki just glared at him.  Almost reading his mind, Izuku blushed and said, “It was Nebina Kogo if you’re curious.  Our Moms are really close and she was one of the only girls my mom would let me have in my room.”

“You did not have sex with Nebina Kogo.” Katsuki said, but their Moms did work at the same office, so it wasn’t impossible.  Nebina was a popular girl at their middle school whose quirk could read people’s emotions.  She was super cute, but gave off a really pretentious vibe.  

Izuku nodded.  “She asked me if I could be the one she lost it too.” Izuku looked away.  “It was nice, but there was a lot of, um—,” he thought about the right word. “Learning.”

“Damn, Midoriya.” Kirishima said. “You got one up on me.”  But Katsuki ignored the fact that it was completely obvious that Kirishima was a virgin, but what he couldn’t ignore was that Izuku wasn’t.  

“Is that all?” Kirishima said. “Did you guys do anything else?”

Izuku nodded, and then rubbed the back of his head.  “I’d really like to change the subject now—,” but when Kirishima wouldn’t let it go, Izuku’s face turned even more red, his freckles turning darker and said, “She gave me a blowjob.”

“She blew you?” Kirishima said, looking flabbergasted.  

“That’s as far as I’ve gotten. Just head.” Todoroki told them.  

“No one asked you, Icy Hot.” Katsuki snapped, not taking his eyes off Izuku.  Katsuki couldn’t understand why he was so upset.  ‘You’ve done so much worse,’ Katsuki thought to himself, thinking about Camie the other day.  He wasn’t a virgin by any means.  He really shouldn’t care, but it bothered him so much.  Katsuki’s eyes squinted together in anger.  

“How far have you gotten, Bakugou?” asked Todoroki.  “All the way?” Katsuki nodded, forgetting that only a select few knew about him and Camie.  Kirishima had speculated, but didn’t outright ask.  Still, Katsuki couldn’t help but feel jealous.  

“What was it like?” Kirishima asked, practically jumping across the table towards Izuku.

Izuku didn’t look at them. “It felt great, but it didn’t mean anything.  When we were done, we both just realized we were kind of just—,” he got quiet again before saying, “—doing research.”        

Katsuki’s heart stopped. Those were the same words he’d spoken to All Might.  Is it possible Izuku was trying to find out if he was gay by fucking Nebina like Katsuki did with Camie?  Katsuki enjoyed it, but Izuku was right: without doing it with someone you love it wouldn’t be special.  Someone special.  He immediately thought of the other night when he fell asleep in Izuku’s arms.  He couldn’t stop himself from remembering Izuku’s hands running through his hair.  The deep, shallow breaths that Katsuki tried to mimic.  In this moment, they were close.  Right next to each other.  Katsuki couldn’t help but want to reach out, their hands being so were close.  He lifted his hand, reaching out his pinkie, slightly heating his hand in case Izuku’s was cold.  

Without thinking, he placed the finger on Izuku’s hand, his heart racing in his chest.  ‘Come on, Deku, I just want you to look at me, one more time.’ As if reading his mind, Izuku looked over, confused, but didn’t move his hand.  Katsuki held his breath as moved his finger to lock his pinkie with Izuku’s.

“BOYS.” a loud voice came from the ankle bracelet that jolted everyone at the table.  Izuku moved his hand quickly away.  “Did I not tell you only a half an hour lunch?  Get back to it.  Now.”  They all started to move as Aizawa gave further instructions, “Be at Alpha Quadrant at 16:30, we’re doing gas training today.  Don’t ask the other students about it.”  

Katsuki inhaled as Todoroki took their dishes to clean them off.  Izuku walked away, saying, “See you guys at Alpha later then.”

Katsuki got up as well, thinking he could follow Izuku up the stairs, but by the time he go to the staircase, Izuku was already on the second floor.  He thought about going to see him, just to say a few words, but if Aizawa knew they had a longer lunch break, then he could probably figure out what floor Katsuki was on.  He bypassed the second story, walking up to finish his punishment on the top floor.

---

They arrived a little early, but Katsuki truly just wanted to get Alpha Quadrant over and done with.  Alpha Quad was a single room used for a single purpose. The space was designed for the students to get out of a scenario that seems impossible.  It was possible, they were reassured, but rarely did students ever succeed and that didn’t give them much hope.  The four of them were brought into the empty room, putting on gas masks. “The goal is to escape.”  They heard Aizawa’s voice say over an intercom and almost instantly gas leaked out of the walls.

“Shit, what the hell is this—?” Kirishima started to yell, inhaling quickly, but almost immediately, he collapsed. Katsuki watched as Kirishima’s body disappearing in the thick fumes that covered the room.  Katsuki moved a little, but pain shot up his arms.  It burned his skin, his eyes starting to water. Even with the mask on, it hurt to breathe.  He tried to inhale as much as he could, but it his hurt his throat too much.  He could set off an explosion, but not knowing where anyone was, and knowing he would probably be graded on if everyone got out, he would likely be docked points if he hurt someone else.  If he set off a couple sparks above him, it might move the gas for a single moment so he could at least see where everyone was.  “Single—shot….focus….” All he needed was to concentrate all his energy on a one shot.  Just one. Then, the gas would dissipate for a moment and he could see everyone, but he knew he only had one second.  He tried to spark up, but the gas was pulling at his skin.  The more he tried to breathe, the more painful it became.  It was pure agony to try and move.  

“Kacchan!” a little flute called out, but when Katsuki tried to look up, the gas stung his eyes.  He cursed loudly as he heard, “Kacchan, where are you?”

“Deku!” Katsuki called out, but his voice wasn’t as loud with the mask on.  “Shit, Deku, I’m here!”

“Bakugou!” Todoroki said and though the watering of his eyes and the thick of the gas, he saw a tiny flame flicker.  “The door is over here!”

“I can’t fucking move!” he yelled. He was in agony, his skin feeling like it was being scorched.  “The gas—” He was getting lightheaded.  His eyelids were getting heavy and the room started to spin.  

“Kacchan!” Izuku appeared in front of him and when Katsuki looked over at him, he wasn’t wearing a mask.

“Deku, what the fuck?” Katsuki asked, reaching out to cover his face.  ‘Why the fuck did he take off his mask?’  His hand covered Izuku’s mouth, but Izuku grabbed his arm and pushed it off.

“It’s the mask that’s hurting you, not the gas.” Izuku said, taking a step towards him.

“My skin—,” Katsuki screamed, his skin searing.  He tried to move, but screamed in agony when he did.  He crumpled to his knees, Izuku grabbed him as he leaned forward, stabilizing him. Katsuki’s eyes watered, his face contorting from the pain, but his eyes stopped when they found Izuku’s.  Two concerned, bright green orbs that stared into him intensely.  

“Trust me,” Izuku whispered, running his hands through Katsuki’s hair to find the mask’s clasp.  Katsuki never took his eyes off of him as there was a light ‘click’ sound and Izuku gently pulled the mask down.  They stared at each other, really looked at each other for the first time in a while.  Katsuki was breathing hard, trying not to look away, trying so hard not to break the gaze, but when he inhaled deeply, he coughed, feeling the oxygen fill his lungs.  “It was the filtration unit.”  Izuku said, as Katsuki took in the air.  “It’s got some sort of poison in it.”  

Katsuki felt his hands warm as the pain dissipated and he clenched his hands into a fist, feeling the heat of his quirk.  He lifted his right hand into the air, letting a few sparks pop out.  Just like he thought, the air circled around the small explosions.

“There!” Izuku yelled, running over to Kirishima, who laid down on the ground.  Katsuki followed him, rushing over to Kirishima.

“Let’s get this off of him.” Katsuki said, referring to the mask still on Kirishima’s face.  He was still feeling a bit light headed.  Izuku pulled off his mask and lifted Kirishima over one shoulder.  “Icy Hot, are you still by the door?”

“Yeah, can you see the flames?” Todoroki said.  They saw a glow from Todoroki.  As they walked towards it, Kirishima started to wake.  Aizawa was waiting for them outside.  “Congrats.” Aizawa’s voice said.  “You passed.  Quicker than some of your classmates I might add.”

“They’re idiots, of course we did.” Katsuki said, helping Kirishima to his feet.  

“This scenario actually happened to some people.  A guy used his quirk to make poisonous gas masks.   You can read about it in your homework.  I want a report on it tomorrow.  Good work today.” Aizawa said.  The boys left, feeling good about their accomplishment.  

Katsuki opened his mouth, about to ask Izuku to stay back for a minute to talk, but Kirishima grabbed his arm, holding him back.  Katsuki watched as Izuku ran up next to Todoroki and the two made their way back to the dorm together.  “Do you need something, Shitty Hair?”

“I decided I’m leaving tonight to go see Camie.”  

There were no words.  “How fucking stupid are you?” was all he could say after a minute of just taking in the sheer absurdity of that statement.        

“I found a way to take off the ankle bracelet.” Kirishima said.  “I wanted to see if they really were tracking our movements, so I took it off and went to the second floor to talk to Midoriya.  They are only tracking the bracelet.”  He bent down like he was going to tie his shoe, but pushed down on three out of the twelve buttons in a certain order and it clicked right off. “I just need to know how to get off campus.”  He clicked it back on.  

Katsuki thought about it. He watched Izuku as he and Todoroki walked next to each other.  His heart sank in his chest as Izuku laughed at something Todoroki said.  If he could get his bracelet off, maybe he could go see Izuku tonight.  In his room.  He wanted nothing more than to just have a second alone with him.  He selfishly wanted Izuku to hold him again.  Just the feeling made Katsuki’s heart tighten in his chest.  “It’s harder than you think.  Each teacher has a code to get through.  The night I left was Hound Dog’s shift—,”

“Yeah,” Kirishima said, pointing to a scratch on his face.  “Yeah, I know.  We ran into him trying to climb the gate.”

Feeling badly, Katsuki explained, “There’s a teacher’s entrance at the gate 12.  Each teacher has a code and you need the code to leave.”

“Woah, that’s it?” Kirishima asked.  “Who’s working tonight?”

“Midnight.” Katsuki said. “But I don’t know her code.” That was a lie.  He knew all the codes and who was working when.  

“Damn.  I just—I heard all you guys talking about how far you’d gotten and I know Camie’s the girl I want to lose it too.” Kirishima closed his eyes in embarrassment.  “I’m just not manly enough.”

Katsuki sighed.  “Midnight’s code is literally 1-2-3-4.”

Kirishima’s eyes lit up. “Oh man, I’m so pumped.”  He used his arm to make and fist, and hardened it with his quirk, using it to lightly punch Katsuki.  

Katsuki pulled out his wallet and handed him a condom.  “Make sure you wear this.  Last time—,” he suddenly stopped himself, not wanting to reveal that he and Camie had sex to Kirishima.  He coughed, correcting himself, “I don’t care what Camie says, it’s not worth your dick falling off.”

Kirishima looked at it. “Yeah.  Yeah, okay.  Thanks, dude!”  He ran up ahead, past Todoroki and Izuku.  Katsuki started humming.  He was excited too.  

He was going to see Izuku tonight.

(previous)(next)

[snappedsky]

Fanatics 71

The kids return to Skool, and it's an eventful first day back. Previous! Next!

--

New Year, Same Sh!t

           “I cannot believe you all went to Irk without me!”

           Zim, Dib, Gaz, Pepito, and Squee glare exhaustedly at Kat- Tak’s human disguise- as she blocks the entrance to the Skool. She glares right back, much more angrily.

           “Give us a break, Tak,” Zim snaps as he shoves past her. “We’ve barely been home for a week and now we gotta go back to Skool.”            “You didn’t even tell me you were leaving!” she barks as she follows them through the busy halls. “I only found out because of Maddie. I thought we were, you know, friends.”

           “You’re right,” Squee says, “we are friends. And we should’ve at least said goodbye. We’re sorry.”

           Kat’s glare withers ever so slightly and she huffs. “Fine. So, what’s got you all so tense?”

           “A week ago we found out the Irken Empire sent assassins after us,” Dib replies, “we had no idea. If it wasn’t for Squee’s Night Terrors, they probably would’ve wiped us all out.”            “Are they Irken Bounty Hunters?” Kat asks.

           “I don’t think so,” Zim replies, “according to the Night Terrors, they were too easy to kill. Probably just academy-trained assassins.”

           “Kio’s looking into it,” Squee explains, “but we’re not sure how to handle this. Obviously we can’t just let assassins try to kill us, which is why the Night Terrors are keeping watch. But soon the Tallest will figure out the assassins failed and send stronger opponents.”

           “Well, you should’ve expected this,” Kat points out, “starting a war with the Irken Empire.”            “We saved them first,” Gaz argues, “it’s not our fault they’re sore losers.”            “And now we have to go to Skool like nothing happened,” Pepito groans.

           “Keep your heads up, team,” Zim orders, “we’re back to our normal life and we will not let the Armada ruin it.”            The others reply with uncertainty.

           “I’ll see you guys at lunch,” Gaz grunts before splitting off. The others go upstairs to their lockers.

           After everyone’s gathered their stuff, they head to homeroom at the sound of the bell. Zim and the others cluster together in desks near the window, along with Maddie. The other students quickly pick their desks as their teacher, Miss Sweeties, stands at the front of the room.

           “Welcome back to Skool, everyone,” she chimes, “and a very special welcome back to Zim, Dib, Pepito, and Squee, who, due to ‘family issues’, were unable to attend Skool last year.”

         “You guys completely skipped 11th grade,” Zita points out, “how did you not get held back?”            “Um my guardian has a…‘rapport’ with the principle,” Squee replies while Zim, Dib, and Pepito chuckle knowingly.          

            After morning announcements are played over the intercom, the students leave for their classes. Maddie and Tak wave to the boys as they split off.

           “It’s too bad we got stuck in the lower tier classes,” Dib comments, “it’ll be a smear on my record.”            “Yeah, but at least we’re all in the same classes this year,” Pepito points out.

          They arrive at their classroom and quickly pick their desks, again together near the windows. Standing behind the teacher’s desk is a younger man, pale and blond with fidgeting hands. He waits until everyone’s seated before speaking.

           “G-good morning, students,” he says in a cracking voice. “I-I am your teacher, Mr. Tense. I will be teaching you maths and sciences.”            “Who is this guy?” Pepito whispers.

           “Don’t know. I’ve never had him,” Dib replies.

           “B-because we’ll be spending a-a lot of time together, I’d like to start off by going around the room and h-hearing something about everyone,” Mr. Tense declares.

           “Oh, god,” Squee groans, rubbing his forehead.

           “We’ll start on this side of the room,” he says, pointing at Zim. “Please stand up and state your name and-and a fact about yourself.”

           Zim stands up dutifully. “I am Zim and I will rule you all! But don’t worry, I’ll be a benevolent leader.”

           “Uh o-okay, thank you, Zim,” Mr. Tense says as Zim sits back down and Pepito stands up.

           “I’m Pepito, and I’m gonna be a rock star,” he says.

           “Oh, a musician!” Mr. Tense smiles, “how nice.”

           Pepito smiles as he sits down and the student behind him goes next, a cheerleader who goes on for a few minutes about how she loves manicures. As they continue down the row, Squee digs his hand into his forehead, dreading his turn.

           Finally it’s the next row’s turn, and Dib starts off. “I’m Dib, the world’s greatest paranormal investigator.”

           “And crazy person,” one of the students whispers loudly and the others giggle. But Dib ignores them as he sits back down, smiling proudly.

           Squee stifles a heavy sigh as he stands up, squeezing Shmee inside his bag. “Uh I-I’m Squee a-and-.”

           “What kind of a name is that?” another student sneers.

           Squee takes a deep breath before continuing. “And I like to write.”

           As he sits back down, Pepito shoots him a thumbs-up and he smiles gratefully.

           The introductions continue throughout the classroom. A couple of students Zim and the others already know, like Willy, Poonchy, Carl, or Jessica; but many they’ve never met before. Not that anyone pays close attention to the introductions anyway.

            Once everyone’s finished, Mr. Tense clears his throat. “I-it is wonderful to meet you all. I hope this will be a prosperous last year of High Skool for you all. Now then, let’s just dive right into math. Open you textbooks, please.”

           The next hour is spent learning math. Mr. Tense is very non-inclusive and only reads the lesson directly from the textbook very stiltedly, or writes on the board. Which means the students are free to pay no attention.

           Zim scrolls through his phone- which now, thanks to Kio, is connected to galactic wide news- and tries to find news on assassins coming to Earth. Dib is busy reading one of his new books on the supernatural; he missed out on a lot being in space. Determined to make original songs this year, Pepito is trying to write song lyrics. And Squee just stares through the window, somewhat absentmindedly, but his eyes still scan for the slightest threat.

           Everyone is quite surprised when a hole is smashed through the ceiling and Mr. Fuck, with smeared make-up, torn clothes, and gashes and cuts, slams into the floor at the front of the classroom.

           Screaming, the students all leap out of the desks while Mr. Tense nearly jumps out of his skin.

           “Eff!” Squee exclaims.

           Eff coughs as he sits up, dry wall dust and debris still falling around him. He glances at Squee and smiles and waves.

           “Oh, hey, Little Boss. Don’t worry, the situation is completely under contro-.” He stops as he reaches for his hat and realizes it’s not there. “That asshole has my hat!”            With that, he jumps up and disappears back through the hole onto the roof.

           “O-okay,” Mr. Tense stammers, “do-don’t worry, kids. J-just exit into the hallway in an orderly fashion.”            Nobody listens to him as the students race out of the classroom, except for Zim, Dib, Pepito, and Squee who look up through the hole.

           “K-kids, we all need to leave,” Mr. Tense says to them and waves towards the door, but they ignore them.

           They can hear shouting: the Night Terrors cursing and voices speaking in Irken. They spot an Irken fly past the hole and Reverend Meat leap after them.

           “Assassins?” Pepito questions.

           “No,” Zim growls, immediately recognizing the unique armor the Irken was wearing. “Irken Bounty Hunters.”            “They’re gonna need help,” he declares, “Irken Bounty Hunters are specially trained killers and they always travel in groups. Do you all have your weapons?”

           “Yes,” Squee nods as he draws his knives from his bag, along with Shmee.

           “Me too,” Dib replies, rolling down the sleeve of his coat to reveal his bracelet.

           “Got my weapons right here,” Pepito says as he clenches his fists and they start glowing black.

           “Good,” Zim grunts as he extends his spider legs and grabs his laser guns.

           “You guys go on ahead,” Dib says, “I’m gonna check on Gaz. We’ll catch up.”            “Alright,” Zim nods as two of his spider legs reach up for the hole while Squee and Pepito grab the other two.

           “Uhm,” Mr. Tense croaks, speechless as they disappear through the hole and Dib races past him into the hall.

           The rooftop is a warzone. The Night Terrors are covered in injures and torn clothes but continue to hold their own against the seemingly five unstoppable Irkens. Their heavy armor has been cracked and damaged and their laser rifles are scattered in pieces. But they still have their PAKs and with their sharp spider leg appendages swinging around, the Night Terrors can’t get close.

           “Pick a target,” Zim orders.

           “I’ll help Eff,” Squee declares as he races off to help the Doughboy wrestling to keep a spider leg from impaling him.

           “I’ll get Sickness,” Pepito says and hurries to her as she dodges an Irken’s striking attacks.

           Zim spots Reverend Meat, struggling to hold off two Irkens. He grins and leaps forward on his spider legs, flying right for one of them. “Mine!”

           Back in the Skool, none of the other classes are aware of the danger yet. Ms. Bitters is still busy teaching Gaz’s class history. She barely pays attention, doodling in the margins of her notebook.

           The classroom slams open, startling everyone, and Dib races in. “Gaz!”            “Dib?” she questions.

           “Oh, fer-,” Ms. Bitters scoffs, “I thought not having you as a student meant I wouldn’t have to deal with your interruptions.”            Dib ignores her as he hurries to Gaz’s desk. “You okay?”

           “Yeah,” she replies incredulously. “What’s going on-?”            Before he can answer, Psycho Doughboy slams into the window outside, crying out as he falls to the ground.

           All the students scream with surprise as they leap out of their desks, except for Dib and Gaz who just stare outside.

           “You got your hammer?” Dib asks.

           “No, but I have a bat in my locker,” Gaz replies.

           “Get it,” he orders, “and meet us outside.”

           Without another word, Gaz races off while Dib opens the window and climbs out. He lands beside D-boy just as he’s starting to sit up, rubbing his face, and they both look up.

           An Irken leaps off the roof and plummets towards them, spider legs pointed down. Dib activates his bracelet, transforming it to his power glove, and readies a blast.

           Meanwhile, as Gaz races to her locker, an announcement plays over the intercom.

           “Attention, the Skool is under a state of emergency. Please evacuate to the street in a calm and orderly fashion.”            In the other grade 12 classroom, Kat perks up while her classmates chatter curiously amongst themselves.

           “Wonder what’s going on,” Maddie mutters as the teacher starts ushering everyone out. Kat ignores them and looks outside, activating her cybernetic eye. Immediately seeing the presence of five unknown Irkens, she growls.

           The tide of battle really turns thanks to the Battalion. The Irken Bounty Hunters are now outnumbered, having to split their attention between one of the Night Terrors and one of the kids. But they still hold their own despite the odds, really showing their Irken strength and ingenuity.

           Squee, Eff, and Shmee surround an Irken, his spider legs raised defensively. Squee goes in first with his rocket wheelies. As soon as he’s disappeared from sight, Eff and Shmee charge in.

           The Irken blocks them with his spider legs while a buzz saw like weapon pops out of his PAK, protecting his head as he correctly predicts that Squee would strike from behind. He stops just before he can connect with the spinning blade but rebounds quickly, ducking down and knocking his leg into the Irken’s ankle, tripping him.

           The Irken reacts quickly, blocking his head from hitting the roof and thrusting a spider leg at Squee. He dodges with ease by zipping around to his other end and charging in, knives up. Scowling, the Irken jabs all four of his spider legs towards him. Squee waits until the very last second before speeding backwards out of harm’s way, while Eff appears by the Irken’s head and swinging knives of his own.

           Gasping, the Irken barely catches Eff’s hands with his own, keeping the blades inches from his face. Eff smirks and the Irken realizes he’s been duped as Shmee leaps off Eff’s head and pile drives the Irken’s stomach, smashing him through the roof.

           Squee and Eff peek through the hole just as Shmee jumps back out, tossing the unconscious alien at Squee’s feet. They all smile victoriously at each other.

         Meanwhile, another Irken is struggling to survive against Sickness and Pepito. She can’t match Sickness’s speed, so she keeps her spider legs close, not allowing her to strike. But she doesn’t even have time to focus on Sickness as she tries to dodge Pepito’s blasts.

           He fires relentlessly, barely giving her time to think and move. Because of her agility, each one only grazes her, but one slip up and he’ll reduce her to dust.

           She growls, getting sick of this, and withdraws her spider legs. But before her opponents can react, a small of pair of rocket thrusters extend from the bottom of her PAK and she blasts into the sky. Once she’s a few feet high, two of her spider legs extend again and she points them down, preparing to fire lasers.

           Pepito smirks and his wings expand from his back, bursting through his shirt. Before the bounty hunter can fire her lasers, he flies up to her, hands glowing black. She ceases her laser power-up and instead uses her spider legs to block him. Locked in a parry, they glare at each other.

           Sickness watches them for a second before crouching, tensing her leg muscles, and jumping into the air, cracking the ground beneath her. She flies up behind the Irken, who is unable to react, held in place by Pepito. Sickness lifts her leg and slams it onto the Irken’s head, sending her plummeting back down and through the roof of the Skool.

           Pepito and Sickness land on either side of the hole and look in. The Irken is blacked out unceremoniously on top of some desks. Smirking, Pepito shoots Sickness a thumbs-up, and she good-naturedly rolls her eyes.

           On the ground, Dib and D-boy are having trouble getting a hit in against their opponent. The bounty hunter keeps them at bay with his spider legs while also dodging the blasts from Dib’s power glove.

           The Irken lunges his spider legs at them, two for each. D-boy blocks his two with his giant mallet while Dib catches one with his glove and barely dodges the other; he winces as it slices a bit through his side.

           The Irken tries to retract his appendages but Dib keeps good grip on one as he charges a blast. He destroys the spider leg and the bounty hunter stumbles back in pain. Scowling angrily, he lunges his last three right for Dib, who lifts his arms in a feeble attempt to block.

           D-boy flips in and smashes the legs out of the way with his mallet. The Irken goes in for another attack when his antennae twitch and he looks back just in time to see Gaz swinging her bat. He leaps out of the way and she smashes the ground where he was standing.

           Snarling, the Irken lunges his spider legs at her. Again, D-boy flips in and helps Gaz block them. Before the bounty hunter can retract them, his antennae twitch again and he looks over to see Dib charging up a blast.

           The Irken tries to retreat but finds himself stuck in place. He looks in despair at D-boy as he smirks and holds tight to his spider legs.

           Dib fires his blast, reducing the Irken to dust and leaving behind nothing but his lifeless spider legs. D-boy lets them drop to the ground while Dib lowers his hand, sighing with relief.

           Back on the roof, Zim and Reverend Meat have their hands full with the last two Irken Bounty Hunters. They stand back to back, repelling their opponents’ attacks with barely any chance to throw their own.

           Zim’s spider legs repeatedly clash with the other Irken’s. Zim lifts his laser guns and fires at her. She leaps backwards, dodging the lasers and fires some of her own from her spider legs. Zim creates a force field with his, blocking them.

           Behind him, Reverend Meat can’t get close to his Irken opponent. He keeps his spider legs close and fires lasers to keep the monstrously strong meat reverend at bay. Reverend Meat is forced to stay on the defensive and dodge, lest he get filled with laser holes.

           He spots Zim with his force field and gets an idea. Keeping his eye on his opponent, he reaches around and grabs Zim’s head, picking him. Zim exclaims with shock as Reverend Meat holds him out, using him like a shield.

           “He-what are yo-release Zim immediately!” he snaps.

           “Just roll with it,” Reverend Meat orders, “and keep your shield up.”            Zim does so and blocks laser blasts from both Irkens. With his other hand, Reverend Meat smashes another hole into the roof and breaks off a large chunk, throwing it at the bounty hunters. The Irkens are taken aback but easily blow the chunk to pieces, only to find Reverend Meat and Zim have disappeared.

           They immediately look at the new hole in the roof and begin firing their lasers downwards. Then their antennae twitch just as Zim and Reverend Meat smash through the roof, jumping up right behind them.

           Reverend Meat grabs the Irkens’ PAKs, smirking as he crushes them to pieces with his large hands. They both shudder and collapse to the ground on their knees. Zim grins as they look back and lifts his laser guns to finish them off, but freezes when he spots one of Irken’s removing her glove. He immediately recognizes the device on her wrist and flinches back.

           “She’s gonna self-destruct!” he shouts.

           “What!” Reverend Meat exclaims.

           But before she can activate the device, a plasma beam fires from the side through her arm, completely destroying the bomb. Everyone looks to the left as two more beams are fired through the bounty hunters’ heads, and Tak approaches, lowering her cyborg arm.

           “I didn’t need your help y’know,” Zim grunts.

           “Yeah, yeah,” she sniffs.

           Everyone finishes their fights around the same time and look around to check on the others. As D-boy leaps back onto the roof with Dib and Gaz, they quickly realize they’ve won and smile victoriously.

           “Oh, hey, Tak,” Pepito says as they gather together. “Where’d you come from?”

           “I’m not gonna let you leave me out of the fun again,” she replies.

           “Hey, check it out,” Squee says, pointing to the main road. All of the students and teachers are gathered there as a couple police cars arrive. The kids settle on the edge of the building and watch as the police attempt to interview the rattled and excited students. Nobody’s noticed them on the roof yet.

           “Well, the Skool was evacuated and we caused a lot of property damage,” Dib summarizes, “and it’s not even lunch yet.”

           “Yup. Not bad for our first day back,” Pepito comments.

           “If this is an omen to how the rest of the year is gonna be, I might just drop out,” Squee grunts, resting his chin in his hand.

           “We will not be defeated,” Zim declares, “no matter how many assassins come after us, or whatever else, this year will not beat us.”

           The Night Terrors sigh comfortably as they sit in between the kids.

           “Besides, you got us,” Eff smirks, patting Squee’s head.

           “Yeah, aren’t you lucky,” Reverend Meat sighs and leans against a grumbling Zim.

           “And me,” Tak adds, “whether you like it or not.”

           “I hate to say it, but…we can use all the help we can get,” Dib says.

           “Uh oh,” Gaz grunts, “we better move. I think one of the cops spotted us.”            “Yup,” Pepito agrees as they retreat farther onto the roof. “Wanna just ditch for the rest of the day?”

           “Yeah, let’s go to my house,” Zim declares.

           With the help of the Night Terrors, the two groups jump off the Skool and disappear through the back field, never to be found by their classmates or teachers until they return for classes the next day.

[incorrectly-quoted-queers]

Drunk Punch Love: INTERMISSION ARCHANGEL

Pairing: FemShep and Garrus Vakarian (Shakarian)

Rating: PG-13 (with some tossed F-bombs)

Summary: Their awkward, badass journey through saving the galaxy and accidentally falling in love

INTERMISSION ARCHANGEL- 40 Days 

Twenty days on Omega, and somehow he ended up spending most of his time at a shithole bar, not knowing what to do with himself.

In a sick twist of fate, the day after he got on the station the old Normandy crew sent him 1,000 credits. Apparently, word of Kaidan and Liara got out, Shepard won the dating pool, and they thought it best to send her winnings to him. They probably thought it was a funny way of remembering her.

Garrus just found it an easy way to accomplish nothing, knowing his bank account was padded with his dead friend's winnings.

It was his fifth night in a row at Afterlife. He didn't know what he was doing here anymore. If he just wanted to sulk it out and then head back to Palaven or the Citadel, he should've left by now. Or if he planned on staying, he should've found some crusade to get his dumb ass distracted. But he wasn't building anything here, he was just drinking and wasting away in limbo.

Finishing his glass for the night, he didn't mind drinking alone very much. And as long as he kept it to one drink, he didn't start imagining her across the table. It was just enough booze to slosh away some of the emptiness, but not enough to start losing his mind. Wasn't the worst way to kill time.

But then an eager looking turian slid in the chair across from him and he hated it.

Okay, drinking alone was fine, minus the persistent grifters. Dude started talking before Garrus could tell him to fuck off. "Don't see ex-turian military around here often, not without a shiny new merc job or some secrets to keep."

"I don't give a shit about whatever you're selling, so-"

"Not even a little bit, Garrus Vaklarian?" He stopped trying to stand and sat back down, glaring at the guy. He didn't like where this was going. The mysterious turian just smirked. "I see I got your attention."

"What the hell do you want?"

"Back-up. I might've gotten myself a one on one with a krogan captain for the Blood Pack in ten minutes, and I don't feel like having my mandibles ripped off."

Garrus was trying to wrap his head around it all. His new taste for ryncol wasn't doing well for his brain. "One, why the hell would you do that? And two, why do you know who I am?"

"I'd love to say weeks of intel, but really? I've seen you a couple times here. Took me a little while to realize you're the one from the Battle of the Citadel vids, who helped take down Saren. Could use some heroism on my side."

"Okay, but you still didn't answer question one."

"I'm not a huge fan of the merc groups, period, but this Krogan's been trying to expand his territory into my old neighborhood. If my favorite restaurant has to start paying dues, we're gonna have a problem."

"With that dumb answer, I guess we're back to augmenting the second question. Why me? You could hire decent shots all over this station."

The guy was trying to seem casually, but Garrus could see the way his feet kept bouncing. All his fake confidence was relying on lies and adrenaline. Regardless of the underlying tells, the turian said, "Well, let's just say I'm a bit strapped for cash, so I was hoping you might do it for free. Also, I always prefer more than just a decent shot."

Laughing, Garrus was a little impressed with the quads on him. At the very least, the exchange was getting more amusing than annoying. "And what makes you think I'll help you?"

"A turian quitting their civil service position to chase down an unconfirmed rogue, turian spectre? That's a hero type. And hero types can't resists offers like mine."

That's when all the talk he was spinning stopped amusing Garrus. He leaned back forward onto the table, trying to keep the pop-up thoughts about green eyes and target practice out of his mind. "Yeah, well that's who I used to be."

Finally, the turian switched tactics. The veiled swagger fell and his shoulders slumped. He leaned closer to Garrus and went for the ole' classic: begging. "Just this once, okay? And after I'll leave you alone."

He was really itching to say no, but something in the back of his head was curious how much trouble one Krogan really could be. He'd definitely taken down scarier things in his time. And what better was he doing?

Hell with it. Maybe this could be his litmus test, break whatever funk he was in. If he felt good helping someone, great, he could use that. Make something of it. If not? Get his ass off this station, because it clearly wasn't doing much for him. Even if Omega treated Shepard's name like a hex, his brain dragged too much of her around. No matter Sol's intel, he there was one big problem with trying to run from her ghost: him.

Pushing off the table, he gave the guy a shrug. "Fine. Now, where the hell are we going?"

His new turian friend probably didn't mean to, but his face lit up and he nearly tripped over himself standing. He did a decent job pretending it didn't happen, though. Straightening himself, he nodded towards the far exit. "Out there and a few alleys back." Garrus nodded and followed him.

Once they were outside, though, he took a stop at a vending machine and grabbed some water. The second it dropped down, he popped the cap open and started chugging. His companion looked slightly horrified, saying, "Why are you inhaling that water bottle like it's oxygen?"

As the last drops fell, he threw away the bottle. "I was drinking ryncol." It was 100% placebo, but that alone made him start feeling a little better. Or maybe it was just the blood pumping from knowing he might get to pull out his sniper in a few minutes.

He hadn't done any target practice in weeks.

Though he started walking again, the turian gaped. "Why?" But as Garrus started walking faster, wanting to get somewhere, accomplish something, it was like the guy could smell his boiling blood. "Spirits, are you gonna get me killed?"

Garrus laughed at the thought. "If Shepard didn't kill me, neither will a Blood Pack krogan."

"Do you mean Saren?"

"No."

They walked down the next few blocks, and nothing seemed more illegal or sketchy than the rest of Omega was. They even got to pass a raving Batarian prophet, and that still didn't feel all that insane. He'd really gotten used to Omega, hadn't he?

All of a sudden, his walking buddy stopped in a slightly dimmer alley, where a few lights were out and no one was waiting for them. Garrus was hoping that he was just lost or looking for a right door to give a password, but the longer the other turian itched at his face, Garrus realized things were probably going to get complicated.

Garrus gave the guy the benefit of the doubt. "Is this the right place?"

"Yeah, I was supposed to meet him right here... five minutes ago."

Before Garrus could say anything about it obviously being a set-up, and that the krogan probably just wanted him dead, he could hear a weapon gearing up. Shoving the new guy down to the ground, he pulled out his sniper. While this wasn't exactly the best way to get back in the fight, he had to admit it felt damn good to hold in his hands again.

"Why didn't you gthink this was a set-up?"

"Let's just say being on the "good guy" side of this is new to me."

"Great, I always dreamed of a back alley firefight with an ex-merc." Glancing over their cover, he could clearly see three vorcha at the other end of the alley, probably two or three more he couldn't see. They always travelled in fairly large numbers, even for a small hit.

Next to him, the other turian asked, "Really?" Though he clearly whiffed the safety protocols of this meeting, he pulled out an SMG and was doing good work suppressing the Vorcha. Garrus had to give him that much credit.

But that didn't excuse his question, and he rolled his eyes. "No, this is hardly my favorite place to get murdered."

"What, do you have places you'd prefer?"

"For practicality? Gun expo or military base. For style? Gardens, electronics stores, antique shops, but only if they're classy."

Even though he seemed caught off guard and a little stressed, the guy laughed. "You're insane."

"What else did you expect? A healthily functioning ex-Spectre hunter?"

"You got me there." They downed one of the Vorcha, and another was at least down for the count because Garrus got a good shot straight through his leg, but the other three that they'd seen were still putting up a fight. His shooting buddy said, "On your left." Garrus swiveled and got a headshot on one of them while he was trying to get in for a closer shot.

Then the guy asked, gesturing to the gun, "Do you bring a sniper everywhere?"

"Yeah. This is my favorite gun." Garrus got the another Blood Pack goon when it popped its head out to check for them. But just as he was going to tell the other turian to close in on him, the final vorcha came out from behind the corner, holding his shotgun to the head of a civilian. From the looks of him, a shell-shocked shopper. Lowering his gun, Garrus said, "Fuck."

"Drop your weapons or I kill him."

The other turian stood up without even thinking about it, letting his SMG clatter to the ground. Garrus was looking between the two, trying to calculate what made the most sense. But seeing someone scared, he started wondering what Shepard would do. The bigger surprise was that for the first time in over a month, thinking of her didn't hurt so bad. Before he could get lost in the feeling, his shooting partner toed him. "Vakarian, drop the gun." He growled, still not quite sure how to handle the situation, but did.

"Good, now-"

After taking even a second to look at the vorcha, he realized none of them had a chance if they let him call the shots. He remembered the Blood Pack members he'd fought while on the Normandy; prisoners weren't their speciality. Taking a page from Shepard's book, he pulled out his pistol, used his visor for quick aiming, and shot. The vorcha dropped, leaving a mortified hostage standing in front of his corpse. Garrus told him, "Get out of here."

Guy didn't have to be told twice.

As he picked his sniper back up, the turian asked, "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"The most terrifying woman with a pistol in the entire Galaxy." Lucky for Garrus, the guy let him leave it at that.

They walked up to the last vorcha left, his leg bleeding. "You tell your boss that he better watch his ass around the wards, or he'll be dealing with us." For a second, the vorcha just stared at them, but then Garrus added, "Go!" And the vorcha didn't need to be told twice, either.

It wasn't geth ships and Reapers, but for a minute there, he felt like himself again. The person he was with her. Sure, that still fucking stung, but it didn't feel empty. It was the first thing that didn't feel empty in a long time.

Next to him, the turian chuckled. "That was pretty forward, assuming I want to team up with your crazy ass again."

"Says the man who begged me to help him." Holstering both of his weapons, he was ready to walk back onto the streets. They didn't need to fight everyone on Omega tonight. But walking side by side with this turian, his wheels started turning. He didn't want to lose this feeling. This was the closest he'd felt to her, to himself, since before the Normandy's destruction ripped all that away from him. He tried to act casual, but he knew what he was offering wasn't casual. It was fucking life or death. But maybe that's what made it feel right, like what he should be doing. Garrus asked, "What if this wasn't a one time thing?"

They walked out of the alley, and his new friend seemed to think it was a joke, his adrenaline-boosted shoulders still shaking a little. "What, asking me on a date here?"

"I'm serious. You were right, the mercs run these people into the ground. Let's do something about it." The turian stopped dead, next to him. Maybe Garrus was reaching, and maybe this was crazy, but... "I'm game if you are."

"Serious?"

"Serious."

He couldn't really make out his face, if he thought Garrus was talking out of his ass. And he didn't really look too sure of himself when he finally looked at the sniper, but he started to smile. There was a fire there in his eyes that Garrus could see growing. "Alright, I'm game, too."

"Good." Just as they started walking again, Garrus found himself in a situation so untactful that it was almost Shepard-like. Maybe that was a good sign. Scratching his head, he asked, like an idiot, "Since I just agreed to risk my ass with you, what's your name, anyway?"

"Lantar." The guy extended his hand and Garrus shook it. And when he did, it felt good, like he was finally doing something with his life again. Maybe things were starting to look up for him, even without Shepard. He already got one guy to join his own, reckless crusade. The turian named Lantar finished off with, "I'm an ex-informant for the Blue Suns, Lantar Sidonis."

///

OH BOY I was such an asshole writer about avoiding his name til the end.

I'm sure quite a few of you figured it out before we got there, but I'm still hyped about doing it.

Anyway, much thanks from my patrons:

Danyell Jones

Amy Connolly

If you want to support my stories (and a future of being fandom trash on Twitch with y'all) please check out my patron options in my bio or on these sites:

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[digimonadventuretimelines]

[18 - Bonds of Evolution!]

“Mitsuki… Do you think Zebra is a refugee digimon?” Elise’s question was straight to the point, but now with two weeks since their encounter with that Gabumon… She had to ask. She’s concerned and really had to ask.

“I told you” the older boy, phone in hands to record a new video of his discoveries from ‘ancient worlds’ (read it as stuff from past generations, 60s to 2010s) but not pressing that ‘rec’ button on the touchscreen, responded “It’s an assumption. Mirai and I were investigating the video from the town’s cameras.”

“Oh?”

“We don’t know why but… He was a BlackGarurumon when he crossed the gate.”

“He got hurt and devolved… Now it makes sense. Maybe he was fleeing from something?”

“It’s what Mirai is trying to discover since then” he frowned, and he had to shove those thoughts away… “Anyway, will you stay and be part of the video about the Tamagochi?”

“I… I need to take some snacks to Zebra. My dad is on a special mission in space, and my mother is working on the next website project.”

“Ah, fair then. Don’t forget to leave your like when i post the video~” he gave her a wink.

She giggled and nodded, then left the room.

“Natsu, is it possible to anyone use the pendant?” Daichi innocently asked, a deadpan face could hide his real reasons to make that particular question.

She took a while to reply, because being Daichi and Kiyoko’s nanny had taught her a few tricks those kids have.

“I assume it is. But you won’t get it from me, space-time travel is a dangerous thing and you’re responsible. Don’t try to use it without me.”

“Fine, I was interested about whatever happened on August 3rd.”

Natsu dropped her cup, but before it fell on the floor she used a pink bubble to capture it. Was he… “Sorry, Daichan but I can’t tell you that. Not yet.”

“Something happened there. In that world… What happened to my father in Mrs. Hikari’s place…?”

“It’s not something you need to know now. That story did not happen to him, it was with another Daisuke.”

“... If it is something that changed him, at least… His other-self is fine now?”

“Yes he is. Look at Hikari, she’s happy right now. Don’t worry, Daichan”

If Natsu could read him like she is able to read Daisuke, she would’ve realized him plotting something. He’s ready to uncover that secret, at all costs.

  Mirai was typing furiously again on her keyboard, too focused on to see a kid getting in. She stopped typing once the lights turned on.

“You busy now?” She heard a boy’s voice and turned to the entrance.

“Ah, Taisuke you’re here. Geez, knock before coming in! I need focus!!”

“Sorry sorry” he gave a nervous laugh “So, you are working right now… Any progress?”

She shook her head as response, and relaxed on the chair, “Since you contacted me, I’ve been searching for what you heard from Draki. However… I’ve learned about the others got digivices and some not-known DigiRune fragments.”

A type and a few commands and she opened a screen with various symbols, twelve in one circle and two on a row, separated from the others.

“Daichi and Hoshi have these unknown two, I’ve found out that they’re Tenacity and Happiness. The other twelve, eight of them has been known since 1999.”

“Hm…” he took a a digivice (!?) from his pocket. It was like Daichi’s but orange details instead “Draki mentioned those were used years ago. At least nine of them.”

“I wonder why does that digimon know a lot about the time of the legendary Twelve” she rested her chin on her hand, very alike Koushiro when thinking “Did he ever tell you how?”

“No,” he gave a shake of his head, calmly “He only said that he had met Ambassador Agumon a long time ago, and that that Agumon is my dad’s partner.”

“I see… Have you asked mr. Yagami how did he and Agumon meet each other? I asked my dad about mr. Tento, and he said they’re friends for a long time ago but I assume there’s more.”

“Uh… More?”

“Yeah Like-- Oh wait, a digimon is near the sector F right now. Should I tell the others?”

“... I can go, if things get bad handled tell Daichi.”

  A digimon with the looks of a human on a Cerberumon armor -- Cerberumon: Werewolf Mode -- appeared around Tokyo Big Sight, causing some chaos by terrorizing the people and digimon. It didn’t take much time until Ken’s arrival at the place, with Jewelbeemon.

“Capture the enemy” Ken ordered Jewelbeemon, “We need to ask them a few questions.”

“Roger.”

While the battle begun, the police tried to remove innocents from the area. On another place, Mimi had been in the TV Station and recording the next episode of her cooking show.

“And then you have a very delicious American Style Pancakes~ What do you would like to cook now? See you next time~”

“And cut” The director was Michael, Mimi’s husband. He had a smile in his face, “You were amazing today! Ah, Lilymon too.”

“When I evolve to this form, I can fulfill my inner chef~” Lilymon chirped “Oh next time we can try to make Croissant, like the ones we ate last month in France!”

“It’s a good idea!” Mimi grinned “Ah, I’d like to try make Pain au Chocolat too!”

A second later, the lights flashed til them shut down. Mimi and Michael looked at their digivices, and then they all fell the structure of Fuji TV tremble. They decided that this meant a digimon attack, or an earthshake. When the trio went to the window, they saw a MetalTyrannomon causing a fuss outside.

“Mimi” Lilymon gave a serious glare at her partner, who nodded. Michael looked back and to Betamon.

“Betamon and I will lead everyone to a safer area” he ran to the exit “Lilymon and you can handle it for a while, right? Call the Digimon Special Cases Unit for support.”

“Okay! Time to give them a lesson to not put everyone in danger! Lilymon, try to convince them to stop, maybe if you use your Flower Necklace against them?”

“Ok! One Flower Necklace might calm them down~”

Lilymon and Mimi left the building by the window, with the fairy-like digimon carrying Mimi in her arms. Once they landed, the duo noticed the mysterious Brave Tamer and a Blue Greymon fighting MetalTyrannomon, and the kid shouting to the innocents next to the area to leave quickly. Greymon wasn’t able to fight a perfect level digimon alone, but was enough to hold it for a while. Mimi glanced at Lilymon and her partner flew towards the fight, trying to create a ring of flowers around MetalTyrannomon’s neck. But before, Lilymon put Mimi at a safe distance from the fight.

“Ah shoot… It’s...” he muttered to himself.

“Hey child, you shouldn’t be here-- Huh, do I know you?”

“A-ah…? No you don’t!” he tried to mask his voice, making it a bit deeper “That digimon is targeting the Fuji TV building and Greymon and I are here to save the day, heheh.”

She didn’t believe it at all, or did she? Whatever was Mimi’s thoughts, she distracted for a second and something very very strange happened. She saw Lupinmon to the other side of the road, with a device. The black light coming from it hit MetalTyrannomon and made it evolve to RustyTyrannomon.

“What’s happening here!?” Mimi gasped, as Lilymon and Greymon are thrown away.

“G-Greymon!!” he dropped that tone of voice, running towards his partner.and stood closer to the digimon’s head “Are you okay, Greymon?”

 “That voice…” Mimi thought, but her chain of thoughts had been interrupted when RustyTyrannomon tried to hit the kid and Greymon “W-WATCH OUT!!” she yelled desperately, only to see Greymon eyes glowing and getting his body covered by the evolution’s light.

The blue Greymon evolved… to a black armored WarGreymon, like the one the Chosen Children had fought in the past. However, the only new detail was that the Black Shield on his back had the Crest of Courage.

“W-what…??” Brave Tamer was petrified at the moment, with his partner blocking RustyTyrannomon’s attack “You… You evolved?”

Lilymon mega evolve! Rosemon!

To counter attack the enemy, Rosemon appeared and threw her vines against RustyTyrannomon, “Let’s send it back to the Digital World” she told WarGreymon, who nodded and looked back at the kid.

“Stay with that woman” WarGreymon ordered “We will handle it.”

“R-right…”

  Mirai was sure something odd had happened, but she didn’t take part of it. She realized that two digimon had been in battle and those being Cerberumon and RustyTyrannomon. However, a third digimon approached from Elise and her new digi-friend.

Quickly, Mirai searched for the closest kid in the area. She at first thought of calling Daichi but she couldn’t find him at all. He was out of her reach. Her other option was…

“Mitsuki!! Big Problem, Elise is in danger! An unknown digimon is approaching from her and the found Gabumon, I can’t call Daichi or anyone so only you can assist her!!”

Mitsuki gasped, but had the sense to go and help his cousin as soon as possible. He quickly turned the computer off, grabber his D-TimeRune and went to the rescue.

But… How about Daichi? Why was he out of Mirai’s reach?!

  “I can’t believe we’re back here” Ulforce wasn’t expecting Daichi to be ‘lucky’ and open the door to the same alternate world again, with the difference of it being three years later “How did you do that?”

“You weren’t tricking me, were you?” Natsu squinted her eyes at Daichi.

“No. It was a coincidence, and I feel there’s something we need to do here.”

Odaiba was normal, but something was odd. It was grayish, like if it colors had lost. He had to realize… That wasn’t even a normal world. They heard Ken’s voice.

“No… Please stay away from them…! You… You want me right?!”

The space-time traveler trio approached, and then hid behind a building. What they saw was the younger kids with Taichi facing… Daemon.

“What the…!?” Natsu whispered.

“Ichijouji no!” Taichi said “You can’t do that!!”

“I already hurt everyone, I can’t let--”

A truck stopped near them, and Arukenimon got out from it.

“Ichijouji Ken, you will come with us.”

“No!” Daemon spoke quickly and before Ken could answer her “He will come with me.”

“He will go with neither of you!” Daisuke growled, “Silphymon!”

“Wait Daisuke” Ken stood in front of the group, “Why should I go with you Arukenimon?”

“Wait, would you go with either of them!?” Miyako gasped.

“Oh, you won’t want those children to be disappointed with their favorite genius~” Arukenimon then open the truck’s doors and revealed children inside “Your choice, brat~”

“... You…!!” Ken had no other option and walked to the truck. The group and Daemon were surprised, but the 02 team and Taichi were the vocal ones.

“Don’t do that!” Taichi yelled “Ichijouji, don’t--”

It was too late, Ken entered in and Arukenimon closed the doors. She returned to her seat and the truck left. Daemon murmured something, like swearing and followed the truck.

“Ken!!” Daisuke tried to go after it but no lucky. Hikari evolved V-mon to Lighdramon, grabbed Wormmon and went after them “Hi-Hikari!!”

“That girl is audacious” Iori blinked, “So uh, what should we do?”

“Daemon Corp. is still around” Taichi begun “Imperialdramon is out of question, so I think it’s up to the rest of you. I will grab Yamato so we can plan how to rescue Ichijouji and assist Hikari. Daisuke, you’re the lead here.”

“B-But big bro…!!”

“Um… Can we help?” Daichi, Ulforce and Natsu walked into their direction. Again, he hid the goggles under his scarf.

“Wh-who are you!?” Miyako gasped “You look like Daisuke!!”

“No I don’t,” Daichi sighed “I’m just a regular Chosen Child.”

“... Any help is welcomed” Daisuke nodded “Who are you, kiddo?”

“... Just call me by Daichi please.”

“Ok, I’m Daisuke and these are Miyako, Iori, Takeru and my brother Taichi.”

“... We will follow them, if you trust us.”

Taichi and Daisuke looked at each other, then to the group. Could they trust that kid? Also, where did he come from? It could be a trap, or not? After a few minutes of glances at each other, Taichi shrugged.

“Ok, you kid go after Hikari and Ichijouji. The rest get focused against the Daemon Corp.”

“Right!” they all agreed.