#How Much Cash is Snowflake is Generating?

[empresa-journal]

Is Buffett Right about Snowflake (SNOW)?

Mr. Market thinks Warren Buffett is right about data-cloud company Snowflake (SNOW). Snowflake’s share price rose from $122.45 on 15 June 2022 to $190.14 on 15 June 2023. However, Snowflake’s price fell to $184.18 on 16 June 2023. Buffett’s Berkshire Hathaway (BRK.B) has owned 6.13 million SNOW shares since first quarter 2020. This purchase surprised investors because Snowflake was an initial…

[jabberwockymoreau]

So very excited to finally be able to post my @aftgsecretsnowflake gift for the wonderful @sturmdunkel! I'm incredibly in love with this AU I came up with for your robot prompt, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it <3

Tags: T, Andrew/Neil, Alternative Universe – Sci Fi, Sci Fi AU, Robots and Androids, Robot AU, Aftg Secret Snowflake

Length: 10k

Summary:

Andrew Minyard has drawn his lot in life. Working a boring job as a gas station attendant by day and earning some extra cash fixing up whatever cyborgs and androids pass through the small town of Millport, Arizona was never his dream, but then men like Andrew don't have dreams. The money's good, and that's all that matters because he has a brother racking up student debt in med school. It also means that when a runaway android from the nation's most notorious tech company stumbles into his store, Andrew is forced to help him out to protect the investments he's already made. Or something like that. - Or, an Andreil Robot AU

Excerpt:

The smile turned into a grimace. “Right, right. Well, you see, my bike’s battery died, so I’ll need one of these...uh, can you recommend any?”

And Andrew should probably let him leave it at that. It wasn’t his business what his customers got up to, especially not the lying kind. But before Andrew could think better of it he asked: “How far out?”

“Some miles. Not too bad. An okay walk without the bike.” He shrugged.

And Andrew really should just let it be. Except this was the middle of nowhere in Arizona. The gas station’s address was nominally listed as Millport, but it was several miles out from the town that was really a few streets clustered around a church and a general store, it’s existence only excused by the fact that it sat along a major highway and the occasional passersby needed gas, food or a roof over their head. Dozens of miles of barren wasteland accompanied the highway to both sides of the gas station, offering no shade with which to protect against the aggressive, early summer sun.

Even inside the air conditioned shop Andrew could feel the heat press in, sweat collecting underneath the black armbands he wore with his T-shirt. In a few weeks it would be unbearable – yet there was no perspiration on the man’s pale skin. Or sunburn. His sluggish, odd behavior could be heatstroke. Andrew had seen that before, and the symptoms weren’t off. But his professional guess was a different one.

Without a word he stepped past the man, heading towards the coolers that lined the front of the shop. The man followed, then paused by the last row of shelves before the gap of the aisle, holding onto them for balance. His expression was confused, but Andrew delivered him an answer before he had time to ask. Grabbing a bottle of water, he tossed it at the man and then watched it bounce of his chest and drop to the floor. The man blinked, only understanding after the fact, and bent down carefully to pick it up.

It was supposed to be a simple test to prove Andrew’s theory correct: All commercial androids lacked an esophagus and the appropriate organs to imbibe and digest food and drink. After all, there was no point in such vanities, when the space inside the faux-human body could instead be used for more storage and better ventilation to help the machine exist. That the man wasn’t human Andrew had really no doubt about: He’d seen enough of them in his life to be able to tell the small differences in the way the machines moved and perceived the world, compared to humans.

But after slowly deciphering the label, the android made no excuse for itself. It simply uncapped the bottle and downed the entire thing in three large gulps.

Andrew let the freezer door fall shut, unable to tear his eyes away from the way the android’s throat moved as it drank. A shiver ran down his spine, and it had nothing to do with the cold that had escaped from the coolers: There was only one android manufacturer in the world whose machines could have passed this little test, and that meant this one was trouble. Not the kind they had been expecting, perhaps, but this million dollar investment in its filthy rags was broken. Andrew doubted it would make it out of the desert even with a solar charger to substitute for its busted battery, and if its body was found along the highway that would lead the wrong people right to Millport – and Kevin.

It was a risk Andrew couldn’t afford.

[read on Ao3]

[alpacaparkaseok]

How to Sell Sunshine |14|

Chapter 14. Omertà

→ Pairing: mafia!BTS x reader (not poly)

→ word count: 27.8k (literally someone sue me)

→ warnings/tags: blood, firearms used quite a bit, same with knives, explosions, death, kissing, general betrayal, this is the finale so there’s that, Lambo is spic and span and ready to roll, Jimin drank all the milk

→ a/n: Thank you for being so patient. Thank you for joining the ride. I look forward to hearing your thoughts! Please look for my note at the end of the chapter, there’s some important information there!

Past

On the morning of April 14th, 2018, it snowed. “A light dusting” the newscasters called it, covered head to toe in mittens and beanies. “Unusual” and “unprecedented” they repeated on every channel, showing the thin layer of snow covering Queen’s Wharf.

It struck you as poignant then, as you walked out into the dawn with blood spattered on your dress, that it was snowing. Little white snowflakes clung to your red gown, as if they could cleanse you of your wrongs. Walking into the silent street, you stopped for a moment as the cold nipped at your heels.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Yadiel hadn’t gone quietly, although he was much more subdued than you’d expected. Perhaps the dress really was a good choice, after all. The man always did have a strange obsession with the color red.

It’s difficult to repress a shudder as you think back on the way his eyes roved your body, how his breath felt against the back of your neck as he followed close behind you.

He saw the gun. You know that there’s no way he didn’t – not with a dress this tight. It’s the fact that he didn’t say anything about it that makes you worry, even now. Even when you left him bleeding out on the floor of his own home.

Smoothing the fabric down, you flip a long coat around your shoulders as a cab meanders by. Right on time. You step up to the curb as they roll down the passenger side window. It’s an older man, with kind eyes. He looks worried as he surveys you in your dress that probably offers little to no warmth.

“It’s chilly out,” he says, voice raspy from exhaustion. No doubt he’s coming off of the night shift. “Where ya headed?”

He doesn’t ask much more, knowing that this place is crawling with gang members. Few people come to the cul-de-sac on the east side of Queen’s Wharf for anything beyond what duty requires.

“Drop me off at 312?” The cabbie gestures for you to hop in the back, which you do so quickly. The heater is on full blast, instantly soothing the ache in your chest.

           “312 it is,” the cabbie says, instantly heading off toward the south. It’s a well-known location, a club only a block away from your dingy apartment. Anyone who steps foot inside Queen’s Wharf has either heard of it or smelled it.

           You stare out the window as the cul-de-sac turns into apartment buildings. Shock begins to settle into your bones once the 312 comes into view, and it’s a struggle to keep your hands from shaking as you finagle a wad of cash from your garter where your gun is safely tucked away.

           “Keep the change,” you blurt out before throwing the door open. A rush of cold wind takes your breath away, and you pull the coat a little tighter around your frame as you watch the cab drive off. Once he’s around the corner and out of sight, you cross the street and head up the block.

           Clubbers are wandering about in a daze, a few very clearly drugged while a couple more puke up last night’s drinks. The smell jolts you a bit, the alcohol burning your nostrils and replacing the smell of Yadiel’s aftershave that spilled on the carpet after you stumbled back from his dying body.

           Up ahead, a little green door opens up, revealing a familiar face.

           “What did you do?”

           Quickening your steps, you push past Taehyung and into your apartment. “Close the door, before you let the cold in.” He does so immediately, but you know it’s because he’s more worried about people overhearing your conversation than running up the heating bill.

           Inside, Jungkook snores on the discolored brown couch. His mouth is slightly ajar, hair ruffled with his arms wrapped around his middle. It’s an endearing sight, one that you’ve grown used to seeing as you’ve been coming home later and later.

           “What did you-” Taehyung starts again, but you hold up a finger and motion for him to follow you. Heading into your room, you close the door behind him. Taehyung looks exasperated, not caring whether or not your conversation woke up Jungkook.

           “I paid Yadiel a visit.”

           Blinking, Taehyung looks you up and down. The action sends an unwanted thrill through your body, and you can’t help but lift your head a little higher when Taehyung’s breath catches as you unzip your coat and move to hang it up.

           “Did he attack you?” He asks, eyeing the little drops of deep scarlet littering the front of your dress. “Whose blood is that?”

           “Tae, when do I ever come back not covered in blood?”

           He snorts, nodding along. “Ok, true enough. But what happened?”

           Taking a deep breath, you steel up all of the nerve you can manage. Despite the messy black hair and the pajama set Taehyung is wearing, he’s still intimidating like this. You still aren’t quite used to the possessive way he looks at you sometimes.

           “He’s had this coming for a long time.”

           Something shutters in Taehyung’s expression, screaming distrust. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

           “Yadiel was using me to get to my father. Stupid, if you ask me, my father couldn’t care less if I were dead or alive.”

           Again, there’s a slight change in Taehyung’s face. “Was?”

           Holding your breath, you stalk up to him and turn, pulling your hair to one side. The red gown clings to your body, feeling as real as the boy at your back. A part of you feels as if it was a witness to your crime last night, and now you’re two steps away from clawing it off of you. The need to get rid of Yadiel’s blood echoes in your mind, and you roll your neck, ridding yourself of those thoughts.

           “Unzip me?”

           Seconds pass, stacking on top of each other until it’s a towering pile of tension that’s threatening to crush you. You’re about to look back over your shoulder to see what the hold-up is, but then you feel Taehyung’s surprisingly cold hands on the nape of your neck.

           They ghost over your skin, feather-light and frozen. He hesitates, holding his hands there as if trying to decide whether he should kill you with those hands or do as you asked.

           It’s always been this way with Taehyung. You’ve seen the way he looks at you sometimes, with such unwavering intensity that the only words that come to mind are crime of passion.

           The zipper whispers to you as he slowly runs it down your gown. It isn’t until you feel his breath along your neck that you realize how close he’s gotten. The zipper reaches the bottom, but neither of you move. You remain paralyzed, forever stuck in this moment as Taehyung releases a shaky exhale.

           “I killed him.”

           Taehyung’s slow inhale is dizzying when you realize he’s breathing in the lingering perfume along your nape. “Hmm?” He hums out, clearly in a daze.

           “…Yadiel,” his name makes your tongue feel leaden. “I killed him.”

           The confession is barely a whisper, but it’s enough. Taehyung jerks away in an instant, eyes wild as he turns you around to face him. “You what?” He shouts.

           Wincing, you shake your head. “I had to, Tae. You knew that as well as anyone. I can’t keep living like this-”

           “Don’t call me that,” Taehyung hisses, pointing an accusing finger at you. “And don’t lie to me. We’re screwed now!”

           You’re so focused on what’s right in front of you that you hardly notice the figure in the doorway. “So you’d rather I die as a pawn? Is that what you’re saying? What do you care, anyway? You never had to deal with him! You don’t understand what kind of – of monster he is!”

           Stepping forward, Taehyung fumes as he stares down at you. “You murdered the best chance we had at getting out of this hellhole. You did this to us.”

           “This hellhole is a temporary solution for only two more weeks,” you spit back, glorying in the surprise in his eyes. “While you’ve been complaining, I’ve been planning. Pack your bags, Kim. We’re moving.”

           Taehyung rolls his eyes, not believing a single word out of your mouth. “You’ve been saying the same thing for years. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

           With that, he strides from the room, nearly colliding with a bleary-eyed Jungkook. Seconds later, the front door slams shut, leaving the two of you in the silence.

           “You…” Jungkook stares at you, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Yadiel…” Then, he tilts his head to the side, fighting an amused smile. “Your dress is a little, uh…open.”

           Jumping, you rush over to grab some sweats and a shirt, closing the door on Jungkook’s grinning face. Once you’re fully clothed again, you open the door to see him still standing there, much more solemn.

           “He’s gone?”

           You nod once, stomach knotting. “He’s gone.” Silence falls, before you recall what Taehyung shouted. “Do you think we won’t make it without him?”

           Jungkook’s response is immediate as he pushes off the wall, leading you into the bathroom where he runs the faucet for you to wash your hands. To rid yourself of Yadiel.

           “We’ll figure it out,” he quietly reassures, watching your trembling hands as you lather on more soap than necessary. Leaning forward, you look up to see Jungkook in the mirror as he places a soft kiss atop your head. It’s chaste and sweet, so stark in the face of what you’ve done in the past few hours.

           You wash your hands over and over. Jungkook doesn’t say anything for a long while before softly suggesting that you take a hot shower.

           “For the record,” Jungkook adds, lingering in the hall before you close the door. “I’m glad he’s gone. And I…” He looks at you then, looking much older in the blink of an eye. “I think you were very brave.”

           The words are meant to be a comfort, but they send a fissure through your heart all the same. Jungkook always sees the good in you – the bravery where all you see is cowardice. Not trusting yourself to speak, you simply nod before closing the door.

           The shower runs cold after fifteen minutes, but you stay until your teeth are chattering so hard that it’s starting to give you a headache. Under the water, you can pretend to drown all your worries.

           The act falls apart four years later.

--

Present

           “Look,” Jungkook whispers, leaning forward until his nose is practically smashed against the windshield of the SUV. “Looks like the changing of the guard.”

           In the back seat, Namjoon looks up from where he’s been playing a game on his phone, squinting into the darkness. On the far edge of the cul-de-sac, Yadiel’s home is a glistening gem of activity. Black silhouettes barely stand out against the navy sky, but your trained eyes immediately pick them out on the roof like a hawk from an oak.

           “Time?” You ask, not daring to look away for a mere second. Jungkook flips open the small notebook he brought with him. He’s always been funny like that, refusing to use his phone for storing any important information. A piece of paper is easy to burn, he’d say, but the internet is infinite.

           That, of course, was usually preceded by a long rant about Mark Zuckerberg, but you push that aside for the moment.

           “9:33.”

           “And the last one?”

           “9:01.”

           Pursing your lips, you nod. “32 minute increments?”

           Namjoon pipes up, keeping his voice low despite the safety of the SUV. “What if he changes it depending on if it’s night or morning?”

           “What do you mean?”

           He shrugs, returning to his game now that the excitement has faded. “Like, 60 minute intervals in the morning, forty-five minutes in the afternoon, and thirty at night.”

           Jungkook exchanges a look with you, weighing the likelihood of Namjoon’s theory. “I remember Yadiel saying something about keeping guard routes random. That could go hand in hand with schedules.” He pauses, a light coming into his eyes. “What was it like the night you…”

           “Thought I killed him?”

           Wincing, Jungkook nods. Namjoon makes an interested noise, still not looking up from his phone as he speaks. “Oh, that’s right. I haven’t heard about that night yet.”

           Watching the guards who have stilled on the roof, you sigh. The memories of that night are drudged up in your memory far too often; nightmares bringing them back to life for your own personal torment again and again.

           “I went in at half past four,” you finally say, steeling your voice. Sitting here, across from the place that’s haunted you for years, brings the memory to life in new and terrifying ways. “His security wasn’t what it is now, back then.”

           Jungkook nods, remembering it for himself. He’d paid several visits to Yadiel’s home in the past – none of them willingly.

           “So you just walked right in?” Namjoon asks. He pauses his game now, setting it face up on the seat. You catch sight of the screen. Anagrams.

           Your head is already nodding before you answer. “Yadiel called me in. I…set a few things up, before. Things that I knew he’d want me there for.”

           “What kind of things?”

           “News, from my father. Plans that Yadiel would want me to be aware of. My father was moving precious cargo that night, and Yadiel never missed a chance to send me after him.”

           Namjoon’s brows furrow. “Why?”

           You meet his eyes in the mirror, pleased to see the bond that the two of you have forged in the past 24 hours still burns bright there. “He figured I was his ticket to the top,” you shrug, still not understanding Yadiel’s logic. “Strange, because he knew that I meant nothing to my father. But the connection was still there, I suppose.”

           “Ok ok, so you walked in…and what happened next?” Namjoon moves the story along, bringing a smile to your face at his impatience.

           “I worked my magic,” you drawl, sending him a sloppy wink. It’s met with a collective groan from both boys, making your smile grow. “Hey! I can be sexy when I want to!”

           Jungkook shakes his head furiously, head falling into his hands. “Nope. No. We’re not having this conversation again.”

           Namjoon barks a laugh. “Again?”

           Trailing your finger under Jungkook’s chin, you tip his face up until his wide eyes meet you. “You really think you’re in a position to dispute my abilities?” Pink rushes his cheeks, and he slowly shakes his head as a memory swims in his vision. “That’s what I thought.”

           Guffawing now, Namjoon points between the two of you. “That’s a lot to unpack, and I-” he wipes at the corner of his eyes mockingly. “Don’t have the attention span for it. Hurry up.”

           “It was fairly simple, which should’ve been my first worry,” you admit. “I kept him distracted. He’s always had a weird obsession with the color red, you know? So I wore a red dress and talked to him.”

           “Just talked?” Namjoon asks.

           “That’s all. Talked about the past, about what I was worried about with my training, and then I asked him if he’d ever let me go.”

           Jungkook stills in the passenger seat. You’ve rarely given this much insight into your ordeal with Yadiel that night, but he knows well enough what Yadiel would’ve answered. “He refused, I assume.”

           Jaw clenched, you survey the house once more. It seems utterly calm there, sending warning bells ringing through your head. Your hand fiddles with the gear shift, wondering if it might be in your best interest to clear out for a while.

           “Sort of.” Another car has pulled onto the street, the sleek red appearing as fluid as blood as it moves silently down the road. “He said he would, but I’d have to kill you, first.”

           “Kill me?” Jungkook chokes out. “Why me?”

           Why Jungkook? You’d asked a similar question that night, appalled at the thought of killing your closest friend for a shot at freedom. You weren’t foolish – you knew what that would mean. Leaving one prison cell for a new one, riddled with guilt and regret.

           The car pulls up alongside the house, striking you as odd. It doesn’t pull through the gates, as if dropping someone off. Sure enough, the driver’s side opens and a figure that you still see in your nightmares stalks to the other side.

           “It’s him,” Jungkook whispers, mouth agape. His eyes follow Yadiel as he opens the passenger side door, and a woman steps out.

           She’s blindingly beautiful, you note. Wearing a skin-tight red dress that looks all too similar to the one you wore the night Yadiel was shot. She offers him a warm smile before he leans in for a chaste kiss on the cheek. Her long hair sways as she turns, moving with the kind of elegance you wish you could capture.

           Guards step aside, opening the gates for her to enter. Yadiel gets back in the car, waiting. You turn to look at Jungkook, eyebrows furrowing, but something else catches your eye.

           Namjoon, sitting there looking like he’s been stabbed through the heart.

           “Victoria,” he whispers. Twice, as if making sure he can still say it. “Victoria.” As if the name itself might float away if he doesn’t say it again.

           From the look in his eyes, you worry that he might leap out of the car and chase after her, completely blowing your cover. But he doesn’t move. Namjoon remains completely still as his cloudy eyes remain glued to the spot where she disappeared from view. The gate, now locked and secured, posing as a closed door to the outpouring of memories that threaten to take him down.

           “…who?” Jungkook asks gently. “You know her?”

           “The woman in red,” you mumble. “Remember her, Jungkook? She’s the one that planted Yadiel’s message at the café a couple of weeks ago.” You recall seeing her striding out of the café in a red pantsuit; each step laced with power.

           “You’ve seen her before this?” Namjoon asks, eyes unable to tear away from where Victoria just disappeared.

           “You know her?” Jungkook counters, craning his neck in a way that looks painful, trying to catch Namjoon’s eye. “Old flame?” He asks, biting back a grin.

           Namjoon’s gaze snaps to Jungkook, trouble flashing in those eyes of his. “Try the girl I thought I’d marry someday until Yadiel stole her out from under me.”

           It’s your turn to crane your neck, eyes wide. “What?”

           “You’ve never seemed like the type to settle down,” Jungkook muses, completely unphased.

           “Yeah, well,” Namjoon’s jaw ticks with a hint of annoyance, “you’ve always struck me as the type to marry the first girl that gave you an ounce of attention, so there’s that I guess.”

           “Ouch,” you hiss, dodging Jungkook’s wounded stare. “Play nice.”

           Yadiel has begun driving again, turning down a darkened street at a leisurely pace. You watch the lights fading, mind churning before you decide to bite the bullet.

           “Namjoon,” you’ve already put the car into drive, but you hold the brake. “I’m dropping you here. Keep your distance, glean whatever information you can about this place.”

           Namjoon has one foot out of the car, face set in stony determination. “Meet back in an hour?”

           You nod. “Don’t approach her.” Meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror, clench your jaw. “That’s an order.”

           He doesn’t respond, simply stepping out of the car without a backward glance. Not wanting to waste time, you leave him to disappear into the shadows as you begin to trail Yadiel.

           The car feels smaller without Namjoon’s hulking presence in the back, leaving only Jungkook for company. You see him fiddling with his seatbelt out of the corner of your eye, clearly feeling the pressure just like you.

           “There,” you mutter once you catch sight of Yadiel’s car up ahead. It’s simultaneously a relief and a worry to have caught up to him so easily.

           “Probably a trap,” Jungkook replies, matching your low tone. You say nothing; only grunting in agreement.

           The streets steadily deteriorate as you keep a safe distance behind Yadiel. Golden streetlamps turn to seedy neon lights the closer you get to Queen’s Wharf; each block tying another knot in the pit of your stomach.

           At last, Yadiel pulls in front of a crumbling motel called River Run. You watch as he strides inside with his head tucked low, whistling a lilting tune that sends shivers down your spine. It’s a tune he often picked up while you were staking out a job. There’s a moment of stilted silence as both you and Jungkook fight out of the memories that threaten to overcome you; Jungkook breaking out of it first.

           “I’ll head in first,” he says, already unbuckling his seatbelt. You stiffen, hand jolting out to stop him.

           You push on his chest until he’s leaning back in his chair, eyeing you warily. Beneath your fingertips his heart beats wildly; a testament to his fear at seeing Yadiel again.

           “No,” you finally manage, tearing past your blind fear. “I’ll go. You stay here and call Jimin-”

           Jungkook’s hand rests on yours, feeling his own heartbeat. When he speaks, his eyes are kind despite his cold voice. “Just because I’m afraid doesn’t mean I can’t do this. Besides, we need to stick to the plan.”

           You blink. “…Jungkook.” You can’t bring yourself to care about the plan - carefully crafted last night in the wee hours of the morning - when you just saw Yadiel mere feet away.

           “Let me…” he shakes his heads, gently pulling your hand away and setting it back on your lap. “You’re the only person who thinks I break so easily, you know that?”

           Your throat constricts before you can choke out an appropriate response to that, but by the time you open your mouth, Jungkook is already walking down the street.

           “That little…” you shake your head before pulling up a number on your phone that you’ve rarely used before. The phone rings twice through the car speakers before a familiar voice answers; sounding breathless.

           “Hey, how’s it going?”

           Despite all that’s happened between you and the blond in such a short amount of time, you can’t help but grin at the way he tries to keep his tone nonchalant.

           “Jimin.”

           “Huh – yeah?” A stifled groan has you wondering who elbowed him. Most likely Hoseok. “Yes? Is everything alright?” Jimin says, sounding much more professional.

           “Fine, I think. You’ve got eyes on our location?”

            “Yes. Namjoon texted me saying that you and him split away from Jungkook. He’s trailing someone at the River Run?”

           “That’s right. Yadiel stopped in; Jungkook went in to take a look. I’ll be in shortly as backup once we’re finished here.”

A pause, one filled with pointed stares and mimed messages on the other side of the phone, you’re sure. Then, the sound of movement. A door opens and closes, and it’s suddenly quieter than before. “I’m alone now,” Jimin mutters. “Yoongi and Seokjin have eyes on the traitor.”

           You let out a long breath, eyes slipping shut against your better judgement. A headache pulses behind your eyes, and you roll your neck in one slow motion. “How’s he doing?”

           “He’s…a little agitated, but nothing too out of the ordinary. Claims that he hates being cooped up while you’re out having all the fun.”

          Stalking your psychotic mentor into a trap isn’t your idea of fun, but you suppose Taehyung has a twisted sense of humor. “I’m sorry to make you all hang back,” you say, and you mean it. “Too many of us would draw attention – that doesn’t mean I don’t trust you-”

           “You don’t have to worry about me,” Jimin cuts you off, and you can hear the rueful smile in his voice. “I understand.”

           Now is not the time for you to dive into a much needed conversation with Jimin – the one you pulled in so close only to turn your back on once things became too hard – so you settle with a curt, “Thanks. Keep an eye on me? I’m heading in.”

           “Copy that, boss. Stay safe.”

           The call ends, and you attach a small earpiece to the inside of your ear. It crackles to life, Jimin’s soft voice slipping through. “Looks like Kook’s on the second floor. Southeastern corner.”

You make a noise of acknowledgement before flipping your hood up and hopping out of the car. You check your reflection in the window, hoping to look like a moody young woman on the run and not a wanted criminal.

           The interior of River Run is nothing more than a laughable attempt at luxury. The supposedly marble countertop at the front desk is peeling, revealing the 70’s style wood beneath. Light fixtures range from a bottle green chandelier to a bald light above the front desk, which acts as a spotlight for the gum-chewing receptionist who eyes you with a look of disdain the second you walk inside.

           “Busy night,” she drawls, “we’re going to be out of rooms at this rate.”

           You hardly restrain your annoyed expression. “Good thing I already have a room.”

           Her gum pops and snaps. “Is that right? I don’t remember seeing you.”

           “My boyfriend’s the one that got the room,” you keep walking, heading for the stairs when the receptionist makes a delighted noise.

           “Oh, that guy? I would tell you to use protection but with a man like that, it might be nice to keep him around.”

           You blush down to your toes, and then feel your stomach turn as you wonder who she’s referring to: Jungkook or Yadiel. Either way, you push the door open to the stairs and call over your shoulder, “We’ll try to keep it down, but no promises!”

           Her cackle follows you into the stairwell, and you find that it’s contagious as your own chuckle pushes past your lips. Shaking your head, you ascend the steps. Soon you’re passing the second-floor landing, pushing on to the third floor.

           “Entering third floor,” you whisper.

           “Careful,” Jimin whispers back. Biting back the urge to respond sarcastically, you push the door open. It appears clear of any activity, although as you pass the first room you hear a few noises that remind you that not all of the occupants are asleep as of yet.

           “Southeastern corner…” you mutter to yourself, heading back toward the final room at the end of the hallway. A light flickers as you pass it, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Glancing back over your shoulder, there’s nobody there.

           There’s no windows in the hallway, leaving little choice but to break into room 307. Knocking lightly, you clear your throat. “An extra pillow for room 307?”

           A muffled response is all you receive, so you call out again, “Sir? Extra pillow for-”

           The door is all but ripped open, revealing a man with a very large mustache and a seething stare. “I said I didn’t ask for-”

           You move quickly, pushing the door open just enough to jam your elbow into his windpipe. The man slumps, clutching his throat while you hit him square in the temple. He wavers, staggering back while you step inside the room. A quick scan of the area shows that he’s alone; a tender mercy.

           “In the bathroom,” you haul the man to his feet, wheezing as he shifts his dead weight onto you. “Take a nice, long shower. How about that?”

           He grunts, attempting to say something scathing but only rasping out a jumble of incoherent syllables. Thankfully, he doesn’t put up much of a fight. Whether from your blows or from the alcohol that reeks of, you’re not sure. Once he’s stumbled into the bathroom, you take a bed sheet that smells of something rancid and tie one end to the bathroom door and the other to the room door.

           “…everything good?” Comes Jimin’s voice, startling you.

           “Good,” you say, holding a hand over your heart as it pounds. “Just buying myself some time before he figures out a way to get out.” A voice from beyond Jimin filters into your earpiece, and Jimin’s light laugh is tinged with concern. “Who else is with you?” You question, nearing the window. The last thing you need is for Taehyung to realize that you’re not with Namjoon but actually here, a mere level above Yadiel.

           “Just Seokjin. He came out to check on you.”

           Rolling your eyes as you open the window, you assess the descent warily. “Tell him to mind his own business.”

           Jimin begins to relay the message, but Seokjin’s voice, clearer now, cuts him off. “You are my business, sweetheart.”

          Your choked laugh seems to bounce off the brick wall right next to River Run, so close that you could reach out and brush it with your fingers. Clapping a hand over your mouth as if you could catch the sound before it left, you brace yourself for what’s about to come next.

           “Heading down now.” You’re met with silence, a testament to the stress coursing through everyone’s veins.

           A deceivingly thin rope is what you have to put all your faith in as you slowly begin the descent. Your heart ratchets up into your throat as you lower yourself down next to the windowsill of Yadiel’s room. The window is cracked open just an inch or so, allowing you to hear the gruff voices within.

           “Look at you,” Yadiel is saying, sounding for all the world like an old baseball coach, “you’ve grown up quite nicely.”

           Bracing both hands on the far corner of the windowsill, you dare to peek through the crack in the curtains.

           Jungkook stands near the door, hands in his pockets in a show of nonchalance. His eyes are trained on Yadiel, who sits on the foot of the bed.

           The mere sight of him knocks the air from your lungs.

           “Although, I will say that I never expected this from you,” Yadiel continues. He fiddles with a gleaming watch, slowly taking it off and laying it lovingly on the bed beside him. “I thought you loved our little Bianchi darling.”

           Our. The word hits you just as it hits Jungkook, who can’t quite school his features before slipping back into something between wariness and anticipation.

           “I do.”

           “And? I doubt she’ll take kindly to this visit, then.”

           “I don’t expect forgiveness, Yadiel.”

           “What are you expecting, Jungkook?” Rising from the bed, Yadiel begins to push up the sleeves of his white button-down, revealing a slew of tattoos against his tanned skin.

           Jungkook’s eyes remain on Yadiel’s. “Her safety.”

           “Her safety,” he echoes, frowning. He’s completely rolling his sleeves up, now turning his attention back to Jungkook. “I taught you better than that. What of your own?”

           “Her safety, her freedom, far away from you,” Jungkook drags his eyes over Yadiel’s tall form with disgust. “Those are my conditions. In return, do what you will with the estate.”

           Yadiel seems to be holding his breath. “And you?”

           “Am I to assume that I’m still of use to you?” Jungkook’s chin rises a bit in defiance.

           “Oh Jungkook,” he smiles softly. “I’m resourceful. So yes, I believe I could find a use for you.”

Yadiel pauses in his seemingly endless movements, pausing with his head cocked to the side as if listening to the devil that’s taken up permanent residency on his shoulder. “I wonder…” he mutters before stepping forward and grabbing Jungkook’s arm.

           He doesn’t resist as Yadiel shoves his sleeve up, yanking his arm until it’s extended. Yadiel examines Jungkook’s tattoos before settling upon one in particular. Smiling wide, Yadiel taps the tattoo of a red eye – the twin to his own just below his elbow.

           You bite back a gasp, mind reeling as you wonder how you never noticed the matching tattoos. The implications of such a mark conjure up a million different scenarios – all of them horrific.

           “A price for everything,” Yadiel muses aloud, still gazing at the twin markings. “So you do remember some of the things I taught you.”

           “A few,” Jungkook grinds out, finally taking his arm out of Yadiel’s grasp. “Do we have a deal?”

           Yadiel grins, the very action screaming distrust, before extending a hand for Jungkook to shake. “I believe we do.”

--

           Everything aches. Your tailbone, your thighs, and your right shoulder which remains jammed up against the River Run’s crumbling exterior as you listen to Jungkook luring Yadiel into a trap.

           You have to give him credit; Jungkook hasn’t tried to throttle him once.

           Step by step, the trap is set. The location agreed upon; Jungkook lightly insisting for the church in Queen’s Wharf. The bait is dangled above Yadiel like a carrot before a horse; another mafia to add to his list of conquering and an opening to move in on bigger, more notorious mafia families.

           Nearly an hour later, you jerk out of the daze you found yourself in when you realize that Jungkook is saying his farewell.

           “I’ll see you soon, then,” he mutters, door opening. You remain pressed up against the wall, refusing to risk looking into the room for fear of blowing your cover.

           Yadiel’s footsteps are light as he follows Jungkook to the door. “Thanks for dropping in. Oh, and one more thing-”

           Craning to listen to the quiet words, you freeze as your feel a tremor in your rope.

           A matter of two seconds is all the time you have to brace your legs against the opposite wall, pressing your back into the rough brick with a wince. Grappling for your gun, you point it up toward the open window on the third floor.

           It would appear that the mustache-clad man wasn’t as drunk as you thought. That, or he managed a lot of sobering up during he time in the bathroom. He sticks his head out the window, your rope in hand and mouth open with an insult surely waiting on his tongue.

           Whatever he was about to yell down is caught in his throat at you aim your gun at him. His face pales, and he throws the end of your rope down to you before disappearing back inside his room, window slamming shut.

           You curse as quietly as possible, legs already beginning to shake with the exertion. Back screaming and lungs heaving as your bruised ribs remind you of yesterday’s excursions, you struggle to steady your breathing.

           Inside Yadiel’s room, the door snicks shut. Ears ringing as you try to listen for something – anything – you splay your hands against the wall at your back.

           Jimin’s voice crackles to life in your ear. “Everything alright?”

           You’re frozen, not daring to make a sound as you stare at Yadiel’s window. The thought of him lurking just inside and you dangling here like his next meal is enough to have you shaking in equal parts strain and terror.

           “No, she’s still here Seokjin. Because I can still hear her breathing, that’s why. Why would I-”

           Aggressively rubbing your ear against your shoulder, you pop the earpiece out. The second you do, the world seems to press in around you. A faint clatter from below seals the death of your earpiece, making you wince in guilt. Still, you can’t think when Jimin’s in your ear trying to explain your lack of a response to-

           A creak sounds and you watch in horror as Yadiel’s window slowly opens the rest of the way. Long, scarred fingers curl around the windowsill before the rest of a body leans out, like a snake emerging from its den.

           Yadiel looks different from the last time you saw him. More lithe, like cupping a puddle of water only for it to turn into a torrent in your hands. Something tells you that there’s been more changes than just the physical differences you see now as he angles himself away from you.

           If only you could melt into the shadows – you press your legs harder against the opposite building in an effort to do just that. Yadiel sighs longingly up at the moon, which is barely visible between the slivers of buildings.

           “Yes, he just left.”

           You hold your breath in a desperate attempt to preserve yourself, heartrate jolting as you study Yadiel’s razor-sharp jawline. Eyes scanning up, you almost cry with relief as you realize that Yadiel isn’t speaking to you.

           He fiddles with an AirPod in his left ear, listening intently before speaking once more. His voice is like a rosy grave, one that you can’t help but shy away from, further into the shadows.

           “Yes, sir.” A small chuckle, and despite not being able to see his face, you know exactly what kind of smile he’s wearing. “Fine. Si, signore.”

           Then, he’s ending the call. Tapping the AirPod with his fingers, and you feel your stomach churn as you notice the blood under his fingernails. Brown and caked, it’s a sight Yadiel rarely sported in exchange for his typical clean and composed self. Yet when he did, it was more as a warning than an oversight.

           Yadiel breathes in the night air for a moment longer, drinking in the evening while you hang precariously close to him, wreathed in shadows. You bite your lip as your right foot slides down a few inches, leaving your hands bleeding at you scramble for some sort of purchase.

           He doesn’t move at the sound, eyes still carefully angled away. As if you’re a ghost; one that doesn’t exist if he doesn’t acknowledge it. A shudder passes through your already trembling frame, wondering which of his mind games he’s up to now.

           A flicker of movement and you squeeze your eyes shut in preparation for the pain. Yet something cool drifts your way, and you open your eyes slowly.

           Yadiel has flicked open an ornately decorated fan and now waves it softly in front of his face. You gaze at it, drawn in by the deep blue and shimmering crimson; all drawn together by a neatly printed swan at its center.

           That swan digs into the cobwebs of your memory, jolting something out of you. A fan, this fan is one you’ve seen before. One you played with on your father’s knee at a young age.

           Back when your mother was still alive. Before you were old enough to understand the constant threat hanging over your head.

           Squinting and momentarily forgetting the ache in your trembling body, you look for the tell-tale sign: Bianchi scribbled in fine ink along the edge.

           “We must mark what is ours,” your father had said when you cried out in indignation as he marked the beautiful fan. “What we love most, we protect.”

           “It’s a fan,” you had responded, small voice annoyed. You watched as your father blew on the ink before passing the fan back to you. “It doesn’t need protection.”

           He smiled then, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Everything that is mine, I protect.”

           Yadiel continues to fan himself, taking up a merry tune you’ve never heard before. The sound of his whistling is as sharp as a blade itself, filling the quiet alleyway with too much noise. It makes you feel naked, as if he’ll discover you with the mere sound of his whistle.

           Yet, as you watch the fan your father bought you when you were no more than six years old, you realize two things.

           First, Yadiel already knows you’re here. Every word – every breath has always been a calculated move with him. This show of ignorance is yet another piece to the puzzle.

           And second…

           Yadiel must have retrieved this relic of your childhood when he paid your father a deadly visit not long ago.

           “It was sitting on his dresser.”

           You jolt at the sound of Yadiel’s soft voice, barely stopping yourself from careening down to the alley below. He still doesn’t look at you, keeping his face hidden even as he continues to speak.

           “I thought it seemed out of place…until I realized that after all these years, after your betrayal and vow to kill him off; he couldn’t quite let go of you.”

           A shuddering breath works through you, matching the way your knees shake from exertion. You won’t last much longer like this, that much is certain. Your body is giving in to the pain.

           “I’m not sure if that makes you a ghost or a god.” His scoff is low and dry. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll still be forgotten, before the end.”

           The fan snaps shut, and Yadiel tilts his head to the side, awaiting a response.

           Your response doesn’t come by way of words. It arrives in the form of aching ribs and sweat trickling into your eyes as the strain grows unbearable. You squeeze your eyes shut against the burning pain; the outline of the fan bright against your eyelids.

           Yadiel’s lie fills in the gaps in your vision. Forgotten? Hardly. After all these years, your father kept a piece of you close to him. Perhaps you are a ghost – were a ghost, to him.

           Dead, but not forgotten.

           It’s with that declaration ringing through your mind that Yadiel slips back inside, hardly making a sound. You catch sight of a long shallow cut along the side of his neck before he disappears from sight and the window gently closes and the lock slips into place.

           --

           Time slows to a drip; the minutes marked only by the sound of your hands and feet scraping along the brick. Inch by inch, you’re falling.

           Blood oozes from your ruined palms, and you press your head back against the brick as tears of frustration pour out. The night is quiet and still, only the occasionally passerby interrupting your silent struggle.

           Yadiel’s window has gone dark. Whether he’s left or he’s continuing to toy with you, you’re unsure. You’re not sure it matters anymore, either. Not when everything hurts and you keep replaying that ancient memory again and again.

           “Everything that is mine, I protect.”

           That statement, that blatant lie he told you stokes the raging inferno within. All you see is that fan, crimson detail jumping out at you like blood as a scream tears through you.

           You scream until the sound of it is bouncing off the buildings, carried through the night on a dark wind. Throat seizing and body slipping ever closer to the ground below, you scream. If this is how you end, so be it. Blood on your hands and betrayal in your heart seems a fitting end for the web of lies your life ended up being.

           At last, your body gives up.

           Skidding and sliding down the brick, you cradle your hands to your chest in agony as the flesh is torn open even more. Picking up speed, you let your eyes fall shut, bracing yourself for the impact. For the snap of bones and the long night ahead.

           The concrete rises up to meet you, but you don’t hear a snap. There’s no sickening crunch; only a muffled groan quickly followed by a staggering breath.

           “Look at me, Bianchi.”

           The commanding tone is efficient, sending your eyes flying open as you realize that you’re not nearly as broken as you thought you’d be.

           Perhaps that has something to do with Jeon Jungkook, flattened out like a pancake beneath you. Arms still outstretched, wrapped around you like a safety net.

           “Welcome back to the world of the living,” he coughs out, and you scramble off of him only to stop and hiss as your hands burn. “No rush. It’s just as awful here as you remember it.”

           Jungkook sits up slowly, wincing a little and rubbing the back of his head. You watch him like a hawk, mind reeling as you feel solid earth beneath you. “You…”

           “Caught you?” He cracks a smile. “Something like that.”

           “How?”

           His smile falters. “I heard you screaming.” His eyes are shaky, as if your screams were still echoing through his mind. “What happened to your rope?”

           Everything that happened over the past thirty minutes seems like an enormous weight, so you settle for, “Compromised.”

           Slowly climbing up to his feet, Jungkook frowns as he notices the state of your hands. “Did Yadiel…?”

           “It wasn’t him. Some drunk guy a floor up.”

           Jungkook nods, grabbing your forearm and helping you up. You sway on your feet, legs utterly useless. He doesn’t hesitate to turn around, scooping you up into a piggy-back.

           “Did Yadiel see you?”

           “…not exactly.”

           The two of you fall silent as Jungkook trudges back to the car. You note that Yadiel’s car is still here, making you stiffen.

           Jungkook sets you down, letting you rest against the hood while he opens the door. Getting in without leaving bloody handprints everywhere proves difficult; so much so that Jungkook takes things into his own hands.

           “Here,” he pulls his black shirt over his head, revealing a toned chest that instantly sends a flush to your cheeks. “Wrap them up in this until we get you home.”

           “Uh,” you reply, staring so hard at the shirt that you hope it doesn’t start smoking, “the whole – you didn’t just wanna rip the bottom part -”

           Jungkook stares at you, arms crossing in front of his chest. You note with some reluctance that it’s a very nice chest; one that he’s clearly been working on since the last time he strolled around the house shirtless.

           “Like they do in the movies?” You finish lamely, staring back down at your hands. Blood still streams out of them, but it appears to be slowing down.

           A huff and Jungkook places the shirt gently on top of your hands, face dangerously close to yours. Your eyes flit to his, anger flaring up as you see the amusement in his.

           “I don’t do crop tops.”  

           The door closes, leaving you alone with your frenzied thoughts. “Uh-huh,” you mumble to yourself, watching as Jungkook rounds the car to hop in the driver’s side. Near-death experiences and shirtless men don’t mix well, apparently.

           You huff a strained chuckle, the pain in your ribs fading in lieu of everything else that aches. Who knew?

--

           Namjoon is waiting for you when Jungkook circles back to Yadiel’s neighborhood. You’re relieved to see him; even more relieved that he isn’t covered in blood.

           “How’d it go?” Jungkook asks by way of greeting as Namjoon hops into the back seat. Namjoon fiddles with his seat belt, annoyed at having to be in the back again.

           “Fine. Didn’t run into anyone really. Just lurked.”

           “Mm.”

           It’s quiet for a moment before Namjoon speaks again. “…what happened to you two?” He’s clearly looking you over, noting your disheveled state; the way your eyes appear blank and unfeeling.

           Jungkook glances your way while you carefully avoid his gaze. He sighs lightly, focusing on the road again. “We’ll report back to everyone. It’s…easier that way.”

           Normally, Namjoon would have called him out on that, but tonight, he knows something is off. It’s obvious from the way you sit, stiff-backed and silent.

           “I’ll let them know we’re on our way back,” Namjoon concedes, pulling out his phone. The sound of his phone click-clicking as he types out the message rattles around your brain, but you say nothing.

           Say nothing. Do nothing. Because the moment you open your mouth, the screams will return. The indisputable anger will claw its way up your throat and you’ll have no way of stopping it.

           You clench Jungkook’s shirt a little tighter, allowing the flash of pain to distract from the restlessness growing inside you.

           Amidst the quiet hum of the car, Jungkook speaks, his voice pitched low.

           “It’ll be over soon.”

--

           The debriefing is like walking a tightrope with one leg.

           Hard. It’s hard.  

           Together you weave a plausible story of what you discovered with Namjoon, all the while pretending you never saw Yadiel. That you were never within a mile of him.

           “Did you see anything else of interest?” Hoseok asks while Taehyung yawns next to him. Tonight, you’re all strewn about the kitchen. Jungkook remains close to your side, thankfully wearing a sweatshirt now. Seokjin had retrieved it for him not long after you walked through the door, tutting something under his breath about common decency.

           “Namjoon?” You ask pointedly, watching with a wary eye as Seokjin smothers your now clean hand in Neosporin.

           Namjoon doesn’t seem to appreciate what your indicating, but he gives up the knowledge for your sake. “I saw Victoria. An old…friend.”

           Yoongi’s eyebrows flick up from where he sits with his legs laid out on the chair in front of him. “I remember you mentioning her. She’s still with Yadiel?”

           “Did you approach her?” Hoseok follows up.

           Namjoon shakes his head. “No. I only observed her from a distance. And yes,” he responds to Yoongi. “It would appear so.”

           “Do you think she could be a chink in his armor?” Jimin pipes up. He’s bent over in front of the sink, blond hair bright against his yellow shirt. “Maybe if you could contact her…promise her a way out…”

           “That’s if she wants one,” Namjoon replies, a bite to his cold voice. “She chose him before, Jiminie. She’ll choose him again.”

           Jimin raises his hands, backing off. Wisely, he changes the subject. “Alright. So Jungkook’s set the trap and we’ve got a general layout of Yadiel’s estate. What else do we need?”

           Everyone looks to you, save for Seokjin, who is busy focusing on wrapping your hands with gauze now. You sigh, leaning back in your chair and watching him work.

           “We still have the element of surprise on our side,” you begin methodically, ticking off all the checkpoints in your head. “We know our location, the time, the day. So for now…” shrugging, you fight off a yawn. “It’s important that we keep an eye on things to make sure nothing changes. Yadiel doesn’t trust us; chances are he’ll try to find a way to switch things up on us. We’ll need to be prepared.”

           “Good enough for me,” Jungkook says. There’s a veil of exhaustion over his voice, one that instantly makes your eyes droop in response. “Anything else?”

           Everyone seems just as eager to get to bed, shaking their heads. One by one they get up, chair scraping and feet shuffling as they head off to their rooms. Seokjin lingers a moment, and you realize why when Taehyung comes your way.

           “Feeling alright?” He questions, eying your hands. “Sounds like a nasty fall. Can’t believe nobody saw you.”

           Right. You’d explained your injuries away by saying that you fell when scaling the wall on your way out of Yadiel’s estate. If Taehyung didn’t look too closely, it was believable enough.

           “Pretty lucky I guess,” you chuckle, flexing your fingers. It still stings; enough so that you know you’ll struggle gripping a gun for the next week or two. “I’m just glad that something went right, for once.”

           It’s as blatant a lie as they come, but you smile your way through it. Taehyung smiles right back, hand reaching to brush your hair back over your shoulder.

           “You know,” he muses, watching the way your hair falls, “having you out there tonight, sitting here worrying about you…it reminded me of old times.”

           Taehyung pulls up a chair, sitting between you and Seokjin. Meeting your eyes over Taehyung’s shoulder, Seokjin gives you a slow nod.

Just give me a signal.

Your eyes shift back to Taehyung. Leaning back in your chair, you summon as much nonchalance possible before shooting him a lazy smile. “Back when we lived off of a steady diet of spam and the day-old bread they sold on the corner of Pelican and 8th?”

Taehyung’s eyes widen in mock horror. “That was spam? Jungkook always told me it was ham!”

“Well, one could argue that it is.” You bring a glass to your lips, sipping lightly. “Partially.”

Seokjin laughs, and Taehyung cracks a smile. “Spam or not, it doesn’t matter now. We were happy, that’s all that matters.”

Happy. The word has never carried such weight as it does now as you stare at Taehyung, trying to place him in the upheaval of your life. You know that once the dust settles, there may no longer be space for him.

“Tae…”

Looking up, you find two pairs of dark eyes on you. Seokjin looks tense but he makes no move to intervene as you meet Taehyung’s gaze.

You could swim in those eyes. They glitter and shine with unspoken words and unshared plans. It’s difficult not to question him here and now. For now, you allow yourself one last dive into the memories locked there.

“Take a walk with me?”

--

Pine needles silence your steps as you walk alongside Taehyung. Above you, the moon can’t help but shine its light on him, illuminating his dark hair like some unholy halo.

Now that you’ve got him alone, the words have all dried up. The quiet of the night becomes your companion instead, acting to call your racing heart as Taehyung tucks his hands into his pockets and saunters along.

“Beautiful night,” he comments. His voice is quiet in the great expanse of the outdoors.

All you can manage is a nod before you scrape up some words. “Beats Queen’s Wharf, at least.”

“Anything beats Queen’s Wharf.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Oh? This coming from the man who was just waxing nostalgic about the good old days?”

Taehyung follows the curving path around the outskirts of the house. He didn’t question you when you claimed that you didn’t want to venture too far; and Seokjin looked a little less worried when he realized that he’d be able to have eyes on you at all times.

“The good old days,” Taehyung mimics, nudging you with his shoulder, “were good because there were fewer walls separating us. Not because of Queen’s Wharf.”

You study him, pausing. Taehyung stops as well, meeting your gaze. His collar ruffles in the wind while he waits through your analysis, making him appear like a very realistic sculpture.

“Be honest. Do you mean that?”

His eyes burn right through you. “Of course I do.”

           “That’s a lie and we both know it.”

Taehyung stills, and for once, you see something beneath those arrogant eyes that you’ve never seen before.

Panic.

           “How so?”

           “Because you always yelled at me for being too loud in the mornings.”

           His laugh is loud and boisterous as Taehyung turns on his heel, stepping away from you. “You still are!”

           It’s contagious. You laugh as well, stumbling after him. “I’m silent as a mouse.”

           “You’re about as quiet as a horde of mice riding in on a calvary of donkeys, capa,” Taehyung giggles, peeking over at you with a mischievous glint in his eye. It’s replaced the panic that was there moments ago.

           “No,” your side aches along with your ribs as you laugh. “That’s Jungkook.”

           “Is it?” He tilts his head to one side, studying you with an appraising eye. “How dare you throw Jungkook under the bus as soon as he’s not here to defend himself!”

           It’s his incredulous tone that keeps your laughing, and the way he’s looking at you that sends a dagger into your heart.

           You quicken your pace, gazing up at the stars in an effort to hide the tears that prick at your eyes. It hurts, being here with him. Like this. Laughing, wondering if he’ll look at you with those stars in his eyes when he twists the knife in your back.

           “Agree to disagree,” you finally mumble, shaking your head to rid yourself of the thought. Taehyung’s laughter subsides as he matches your pace. He walks close enough to nudge your shoulder with his own as he saunters along, the action achingly familiar.

           A million questions lie on the tip of your tongue. A piece of you refuses to believe that he could betray you. It thrashes and shakes at the very idea.

           You need to know. From his own lips. You need to know if your oldest friend has truly betrayed you.

           “Tae?”

           “Hmm?” He’s looking up at the stars, too. It makes him look infinitely younger. Like the boy you once met in Italy, giving you a false name. When he feels your gaze, his eyes fall to yours and he offers you a soft smile.

           “Do you feel like…” you pause, shoving your trembling hands into your pockets. “Like everything is ending, somehow?”

           It’s a question to hide the real question you’re dying to ask him. Do you know that we’ll never be the same now? Did you ever think of that when you went crawling to Yadiel?

          Taehyung’s eyebrows furrow as he considers your question. “In what way?”

           You push out a long breath. “I feel…” you breath catches as tears burn anew. He doesn’t speak, only staring at you with an intensity you’ve long since grown accustomed to. “You know that feeling, where you’re surrounded by people, but still alone?”

           The only response he conjures up is a stuttering nod, eyes catching on the way your throat bobs.

           “I’m alone,” you whisper, eyes falling.

           “You have Jungkook,” he immediately replies, voice strangled. “And everyone else in that house. Seokjin hasn’t taken his eyes off you this entire time, you know.” He waves half-heartedly at a shadow in an upstairs window, making you croak with a chuckle.

           It’s all the answer you need. Closing the curtains to your one-woman play, you nod, rising up on your tiptoes to plant a kiss on Taehyung’s cheek. His hands drift lightly to your waist as you linger for a moment too long, eyes squeezing shut as the confirmation sets in.

           I’m alone, you’d said.

           You have everyone, he’d replied. Everyone, but me.

           “Thanks, Tae,” you whisper, shrinking away. “I needed that.”

           His answering wink is the last thing you see before walking away. “Anything for you.”

           You don’t look back as you leave him, entering the house once more. Inside, Seokjin stands in the foyer with an air of concern about him.

           “How’d it go?” He asks, quiet voice like silk against your skin. You shrug, not feeling up to a heart-to-heart at the moment. Seokjin nods, stepping aside and gesturing down the hall. “How are your ribs fairing?”

           It’s easy to report the state of your body as if it were nothing more than a machine. Easy to lose yourself in the technical way Seokjin speaks about how you should take care of yourself. He twiddles his thumbs as you walk side by side down the hall toward his room. There’s a sudden urge to reach out and stop the nervous action, but you stop yourself when you remember that he’s already shut you down once before. No need for him to get the wrong idea.

           “I’m mainly sore and tired,” you conclude as Seokjin welcomes you into his rooms. He sweeps you into his adjoined bathroom, hardly allowing you much more than a cursory glance around. It’s clean and colorful, with a book on the bedside table with a familiar symbol.

           Seokjin closes the bathroom door behind you just as you voice your question with a crooked smile. “You like Zelda?”

           “What?” He chokes out.

           “That book, by the bed. Isn’t that the Triforce on the cover?”

           Seokjin’s answering smile is a sight for sore eyes. “Wait a minute, you’re a geek, too?”

           “Stitch me up, doc, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

--

           Taehyung stands in the garage, overlooking his car. An old shirt in one hand and a bit of polish in the other has proven to work wonders for the bright green Lamborghini. It shines like new under the lights, making him smile.

           His uncle had a car like this, once. It was a deep cherry red, the kind you see on covers of magazines and the like. It was so iconic, in fact, that the whole of Sicily knew exactly what was about to happen every time that cherry-colored Lamborghini rolled into town. Windows shuttered, doors locked, and children yanked out of the streets to be coddled in the supposed safety of their homes.

           Respect, his uncle had called it. He could still feel the ghost of his uncle’s hand in his hair, ruffling up the black locks with a proud smile. Without respect, our world would wither away.

But Taehyung knew what it really was.

           Blind fear can bring out an interesting side to people. A magnificent tool, when used in the right hands. Taehyung gazes down at his own hands, frowning at the calluses there. Heaven and hell know that he’s spent countless hours honing himself into the perfect tool. His hands certainly made Ortega sing when he was confronted with his own death.

           Respect, on the other hand, was the game his father played. It was what he laughed at when observing the mafia world on this continent – child’s play, he’d dubbed it. They carry no respect for each other, how can they expect us to stay away when they’re practically begging for a king to rule over them?

           “Looking pensive tonight.”

           Taehyung doesn’t move for fear of appearing caught unawares, so he simply smiles before applying a bit more polish to the ratty tee. “Evening, Hoseok.”

           “Polishing it up?” Hoseok stands atop the stairs to the garage with a perfectly balanced expression on his face. He nods at the Lambo, a smile playing at his lips. “Looks lovely.”

           Taehyung nods his thanks, crouching down to scrub at a particularly stubborn spot on a hubcap. “It was overdue for some pampering.” When Hoseok makes no move to respond, Taehyung sighs through his nose, collecting himself. “Did you need something?”

           He’s looking at Taehyung with the same uncertainty everyone’s been assessing him with lately. He knows it’s only a matter of time before the truth is revealed; he can only hope it’s revealed on his own terms. After all, Taehyung loathes it when things don’t go his way.

           “The Boss asked me to join up with you tomorrow. Just letting you know.”

           Taehyung’s eyebrows flick up in surprise. “Oh? We’re buddies tomorrow?”

           “Seems like it,” Hoseok beams, appearing genuinely happy at the prospect of being buddies for a day.

           “Odd.”

           “How so?”

           Shrugging, Taehyung rises to his feet again to inspect the hubcap. “I just assumed you’d be with Yoongi. You always are.” He glances at Hoseok, who hasn’t moved an inch this entire time. Taehyung would consider it unnatural if it weren’t for the man’s successful occupation as a hitman.

           As still as death, his mother would say. Yet, in Taehyung’s experience, death is often a writhing, thrashing affair.

           “Yoongi is with Namjoon.”

           Another note of surprise ticks Taehyung’s features. “And so capa is with…?”

           “I’m not sure, actually.”

           Hoseok doesn’t break eye contact; doesn’t even blink. His tone is steady and warm, a friendly smile still ghosting his lips. Yet there’s something hard beneath those eyes. Something like a challenge.

           Jung Hoseok is lying.

           “I see.” Taehyung smiles politely. “Thanks for letting me know, partner.”

           Finally, Hoseok moves. Back through the door, into the house. “See you tomorrow, buddy.” Taehyung nearly flinches at the word being thrown back at him. Just before the door closes, he notices the outline of a firearm in Hoseok’s back pocket. The sight only turns his smile feral.

           Tomorrow. Taehyung leans down, inspecting the hood of the car meticulously before slowly making his way around it. All the while, his mind is on tomorrow.

           It will all end.

           He knows what he needs to do. Knows the plan better than he knows himself. Yet there’s still a part of him – the part that you own – that hesitates.

           Closing his eyes, Taehyung conjures up an image of a gleaming crown. The one that his father will award him with once all is said and done.

           The Mafia King. The man whose power spans continents. Unstoppable, unbeatable.

           His eyes wrench open and he storms from the garage as the image of his uncle, bleeding out in the back seat of his cherry-red Lamborghini comes to life.

           Unlovable.

--

You didn’t ask Seokjin where he procured the drugs he slipped into your hands on the way out of his room earlier that evening. Now, perched on the edge of your bed and staring at the little orange bottle of Toradol in your hands, you can’t help but stifle a laugh.

Ernest Feeney is printed out on the label. To be taken orally once a day.

“That little snipe,” you whisper before popping the bottle open. Your body thrums with pain, begging relief. Tonight, it will arrive via the small pill that was originally intended for someone named Ernest.

Outside your door, a floorboard creaks. Nearly choking on the pill, your ears strain to hear who might be lurking in the hallway at this hour. Goosebumps cover your skin, and you shiver involuntarily as different scenarios invade your mind; each bloodier than the last. Ortega’s mangled crime scene that you discovered just yesterday morning plays out before you like a movie screen; so vivid that you’re tempted to swat it out of the air.

Another scuffle, this one closer to your door. Without thinking, you lurch to your bedside table, grappling for the gun hidden beneath the drawer. Within seconds the safety is off and you stand in front of your door with it aimed and ready.

One deep breath and then you’re ripping the door open. Teeth gritted and mind gloriously empty save for the weapon in your hands and the threat in the hallway, you squint into the darkness.

Jungkook’s hands are already up in the air, his eyes wide but calming as he waits for you to recognize him.

“Jungkook?” You breathe out, heart skipping up into your throat. “What are you doing creeping outside my room?” The words sound harsh, but they’re laced with delayed fear. Your arms lower, switching the safety back on before letting the gun hang loosely by your side.

“Just…uh…” his eyes linger on the gun before making their way back up to your face. “Checking on you.”

There’s a generic response on the tip of your tongue, but it slips away before you can verbalize it. Instead, you stay standing in your doorway, staring.

Jungkook’s hair is a mess from what you suspect has been a restless night spent tossing and turning in bed. His black hoodie is beginning to show the signs of wear and tear, basketball shorts kissing the tips of his knees and making him look simultaneously childlike and ancient in a single moment.

Finally, your eyes catch on his hands. His right one looks bloodied, reminding you of the state in which you found him only two days prior. Taehyung’s nearly broken nose and bruised jaw that came courtesy of Jungkook fill you with confused satisfaction.

“Come in.” You pause as you retreat back into your room. “Please.”

Jungkook hesitates for a moment, looking worried, before stepping in. He closes the door softly, leaning against it as you put your gun away. The feel of his eyes on you is as tangible as the gun in your hands, but you ignore it.

“Are you ok?” You find yourself asking, the tone of your voice not quite what you wanted it to be. It’s too hard, too cold. Almost annoyed.

“Are you?”

You deflect the question with a shrug and a poorly timed joke. “Better than Ortega.” Wincing, you shake your head. “I mean…I shouldn’t…” your head drops into your hands, hiding yourself from Jungkook as best as you can. “Sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about him.”

It’s a chink in your armor, and Jungkook notices immediately. He pushes off the door, coming closer until the bed dips beside you. He doesn’t touch you, and for some reason, it’s a relief.

“No, don’t apologize,” he mumbles. “Well, not to me, at least. Ortega’s ghost probably didn’t appreciate that, though.”

A weak chuckle works its way out of you. “The last thing I want right now is to be haunted to the ends of the earth.”

“Should’ve thought about that before using comedy as a shield, then, huh?” Jungkook nudges you lightly, enough to make you finally raise your head to look at him. He smiles demurely, pulling you out of your hiding place a little more.

“Thank you,” you whisper, nudging him back. “For catching me earlier.”

The light in his eyes shutters and he quickly looks away, red creeping up his neck. He opens his mouth just to close it again, at a loss.

“Jungkook?”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You know, after all these years, you think you know someone…” Running a tattooed hand through over his eyes, he takes a deep breath. “The last thing I expected to find tonight was you dangling from a building.

“You and me both.”

“And Yadiel…” Jungkook is looking at you – really looking at you. His doe-like eyes take in every detail of your face, ruffling through you as if you were a book on the shelf. He’s unguarded in this moment, every emotion playing out across his tired face. “He didn’t see you?”

How has so much happened in such a short amount of time? How long has it been since your father died? Two weeks? Sometimes it feel like two days, and other times, two years.

It’s all too much, too fast.

Perhaps that’s why you continue to step around Jungkook’s question like it’s a live explosive. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

You look away from him for fear of your lie playing across your face. Although, now that you think about it, it’s not truly a lie. Yadiel never looked at you.

He just toyed with your mind while your body was already on the verge of breaking.

           “How are you doing, though?” You ask, turning the spotlight back on him. “That can’t have been easy. Seeing him again.”

           Jungkook’s eyes shutter. “No, it wasn’t.”

           “…but?”

           Jungkook takes a deep breath, and you can see that he’s been preparing for this moment all night.

           “It was worth it,” he breathes the words out as if they’ve been trapped inside a crypt for centuries. Once they’re out, more tumble after them. “I meant every word I said to him. And I wish –”

“Jungkook-” you begin, instantly drowning in guilt, but the words turn to ash on your tongue. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t need an excuse. And if you were to fall in love with anyone, I suppose Taehyung would’ve been the inevitable choice, but-”

“I’m not in love with Taehyung.”

Jungkook shakes his head, frustrated. “Call it what you want. Infatuation, lust, love – it all leads to the same ending!”

Your heartrate spikes once more at the hurt in Jungkook’s voice. “What are you even talking about? Same ending? As if I even have the time or energy to start something up with somebody – let alone look at someone like that!”

Rising to his feet in one smooth, swift action, Jungkook runs both hands through his hair, tugging at the roots. “That’s your problem!” He bounces on the balls of his feet, struggling to keep his voice down. “You’d rather hide behind responsibility than look at what’s right here in front of you! You run and run and never find what you’re looking for because you overlook it every time!”

You’re standing too, now. Pacing the room with clenched fists before stopping inches from Jungkook. “My problem is a little more serious than some elementary-school crush, Jungkook. People are dying, and you’re yelling at me for trying to be responsible?” The sound of your laugh scrapes against your ears, loud enough that the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs goes unnoticed.

Cold flames sprout in Jungkook’s eyes, jaw ticked as he glares down at you. “I’m not stopping you from doing your job, so quit gaslighting me.”

“Then what’s your motive, here?”

Jungkook sways, inching a little closer. You jump a little when you feel his warm hands at your back, holding you gently despite the anger in his eyes.

His eyes dip to your lips. “I’ve never had a motive,” he utters, voice low. “That’s the difference between him and I.”

You tense at his words just as he dips his head, nose bumping your own. Jungkook’s eyes remain on your lips, half-closed as he shakily inhales.

“You…” the words trail off, but Jungkook hears them loud and clear as his eyes flit up to yours with a sense of urgency.

You love me?

“It doesn’t matter,” Jungkook whispers. His eyes fall to your lips once more, and you wonder if he’s remembering that night from years before just like you are. “Because you clearly don’t.”

He hesitates, almost expecting a response. Then, Jungkook steps around you and marches toward the door. He rips it open to find a crowd waiting just outside, Jimin unabashedly waving while Yoongi has the good sense to at least try to blend in with the shadows. Down the hallway, Taehyung’s door is propped open just enough for the Italian to prop up against the doorframe with a grim expression.

You’re hit with the sudden urge to scream. Hands tightening into a fist, all you see is red as Taehyung’s eyes meet yours for a split second before they return to Jungkook’s retreating figure. Like a spider watching potential prey, Taehyung looms larger than life.

“Goodnight, Jungkook. Taehyung.”

Eyes immediately locked on yours, Taehyung furrows his brows just enough to show his dislike at being ordered around. “Something wrong, capa?”

You’re sure that there’s no way he doesn’t notice the way Jungkook stiffens at the title before he slips inside his room. “Yes. Go to bed.” Then, turning toward the staircase, “You as well.”

Jimin rolls his eyes but turns to leave. Yoongi, on the other hand, doesn’t budge. “We’d like to speak with you.”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“So you do know how to tell time,” Yoongi observes calmly.

Teeth gritting, you remind yourself that Yoongi serves you better alive and refrain from throttling him. “Are you really that incapable of passing a night alone?”

His smile itself could pass as a threat. “And here I was thinking that that was our little secret.”

The sound of Jimin choking on his own spit has even you breaking out into a grin. Striding out of your room with as much dignity as possible considering the fact that you’re still very much clad in Christmas-themed pajamas, you pause to whisper something under your breath that only Yoongi can hear.

“As soon as all of this is over, I’m killing you.”

Descending the stairs, Yoongi sighs as he trails after you. “Promises, promises.”

--

“How did it go?”

           Hoseok paces the length of the study while you sit across from Yoongi. Jimin lounges in the chair next to you, eyes closed. If it weren’t for the way he’s drumming his fingers against his legs, you’d think he was asleep.

           “Fine, if you feel alright manipulating Jungkook and Taehyung’s already-fraught relationship.”

           “No offense Bianchi,” Jimin croons, voice sleepy, “but their so-called friendship has already gone up in flames.”

           You can’t help but glare at Jimin, ignoring the way he sends a lazy wink your way. “Aren’t you supposed to be outside keeping watch?”

           Jimin groans but gets up nonetheless, shutting the door quietly behind him.

           Yoongi snorts, circling the rim of an empty glass on the desk. “As frustrating at this entire situation is, I feel the need to add that Jungkook did willingly volunteer to go into there and make a scene tonight. Considering his little…tiff he had the other night with Taehyung, it seemed only natural that he’d seek you out.”

           The plan supposedly went perfectly. Jungkook sought you out, acting the part of the scorned lover a little too well for your taste. Yet it was just another way to make sure Taehyung was feeling nice and secure. There’s no need for him to catch onto what you already knew. Especially now, on the eve of the end of your world as you know it.

           You keep your mouth shut as you recall Jungkook’s quiet confession tonight.

           That was most definitely not in the plan.

           “Our plan is fragile as it is,” Yoongi sighs, leaning back in his seat and running a hand over his eyes, “I can’t help but feel like we’re running behind. We needed to move yesterday; now we’re just making it up as we go.”

           “Great. That’s what I’ve been doing this entire time. And nobody’s died yet. Or…” you pause, frowning. “I guess Ortega has…and my father…”

           Hoseok smiles grimly, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. “Don’t think about it too much. You’ve done your best, and that’s all-”

           “All due respect, but we don’t need your best,” Yoongi interrupts, “we need you to get the job done. No matter the cost.”

           You gaze at him for a long moment, recalling your deal that was hatched earlier with Russo. A deal that might just seal Yoongi’s fate, which he happens to be blissfully ignorant of at the moment. “Right. Whatever it takes. So even if I kind of recruited some extra help from someone I know you won’t agree with…?”

           If he clenches his jaw any tighter, Yoongi might split a molar. “And who might that be?”

           Curse Namjoon and his absence at the moment. If only you could throw him under the bus right now, fleeing the scene before Yoongi could shoot you where you stand. Instead, he’s off getting his beauty sleep and shaking the walls with his loud, albeit impressive, snoring.

           “Maybe Russo?”

           Hoseok curses, but it’s lost in the clatter of Yoongi’s chair scraping along the floor before he launches into a string of violent Korean expletives, hands flying and face turning an unnatural red.

           “I have no idea what you’re saying,” you shout back at Yoongi, who still hasn’t subsided in his anger, “but if you keep yelling at me I might start crying because it’s been a long day and I hurt all over and I haven’t had sex in literal years because I’m constantly surrounded by the world’s moodiest men!”

           Your ribs ache and scream at you in protest as you heave a labored breath. Yoongi stops with his mouth still wide open, words cut off as he and Hoseok glance at each other in confusion. Hoseok shakes his head once, but Yoongi completely ignores him.

           “…like…” Yoongi’s breathing matches your own, and he’s flushed down to his collarbones. “How many years?”

           The breath you inhale to scream at him turns into a mangled chuckle as you shake your head. “I just dropped a Russo-sized bomb on you, and that’s the first thing you think to ask?”

           “It’s not every day that you drop a Russo-sized bomb on us and then follow it up with an update on your sex life!” Yoongi replies, annoyed.

           “And hey,” Hoseok nudges you, feigning offense, “we’re not all moody.”

           It’s your turn to blush down to your collarbones. “…right. What were we talking about?” The clock on the wall reads just after three, and you can feel the late hour down to your bones.

           “Russo.” Yoongi says the name like a bad omen. “What, exactly, did you two agree upon?”

           You cringe away from the look in Yoongi’s eyes. “Yadiel is a mutual problem-”

           “Russo will find a way to rob you of everything you’ve ever loved and call it a fair deal!” Yoongi retorts, back to his fury. “You should’ve come to me first!”

           “And what? Have my head bashed in with a bottle of Woodford Reserve?!”

           Mouth opening and closing like a fish, Yoongi appears too furious to form a proper response. Hoseok steps in, standing beside your chair like a bodyguard. “You and I both know that you’d never have to worry about that happening. He’d die before wasting a good bottle of whiskey.”

           Yoongi’s eyes flash, sending a jolt of electric fear through you. “Don’t worry. Those bottles don’t break easily.”

           “I understand that this sucks, Yoongi. But we need back-up. We simply don’t have the numbers or the brute force that Yadiel has at his disposal.”

           “Do you? Do you really understand?” Yoongi has grabbed his glass and looks tempted to fill it up.

           “What? Going behind someone’s back and partnering up with their sworn enemy?” You lean back in your chair, head pounding and vision blurring with exhaustion. “Yes. I do. Now are we done here?”

           “Absolutely n-”

           “Yes,” Hoseok interrupts, practically throwing you out of the chair. “For the sake of us all.. Go to sleep. Tomorrow is a big day.”

           Yoongi doesn’t look sold on the idea, but Hoseok shoots him a sharp look that has him rolling his eyes. “Very well. But look,” he points a finger in your direction. “I trusted you to do the right thing. If I so much as feel Russo looking at me wrong tomorrow…”

           “Kill me yourself, then.” You reply, exhaustion coloring your voice. Hoseok blanches, but Yoongi stares you down, weighing your words. When you don’t take them back, he nods solemnly.

           “Hoseok?” The hitman glances across to Yoongi, disbelief coloring his features. “Give us two minutes.”

           He looks like he might put up a fight, but you lay a hand on his arm, nodding. “Two minutes.”

           Hoseok doesn’t look remotely happy about it. Lowering his voice, he leans a little closer to Yoongi. “Do you understand what I’ll do to you if you lay a single finger on her?”

           “We’ve had this conversation a million times,” Yoongi says dismissively, although he struggles to meet Hoseok’s eyes. “Yes, I understand.”

           “And you,” Hoseok turns, glaring down at you. You widen your eyes, hoping to appear somewhat innocent. “The second you start causing trouble, I’ll personally tie you up.”

           “You promise?”

           You can’t help yourself, the need to deflect the seriousness with a stupid comment is too strong. Hoseok lets out a startled laugh, and even Yoongi cracks a grin. “You really are a little frustrated, aren’t you? Sexually, I mean-”

           “Out!” Both you and Yoongi yell, sending a hysterical Hoseok out the door. You can hear Jimin’s incessant questioning as soon as he opens the door, making you drop your head in your hands. Then, all is quiet, and you fight to pluck up the courage to look at Yoongi.

           When you do, his eyes are already on you. And in those eyes, you see something of yourself reflected there.

           All the pieces you try to hide.

           Yoongi silently rises from his seat, making his way around the desk. You track his movements, eyes involuntarily scanning him for weapons. He comes around you, grabbing a hold of the chair that Jimin previously sat in

           Arranging his chair so he’s facing you directly, Yoongi places his elbows atop his knees and fixes you with a stoic stare. Catching on, you move your chair until your knees are almost touching.

           Your eyes fixate on the space between your knees. The air between you seems to buzz with trepidation. It’s only multiplied when Yoongi speaks, voice like a dagger in the dark.

           “I trusted you.”

           You don’t bother to hide your wince. “I know.”

           “And I…I still believe in you.” You glance up into his face, seeing the internal battle waging there. “But you went behind my back when you ran to Russo.”

           “…I understand.” Other words – excuses, really – linger on your lips, but you know better.

           Yoongi’s hands slide down to his knees before he takes a steadying breath. Then, he’s reaching out to rest those hands on your knees.

           His grip is firm and unwavering. And as you see the shift in his expression; the light draining from his eyes and his lips forming a hard line, you see this for what it is.

           This is not a lover’s touch. That much is obvious.

           “I don’t want anything to do with him.”

           “Understood.”

           “If whatever deal you struck with him makes me…” Yoongi shakes his head, unwilling to finish that thought. His eyes fixate on where your pulse rockets in your throat before sliding up to your eyes, leaving a trail of burning tar along your skin. “I need you to understand that I will kill you, if I am implicated.”

           Whatever slew of sarcastic comments were pending before now take a nosedive as Yoongi begins tracing an ‘x’ along your kneecaps. You wish you could sink through your chair, but something stops you from slinking away.

           This man doesn’t own you. And as much as it hurts to put your budding friendship on the line, you understand the stakes. And surviving meant more.

           “Kill me if you must,” you whisper, stopping his hands and grabbing onto one. “You’ll still answer to me, even in death.”

           Yoongi watches as you bring his hand to your lips, dusting a kiss to the fingers that were just tracing lines into your skin. You don’t bother to smile when you stand, towering over him. He looks up at you, the very action sending a rush of power through your veins.

           “It’d do you well to remember who brought you here, Yoongi.” You brush a hand through his hair, dropping it to trace the line of his cheekbone. “Goodnight.”

           As you walk to the door, you wait for a response. He remains silent, so you pause at the door. Seconds tick by before a quiet, “goodnight,” reaches your ears.

           Satisfied, you push the door open to find Hoseok and Jimin chatting in hushed whispers. They straighten at your presence, and you offer them both a strained smile.

           “You alright?” Jimin ventures. You sure you look haunted, but you shrug it off.

           “You should see the other guy.” Then, brushing past them, you offer them a quiet goodnight. You can feel the other questions they have lingering in the air, but you ignore them, trudging up the stairs and into your room.

           And there you stay, staring at the wall.

           You wish the medication Seokjin had given you made you drowsy, at least. At this rate, you’ll never fall asleep. Not when you’re sick to your stomach while thinking of Yoongi’s distrust in you.

           Yoongi’s distrust, Jungkook’s confession, Taehyung’s betrayal. Do you get a medal for three consecutive disappointments?

           It’s not until another hour has passed and you find yourself still in the same position with the same thoughts circling your mind that you decide to finally do something about it.

           The house is nearly silent as you tiptoe out of your room and down the stairs. You take each step deliberately and slowly, afraid to wake anyone. Even though you already know that Taehyung sleeps like the dead and can hear Jungkook’s snoring from down the hall.

           It feels like an eternity passes before you’ve made it down to the foyer. You fumble for the light switch, hissing in discomfort when the lamp switches on and nearly blinds you.

           It’s four in the morning, leaving you only a handful of hours before you need to get up and start preparing for the long day ahead. This is probably pointless, but as you lift the nondescript vase and spy the key laying beneath it, you can’t help but let out a sigh of relief.

           Your relief doesn’t last long when you hear a door creaking open. Holding your breath, you try to melt into the shadows as someone tiptoes down the hallway, coming your way. You’re unsure if you’re just trying to avoid a scolding for being up so late, or if you really don’t trust people as much as you thought.

           Then again, Yoongi did just promise to kill you only a handful of hours ago.

           A light bobs up and down before someone emerges from the hallway, eyes half closed. And only half-dressed, you note.

           Jimin maneuvers his way toward the kitchen by light of his phone, sighing through his nose when he bumps against the wall. You can’t help but stifle a laugh at how disheveled he looks, but apparently you don’t do a good enough job.

           Eyes suddenly wide, Jimin whirls, and you hiss as he shines his phone’s flashlight directly in your eyes.

           “Oh,” he says, not lowering the flashlight. “It’s you.”

           “It’s me,” you echo. “Blind now, but still the same.”

           Jimin lowers the flashlight, and you blink, trying to adjust to the dark again. “Sorry. Didn’t realize – wait, were you going to use that against me?” His flashlight alights on your hands, and you look down to realize you’re still holding the vase. Hastily replacing it and covering up Seokjin’s spare key with a pang of regret, you shrug.

           “Maybe. Depended on who you are.”

           “Ah.” Jimin stares at you for a moment longer, eyes still bleary but clearer now, rubbing at a bold tattoo along his torso. Then, he turns and saunters away. “Come on.”

           Surprised at yourself, you follow without a single word. Jimin heads straight into the kitchen, grabbing two glasses from the cupboard and setting them on the island. You ease onto a stool, watching him silently as he grabs some milk out of the fridge.

           “Milk or water?” He mutters.

           “Milk.”

           Nodding, he proceeds to fill both glasses before passing your glass across the counter to you. He puts the milk back in the fridge and then turns, leaning against the sink as he sips his milk, watching you while you watch him.

           There’s something strange about the early morning hours, something that smooths the rough edges of people and leaves us less wary than before. As you find your gaze settling on the tattoo marking Jimin’s torso once more, you find that you don’t feel as if you’re prying by looking at him so openly. In the wee hours of the morning, soft gazes and quiet whispers are a welcome guest.

           “I didn’t know you had a tattoo.” Your voice is laced with exhaustion, softening it.

           Jimin nods, taking another sip of his milk. “Mhm.”

           “What does it mean?”

           “What were you doing down here?” Jimin shoots back, voice just as tired. It’s always an eye for an eye with him.

           Quirking a smile, you shake your head. “Nevermind.” Jimin smiles, too.

           You fall into a comfortable silence, eyes falling to the countertop. As your mind finally slows to a sluggish pace, you find yourself feeling oddly peaceful while Jimin remains a silent observer across the way.

           It crosses your mind that you could have had many more nights like this, had you not pushed him out of your life as soon as he entered it. You make room for the pang of regret that’s meant to follow such a thought, but nothing comes. Only mild curiosity takes its place.

           “Do you do this often?”

           Jimin takes a moment before answering. “Occasionally. On the nights I can’t sleep.”

           “And how often is that?”

           “Too often.”

           You nod. “I should’ve joined you earlier, then.” When he doesn’t respond, you continue. “Thanks for looking out for us last night.”

           “Just doing my job.” He holds his glass to his chest, eyes glued to the countertop.

           “Then, thanks for doing your job.”

           The quiet hum of the refrigerator is the only response you receive, but you don’t mind. Jimin is someone with whom you’ve racked up a lot of history in a short amount of time, and you don’t quite know what to do with it. You’ve never had someone dedicate themselves to you so fully so quickly.

           “You know,” he mutters, the words coming out half-whisper due to the rasp in his voice, “I always feel silly around you.”

           “Silly?”

           “Silly, foolish. Like I assumed so much about you when we first met, but then you surprised me again and again. I assumed a lot about us when I first started out.”

           Jimin’s three conditions pop up in your head uninvited, and you recall the way you practically melted through the floor during that first meeting.

           And now here you are. Sitting in the kitchen with a glass of milk, like a couple of kids.

           For the first time, you decide that you like Park Jimin. He’s someone you want to be friends with. Perhaps, it’s not too late.

           “I’m sorry for holding you at arm’s length,” you reply. “I honestly didn’t know what to do with you…with any of you if I’m being honest. There’s a lot that goes on in this house, and I thought I had you figured out. So I started thinking it’d be easier to keep my distance.”

           Jimin chuckles wryly, but there’s no malice in his eyes. If anything, it’s relief shining back at you. “That, you did.”

           “Are you still planning on leaving if I don’t fulfill all of your conditions?”

           Blinking, Jimin shakes his head. “No.”

           “Why not? Do you not…?”

           You remember the way he looked at you at that first meeting so long ago. The way he drew you in just like a magnet. It was instant, those feelings that popped up for each other.

           But everything changed, so quickly. You try and fail to pinpoint the exact moment when Jimin’s coy flirting became a façade he hid behind in order to keep up appearances.

           “I’ve come to realize that there’s something more important,” Jimin says, meeting your gaze with a soft, albeit regretful, smile. “After I thought you died, I was shocked to the core. And angry.”

           “I seem to recall the anger, yes,” you chuckle.

           “I was mad because I was played like a fiddle,” he whispers, voice still holding some of that dark emotion. “In my head, I was still there. On the dance floor. Frozen. Like a broken record, just waiting for time to start up again.”

           He’s looking at you but not seeing you. At least, not the you of right now. Instead, you can almost see yourself, dancing with Jimin the night of the gala. Opening up for a spin, opening up for a bullet.

           “Time didn’t start ticking for me until the night I went to the library.”

           The library. The night Jimin found Yadiel’s book, which you’re still using to search for clues. The fact that someone – someone that you don’t want to believe is Taehyung – cut out the famous, et tu, Brute? line is something you want to forget.

           “What happened?” You pry, curiosity getting the best of you. Jimin’s eyes sparkle as he leans forward, abandoning his glass for his tale.

           “For the first time, I was doing something…useful. I wasn’t a pawn; I wasn’t expendable. I was…essential to the plan. And I actually pulled it off. I found the book. I stopped Ortega from doing something horrible.” His smile still seems sad, but there’s a tinge of hope there, now. “I belonged.”

           “Oh.”

           Oh.

           You recognize that sad smile, now. It’s the smile of someone who has never belonged anywhere. Who has fought to survive and remain useful, but at too heavy a cost.

           “That night,” Jimin utters, “I drove home with Jungkook. And we talked, about a lot of things. He opened up to me, for the first time.” He arches a brow at you, leaving you wondering just what they talked about that night. “And it felt…nice. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always had Namjoon. But there’s always been a clear line between being colleagues and friends. Here…we’re family. All of us.”

           Family.

           Family is a complicated thing. In your experience, family arrives by blood no matter what. Whether it be by the blood pulsing in your veins or the blood, sweat, and tears you carve out together, family is an inevitable part of life.

           “That’s what I wanted,” you muse aloud, eyes wandering the kitchen. “Back when I first started entertaining the idea of building my own empire. I think it was all some grand scheme for me to start a family of my own. The kind that will never die.”

           That light in Jimin’s eyes is contagious, you conclude, as he leans forward a little more with a grin. “Your legacy begins today, Bianchi. And I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

           For the first time that you can remember, your family name makes you smile. Perhaps because it’s your mother, not your father, that you’re thinking of.

           No longer do you fear what you come from.

           “Thank you, Jimin.” Clinking your glass of milk with his own, you let out a contented sigh. “I’m glad I harassed you in that parking garage where we first met.”

           There’s a bit of milk left on his upper lip as Jimin chuckles at the memory. “And I’m glad I didn’t kill you on the spot.”

           After all, he would have missed out on all the fun.

--

           Sleep found you, after all. It’s a bleary memory at best, one including a seemingly endless trip up the stairs and a few more glasses of milk. Jimin spoke with you for another hour before heading off to bed, barely able to keep his eyes open.

           When he left, he gave you a tight hug. You’re grateful that he pretended not to see the tears that formed when he did, unable to stop the tide of emotion and gratitude for such a good friend. Even if he did look at you a little differently than you knew you looked at him, even if he paused to place a loving kiss on the top of your head, it was obvious that Jimin was first and foremost your friend.

           It felt nice, to have a friend again.

           Groaning into your pillow, you chance a look at the clock only to groan once more. It’s nine in the morning; much later than you were originally supposed to wake up. Nobody had bothered to try anything, knowing full well that you’d need your strength for the day ahead.

           Rolling onto your back to stare at the ceiling in dismay, you listened to the sounds of the morning. It became readily apparent as to why you woke up now. Outside your door, you could hear the flurry of activity taking place.

           “Only three cars?” Jungkook is calling outside your window.

           “Three!” It’s Namjoon who yells back, from inside. From the sounds of it, he’s probably in the foyer, yelling out the front door.

           “But I thought there were four pairs?” Jungkook replies, still confused.

           “So?” It’s Yoongi now, his voice moving with him as he ventures outside. “We believe in carpooling, Jungkook. Saving the planet, or something.”

           You snort, despite yourself. The easy banter, the seemingly normal questions. It’s almost as if your little house is getting ready for a road trip rather than a heist.

           A moment later a car revs, the sound of it as familiar as your own face in the mirror. Taehyung’s Lamborghini.

           Someone whistles lowly. “Is it shinier than before?” Jimin asks.

           Taehyung’s chuckle is barely audible, but somehow it snakes its way into your ears. “I spent some time on it last night. A little polish goes a long way.”

           The sound of his voice is enough to propel you out of bed and directly into the bathroom. It’s more than enough of a reminder as to what you’re about to do today. Your skin feels clammy as you turn on the shower, waiting until the water is near scalding before jumping in.  

           Oddly enough, this shower reminds you of the one you took four years ago. The morning you thought you murdered Yadiel.

           Gazing down at your hands, you inspect them for traces of blood that has yet to be shed. Your eyes play tricks on you. One moment, your hands are sudsy and clean, and the next, they’re drenched in blood.

           Whose blood is this? You wonder, eyes going in and out of focus. Yadiel’s? Or could it be Taehyung’s?

           Despite the hot water, you shiver.

           Again. And again.

           Until you realize that you’re not shivering, but shaking. Uncontrollably so.

           It’s all you can do to shut off the water and hop out, reaching for a towel but stopping abruptly and dropping to your knees instead.

           There’s not much that comes up, only then remembering that you didn’t have dinner last night. Yet despite the lack of contents to throw up, your body convulses and heaves until hot tears are forced from your eyes and an assortment of bodily fluids dribble down your chin.

           “Ugh,” you groan when the worst of it has passed. You raise a shaking hand to your cheeks, wiping away the involuntary tears. “Gross.”

           Then, you flush the toilet. You stand, taking your time on trembling knees. With contemplated movements, you wash your face, brush your teeth, and dress.

           Only when you’ve completed these steps do you glance in the mirror. Your appearance is to be expected; what with the puffy eyes and pale face. Offering your reflection an apologetic smile, you take a deep breath.

           In.

           Out.

           “Ok,” you whisper to yourself. “Let’s do this.”

--

           It takes you much longer get ready today, but you planned for that.

           By the time you emerge from your room, it’s nearly eleven. The chatter from outside hasn’t ceased, and you force yourself to listen to Taehyung and Jimin talking shop for a few minutes in order to dull your ears to the sound of betrayal before greeting Taehyung face to face.

           Now, standing at the top of the staircase, you make sure to lift your chin and school your features into an expression of cool control. There will be no slip-ups today.

           Today, Yadiel will see a Bianchi when he looks into your eyes. It will be your mother reflected there.

           He’ll see Madame Bianchi.

           The title carved into your flesh seems to sing as you descend the stairs. Only a few remain in the foyer, but it’s Seokjin who notices you first. When he does, he arches a brow even as he grins.

           “Is your date with the devil all lined up, then?” He remarks, eyeing your all-black outfit.

           “If all goes well, yes.” You step off of the last stair, heading straight toward the kitchen without stopping. “Has everyone eaten?”

           “Getting ready for lunch now, actually,” comes Hoseok’s voice just as you step into the kitchen. “Sleep well?”

           You grin wryly, and you note the way he glances at your teeth as if they sharpened overnight. “Wonderfully.”

           The preparations hardly pause as you fry up a couple of eggs before slapping them on toast. Seokjin watches you from across the island while Hoseok grumbles about the milk being nearly gone. You take extra caution to save your clothing from any spills, glancing down at your cashmere sweater warily.

           Who said you couldn’t wear nice clothes on a day like today?

           “Painted your nails,” Hoseok remarks, nodding your way. You hold your nails in front of you, smiling. The bright red hue glints and gleams, reminding you of a certain dress you wore four years prior.

           “What do you think?”

           “Very pretty.”

           Red nails, to stand out against your black outfit. “I thought Yadiel might appreciate them,” you muse aloud, studying your nails. It took you a good long while to perfect them, but you’re pleased with the result. “He’s always liked the color.”

           Neither men respond, but you don’t mind. You’ve finished your breakfast now. All it takes is a quick wash and then you’re ready to get to work. Turning, you see Seokjin watching you expectantly.

           “Everyone knows their positions?” You question. Hoseok and Yoongi should have informed the others last night of their individual roles while you were keeping Taehyung distracted with your little spat with Jungkook.

           “Yes.”

           “Good.” Gesturing for him to follow, you feel the power thrumming through your veins as Seokjin falls into step beside you. “Then let’s get to work.”

           --

           The basement is as silent as a tomb as you and Seokjin wander the halls. He does a final count of your supplies, fiddling with an antique lighter as you walk. Not a single gun is missing, much to your relief. Everything appears to be in order.

           “Hoseok and Taehyung will roll out at seven,” you explain, reviewing the plan. “Hoseok will part ways to post up across from Yadiel’s home, Taehyung will scout the area.”

           Seokjin nods knowingly, falling in with the half-truth. “Jimin and Jungkook will follow as backup.”

           “We’ll be close behind, setting the stage.”

           “Yoongi and Namjoon?” Seokjin questions, eyes trained on the end of the hallway as if waiting for Taehyung to stroll down here at any possible minute. You pass the room where Ortega was held, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling.

           “We’ll meet up with them at the rendezvous point,” you reply, forcing your voice to steady itself. “You know the signal.”

           Seokjin laughs drily. “It’ll be hard to miss.”

           “You’ll send everyone down?”

           He nods, face schooled into that of a patient arsonist. Soon, he’ll get to burn. You can almost feel the way he itches for it. Heading up the stairs, Seokjin leaves you behind, but pauses on the fourth step.

           “This will work, you know.”

           You blink, unable to set aside your armor that you so meticulously put on this morning. “Right. I know.”

           Seokjin’s half-smile softens the craving etched into his face that he gets when it’s almost time to burn. He doesn’t offer up any other words of comfort, only nodding once before leaving you alone in the basement.

           Watching him leave does something to you that you don’t like. It’s easier to shove it aside rather than examine it any further, so you do just that. Tapping your foot and humming a tune fills the silence of the basement, pushing your thoughts of Ortega far from your mind.

           It doesn’t take long before your first visitor arrives.

           “Did I keep you waiting?” Jimin asks, bouncing down the stairs. He’s similarly dressed as you – they all are – making him look like a dark angel as he approaches.

           “Not long,” you reassure, already feeling yourself relax. Still, you maintain a safe distance from him. “C’mon, let’s get you suited up.”

           And so your afternoon goes. One after the other, your mafia comes to you to be outfitted for war. Weapons are strategically placed, plans reviewed, and words of reassurance offered. Your mask is kept firmly in place for it all, although you can tell how much it bothers Jimin in particular.

           Jungkook comes after Jimin, quieter than usual as you suit him up. He doesn’t say much at all while you quietly go over the plan, glancing up into his guarded face.

           “Any questions?” You ask, voice tight. You know that he’s thinking of last night, of the way he longed to lean in just a little closer.

           There is a question, but he doesn’t dare ask it. Not now, when so much is riding on you maintaining your composure. So instead he shakes his head and quietly wishes you good luck before trudging back up the stairs.

           Hoseok is a breeze when he comes down the stairs, clipping his weapons in as if he were shopping for accessories rather than guns and knives. You take extra care with Hoseok, even giving him a parting smile before he leaves.

           “Thank you, Hoseok,” you murmur, squeezing his arm. “You’ve taken on the hardest task.”

           Hoseok shakes his head, returning your smile tenfold. “You forget why you hired me in the first place. I always get the job done, no matter the stakes.”

           Indeed he does. Hasn’t he always been the one you trusted to follow through? Even when it came to putting his own life in danger by shooting you, he pulled off the act flawlessly.

           “Consider yourself tenured,” you call after him as he heads back upstairs. His laughter is music to your ears, lifting some invisible weight from off your shoulders as he disappears.

           Namjoon appears next. Stoic eyes take in the armory before he points out a few specific items he wants to carry. Matching his energy, you quietly suit him up, double checking that everything is securely placed before looking back up at him.

           “You’re thinking of her,” you mumble, and his eyes flash before he gives in and nods. “I can’t promise anything, but everyone has agreed not to harm her unless she becomes a threat.”

           A wry smile tugs at his lips. “She will. That’s what I worry about.” Pausing, Namjoon’s eyes soften as he regards you. “I think we understand each other on this, you and I.”

           Taehyung and Victoria. Victoria and Taehyung. Two people you two deeply cared for, two heartbreaking betrayals.

           “That means you’ll do what’s necessary, then,” you croak out, fighting the urge to let your calm façade crumple. Namjoon nods once more, eyes searching your face for some chink in your armor.

           “I’ll follow your lead.”

           You’re still thinking about his words when Yoongi arrives. Unsurprisingly, he ignores you as much as possible. You allow it, only gesturing at the dwindling armory and waiting quietly, arms crossed as you lean against the wall.

           When he’s snatched a few weapons, he hastily clips them in without waiting for your assistance. Only when he’s finished do you approach, double checking that everything is in order. Tugging at his belt, you nod in approval with the gun strapped there doesn’t so much as budge.

           “Russo offered the numbers that we need, in exchange for a shot at having you back.”

           Yoongi stiffens, and you eye him warily. Half-expecting him to draw a gun right now, you continue quickly.

           “He also plans to provide us with a steady income, although it would be at the cost of doing his bidding.”

           “Why would you agree to that?” Yoongi seethes, hands fidgeting. “That’s a death sentence for us all!”

           “I didn’t say I was going through with it,” you shrug.

           Yoongi stares at you, trying desperately to see what you’re planning. “…what?” Then, his panic sets in once more. “If you go behind his back, they’ll know. Your life will be forfeit the second they realize you’re even thinking of planning something-”

           “It’s already done.”

           Stopping, Yoongi gapes before collecting himself. “What do you mean, it’s already done?”

           Patting him on the back, you smile up at him in earnest. “I just need you to pull off the finishing touch.”

           It doesn’t take long to explain to Yoongi what he needs to do. He understands everything perfectly, smiling wryly as he departs.

           Lastly, Taehyung. Trying to not watch him too closely is like trying to hold your breath; eventually you give in. His normally wild hair is tamed now, a bit of product making him look prince-like. He picks a few generic items, strapping twin pistols across his chest.

           “How’re you feeling?” You ask, watching as he fiddles with the various buckles and straps adorning his body.

           “Good. Ready.” He meets your gaze, eyes swathed in shadows. “You?”

           “Good.” You bare your teeth in a smile. “Great, actually.”

           “I’m glad to hear that.”

           You give him a brief overview of the plan, even as you know deep down that there’s a high likelihood that he won’t follow any of it. Taehyung nods along, asking clarifying questions, keeping up the act. It’s impressive, to be honest. If it weren’t for the evidence you found and the way he looks at you as if he almost regrets it, you would never question his loyalty.

           “All set?”

           Taehyung breezes past you, heading for the stairs. “See you there, capa.” He begins up the stairs while you linger below, watching him. It’s almost as if he holds the loose thread to your heart, and each step only serves to unravel it even more.

           When he stops, you hold your breath. Slowly, he turns, looking down at you with furrowed brows.

           “If you need anything…” he trails off, unsure of how to finish his sentence. Because what can he do, truly, if you need his help?

           Years of companionship, and this is where it ends. In a silent house, armed for battle. The history between the two of you will not prove enough to fill the void his lies have wrought.

           Yet still, peering down into that void, you care.

           “You’ll stay safe, won’t you?”

           It’s a farewell, as close to a goodbye as you dare go. Taehyung’s expression shutters, but he nods all the same. “I will.”

           And then, just as quickly as he entered your life, Kim Taehyung is gone.

--

            “Rolling out in 3…2…” Hoseok’s voice crackles to life in your earpiece. “…1.”

           The bright green Lamborghini peels out of the driveway, taking Hoseok and Taehyung with it. You stand on the porch, arms crossed. Once the car disappears from view, you press the small button on your belt, activating your microphone.

           “Team two will follow in ten minutes.”

           Ten minutes later on the dot, Jimin and Jungkook roll out in Jimin’s black Mercedes. Your heart pounds, the nerves starting to set in, but you wave goodbye with a smile.

           “Team two, on the road,” Jimin says before switching off his mic. Namjoon snorts, pointing at a beaming Jimin before they disappear from view.

           “He looks giddy,” Namjoon observes. “He spent a solid hour polishing his car after he saw the Lambo.”

Once an hour passes, Seokjin comes to you. “Everything’s packed up,” he says, clapping his hands. “You ready?”

           Glancing back at Namjoon and Yoongi, you nod. “Don’t forget to lock the door on your way out,” you remind them, trying to force some normalcy into your voice.

           “Stay safe,” Yoongi chides in return, demeanor significantly warmer now that you’ve involved him in your little plan.

           Once you’ve piled into the SUV and ascertained that you do indeed have all the equipment you’ll need, you start the engine and head out.

           “Team Fiery Firebird is on the loose,” Seokjin says, your earpiece echoing the phrase. You snort, rolling your eyes.

           Sure enough, another voice pops up. “Wait, we can have actual team names?” Comes Jungkook’s whine, and if you close your eyes, you could picture his exact expression.

           “No. We’re team three. Ignore Seokjin,” you say, ignoring Seokjin’s appalled expression.

           “Jimin and Jungkook are Team Second String,” Hoseok’s voice is loud and clear. “How does it feel to be playing second fiddle, boys?”

           You can hear the mock outrage in Jimin’s voice. “Do you shoot such big guns because you’re compensating for something, Jung?”

           Seokjin cackles beside you. “Oh, that’s gonna sting,” he commentates lovingly. You grin, the easy banter calming your nerves. Glancing at your partner, you note how Seokjin’s eyes sparkle in the evening light with unkept mischief.

           “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Hoseok responds coolly.

           “How do I remove myself from the group chat,” Namjoon chimes in drily.

           And so the banter continues, until one by one, the line falls silent. They sign off for the time being, opting for the cover of silence as they begin their work.

           You park down the street from Yadiel’s home, in a neighbor’s driveway. The neighbor is gone for the week, off on vacation. They have a tendency to ask friends and family to check on their home every so often, in fear of returning to a ransacked shack rather than the luxurious mansion they left behind.

           Today, you and Seokjin will be those friends they called up. It wasn’t too difficult to spy on the people that arrived yesterday, while you, Namjoon, and Jungkook were scouting out the area. They did very little to hide what code they were putting into the garage.

           “Backpack me,” Seokjin says, giving you a mock salute as you pull into the garage. Filling the bag with various minor explosives and a bottle or two of gasoline, you meet Seokjin around the hood of the car and hand him the backpack. You watch him with varying levels of worry as he straps the bag onto his back as if it were filled with nothing more than his lunch he brought from home.

           Double checking that your gun is strapped securely along your hip, you touch each individual throwing knife wrapped around your thigh. Seokjin watches, his curiosity getting the best of him.

           “I didn’t know you had a thing for knives.”

           “Just the throwing kind,” you murmur back, taking the entrance to the backyard and squinting into the fading sunlight. “They won’t do me much good if I get too close.” You check your watch. 8:32.

           “Then let’s hope nobody gets too close.”

           Traversing from back yard to back yard, you’re impressed as Seokjin remains nearly as silent as a cat while jumping fences and prowling around dog kennels. Hopefully there won’t be many left behind Yadiel’s estate that will hear your approach, but you know that no matter how well Hoseok does his job, there will still be a few left behind that will not hesitate to take you down.

           Now, perched on the wall that separates Yadiel’s home from the rest, you watch for any sign of movement. A few shadows line the windows, you count six. “Down we go,” you whisper, just as your earpiece comes to life once more.

           “The sun has already set.”

           Hoseok’s coded message sends your heart to your throat, and you nearly land on your face because of it. Seokjin drops down beside you, scanning the area with sharp eyes before deigning to look down at you.

           When Hoseok asked you what he should say when Taehyung finally gave him the slip, you came up with the setting sun. At this point, Taehyung would have heard the message just the same as the rest of you, but that won’t be a problem for long.

           “Reconfiguring,” Yoongi’s voice comes next. “Done. See you on the other side.”

           Wordlessly, you and Seokjin tap the buttons on your belts, tapping until you’ve arrived at the desired channel.

           Wave number five. You were all equipped with earpieces that reached up to five channels – all save for Taehyung. He can’t listen to you here, giving you the cover you so desperately need.

           “Everyone here?” Yoongi asks once a few moments have passed. “Team one, sound off.”

           “Made it,” Hoseok responds. “Taehyung gave me the slip about five minutes ago. I’m still posted up across from Yadiel’s place.”

           “Team two, present. Hoseok, we’re moving toward your position.” Jimin sounds off, although his voice is much quieter. He must be near enemy lines.

           You take a deep breath, activating your microphone. “Team three, we just made it to the house. I can spot six guards within the house. Hoseok, how many do you have eyes on?”

           “Not enough. Maybe…five? Team two already took care of the ones patrolling the grounds, so four there.”

           Motioning for Seokjin to follow, you shrink down as much as possible and approach the back of the house. Once you pause, Seokjin gets straight to work.

           “Roughly eleven left, then,” Namjoon says. “Although I would bet that there’s closer to fifteen, some out of view. Some in the basement. How long until the changing of the guard?”

           You consult your watch, but Jungkook beats you to a response. “Twenty-four minutes. Team three should be off the premises in twenty.”

           Seokjin contemplates this. “All we need is fifteen.”

           Listening to the constant updates fed to you via Hoseok, you watch Seokjin’s back as he sets up explosive after explosive. They’re strong enough to take down the entire house, if placed in the right spots.

           That’s why, when he frowns at the final explosive in his hands, you can’t help but mirror his expression.

           “What?” You whisper, glancing up at the nearest window. The shadow there hasn’t moved an inch.

           Seokjin makes sure his microphone is off before speaking. “We already know that Yadiel isn’t here. Neither is Taehyung.” Whether he notices your flinch at Taehyung’s name or not, he doesn’t show. “Who do you think he left in charge?”

           You consider it for a moment, but it doesn’t take long before the answer appears. “Do you really think so?”

           Nodding solemnly, Seokjin taps his fingers along the cold metal. “Victoria is the only other one he trusts from what we’ve seen. She’s here.”

           Your heart falls as you consider what you’re about to do. You’ve already considered the guard’s lives forfeit, but Victoria?

           As much as you hate it, you know you have to ask what you’re both thinking. “What makes her worth saving?”

           Seokjin’s mouth forms a hard line as he thinks. To be honest, neither of you know any concrete reason for saving Victoria. Especially not when she seemingly chose Yadiel of her own free will, leaving Namjoon for a monster.

           “You were …like her, once. Weren’t you?”

           “It’s been fifteen minutes. How’s it coming team three?” Jungkook can’t hide the worry in his voice, no matter how hard he tries.

           You’re stuck staring into Seokjin’s golden-brown eyes and seeing yourself reflected there. You did think it strange, the way Yadiel dressed Victoria up in red, just like he wanted you to be. She was a pawn.

           Just like you were, when Yadiel lauded himself over you.  

           “And if she’s just as bad as him?” You ask, eyes pleading for an answer you can work with. “I’ve messed up too many times to make a mistake now, Seokjin.”

           He nods before placing the explosive in its designated place and straightening. “I know.” His eyes soften. “I’ll follow your lead.”

           Namjoon said those same words to you earlier.

           What Namjoon – your friend through many dangers – would do, if Victoria were found dead amidst the rubble you’re about to reduce this house to, is what has you nodding your head.

           “I thought you were supposed to be the heartless maniac,” you chide. Seokjin’s smile does little to calm your nerves as he channels the persona you just named.

           “Watch and learn, Bianchi.”

--

           You had no plans to break into Yadiel’s home, but you always carry a lockpick around. What kind of person would you be if you didn’t?

           It’s not easy to break, but eventually the back door does creak open.

           “Team three, status update.” Yoongi’s commanding tone almost has you cowering.

           “Shh,” Seokjin says in response before powering off his microphone. You wait, almost expecting a snide response, but receive nothing. For once, they took him seriously.

           A long hallway is what lies ahead, the sight of it hardly encouraging. “Wait for my signal,” you whisper, creeping forward before Seokjin can say anything else.

           There are muffled voices up ahead, and it doesn’t take long to locate them. An open doorway reveals a large room filled with maps, photos of various criminals, and a pool table. Around it stand two men, clearly guards.

           “I don’t care what he says,” the larger one is saying, “I don’t trust her.”

           “Victoria has always had that look about her…” the smaller one agrees, walking around the pool table to find the best angle for his next hit. “Like she’s planning something.”

           “See? Exactly the reason why she should never be trusted!”

           They don’t see you lurking just outside the door.

           Nor do they see the knives, careening toward them.

           The big man is struck on the side of the neck, downing him in an instant. The other sees this, and begins to turn, a yell on his lips.

           He turns right into the second knife.

           Hitting the floor with a thud, you wait until both lie completely still before signaling Seokjin. The arsonist hurries your way, cursing under his breath when he sees what you’ve done.

           “Told you I like knives,” you whisper. Tiptoeing inside, you fish out your knives with an expression of disgust before wiping them on your pants and placing them back inside their holders.

           “That was…” Seokjin shakes his head, smiling widely. “Nice. Really nice.”

           You’d think he was talking about a play he just saw instead of a double homicide, the way he speaks. It makes you grin right back, despite the gory scene before you.

           “C’mon.”

           Continuing on, you come into a large bar area a few rooms over. It’s a central location, and completely empty for the time being. Eyeing Seokjin, you wait for his approval.

           His approval comes by way of him snatching a bottle of gasoline and uncorking it with his teeth. He spits out the lid on the ground before smothering the surrounding area with the liquid.

           “We’ll only have a few minutes before the fire spreads and it becomes a madhouse,” he explains. “But it should give Victoria enough of a heads-up that she makes it out before the explosion.”

           “Let me guess: you want me to inform the others, now?”

           Seokjin smiles sweetly. “Yes, please. For me?”

           Rolling your eyes, you tap on your mic. “Team one and two, are you up for a challenge?”

           A second later Jimin’s voice chimes in. “It’s about time. We’re dying for some entertainment up here.”

           “Glad to hear it. Hoseok, you’ll want to take out those that you have eyes on here in a couple of minutes. Team two, pick up the spares. We’re flushing them out.”

           “Flushing them out?” Hoseok asks. “What do you mean?”

           “Everyone, except for Victoria, you pick off. Understand?”

           Quiet. And then, Jungkook’s soft voice, as if he had foreseen this. “I know what she looks like; I’ll keep an eye open for her. Do not engage?”

           You glance at Seokjin, who gives you a nod. “Probably for the best.”

           “How’re you flushing them out?” Hoseok asks once more. “Wait, are you ins-”

           The rest of his sentence doesn’t quite reach your ears as you notice a hint of red in your peripheral. Whirling, you immediately freeze as you realize what’s happening.

           Victoria, perhaps having smelled the gasoline, has come downstairs to investigate. Now she stands, frozen just like you, in a daring red jumpsuit and with an expression of utter shock on her face.

           Silvery-blue eyes jumping from you to Seokjin, she opens her mouth and for a moment you can see it. She’ll scream. Everyone will be alerted to your presence. If she’s smart, she’s carrying a gun on her. She won’t be fast enough to kill you both, not if you act quickly.

           Without a second thought, you step in front of Seokjin.

           He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, reading your position. Directly in front of him, making yourself a human shield. Just as his hands curl around your waist, ready to swing you out of the way, Victoria makes her move.

           She…laughs.

           It’s a croaky, artificial laugh, but a laugh all the same.

           “Crap,” Seokjin whispers in your ear. “Maybe she’s crazy after all.”

           Victoria doesn’t budge, nor does she make any move to pull a gun on you. Instead, she looks around the room, taking in the gasoline-soaked carpet with a strange smile.

           “He’s not here,” she finally says. Her voice is strained, revealing hints of a carefully manufactured persona that’s trying to break free.

           “Team three, you have four minutes. Evacuate the premises immediately.” It’s Namjoon.

           “We’re not here for him,” Seokjin says, coming to stand beside you.

           Victoria takes him in, eyes dead. “Enlighten me, then.”

           Something about her seems…off. Like a beautiful shell, she stands there so still that it throws you off. As if she’s used to posing.

           “I would like one reason,” you say, hand falling to your hip where you gun sits. “That I shouldn’t kill you.”

           Seokjin looks at you, a little in shock, but you ignore him. Answers, you need answers for this gray-area named Victoria.

           Victoria doesn’t seem phased by your threat, which is in line with living with Yadiel for years. She only gazes at you mildly before shrugging her shoulders.

           “I’ve been killed a thousand times before,” she murmurs, those dead eyes locking on yours. “What’s one more?”

           “Team three, if you’re not out in sixty seconds, we’re coming in after you.” Jungkook. Always worrying, always looking out for you.

           Jungkook is the reason you’re not in Victoria’s place right now. He always gave you an excuse to leave, a way out. He carried you home on your worst days and came to get you on the nights when Yadiel had you under a knife.

           You realize then, Yadiel’s desire for Jungkook to get out of the picture. His deep-seated hatred for the boy that began even before you knew he’d met him. Without Jungkook and perhaps, without even Taehyung, your life would have led to this.

           Perhaps Victoria can find her Jungkook. Maybe, it’ll be Namjoon. But first…

           “We’re burning this place to the ground in twenty seconds. There are explosives that will detonate in about three minutes. My team has agreed to hold fire when it comes to you, but only you. Get out, Victoria.” You stare at her, seeing her in a way that makes her too similar to you.

           Just with better calves.

           “And if he returns?”

           “He won’t be,” Seokjin practically growls out.

           Together, you and Seokjin watch as Victoria absorbs this information, processes it with warring emotions, and makes her decision in about three seconds.

           With seventeen seconds left to spare, she does something that you know you’ll always remember.

           Victoria steps forward, nearing the bar. Then, she swipes a bottle of scotch.

           Nodding at you, she tucks it under her arm and walks away, not even bothering to glance back at you to ensure that you uphold your promise.

           “We’ll be out in ten seconds,” you whisper, turning on the microphone feature. “Victoria is on her way out as well.”

           Radio silence is your only response while the others take in this new information. You watch as Seokjin takes the antique lighter from his pocket, flicking it open and watching the lone flame that appears with untapped curiosity.

           “…thank you.” Namjoon’s voice is so soft you hardly pick up on it.

           “Ready?” Seokjin asks you, not looking away from the flame. You step around him, mindful of the gasoline.

           “Go for it.”

           A crooked grin that he reserves for occasions just like this crosses his lips before Seokjin crouches down and takes a deep breath. His shoulders drop, all the tension there disappearing as he brings the lighter down to the carpet.

           Fire immediately roars to life, spreading at an impossibly fast speed. Seokjin hardly moves, only taking a cursory step back before his full attention is enraptured. “Look at it,” he whispers adoringly. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

           The fire alarm begins to blare.

           “Lovely. Let’s move.” You tug on his arm, and he reluctantly follows. Jogging down the hallway, you look back just in time to see that the entire living room is now engulfed in flames. Seokjin is looking back, too, a bit of a dazed look in his eyes.

           “Just think of it. It won’t be long now before every terrible thing that’s ever happened in this house is turned to ash.”

           Practically dragging him into the yard, you match his smile. “Now that, I like.”

--

           You have no choice but to leave the SUV behind when Hoseok voices his concern that Taehyung might have left trackers on all the vehicles. That leaves only the Mercedes, which Jungkook will use to meet up with Yadiel at the church in Queen’s Wharf. It’s the only thing they’ll expect.

           “We’ll meet at the rendezvous point in about thirty minutes, then,” you concede. It shouldn’t take too long of a walk to get where you need to go in Queen’s Wharf. “Hoseok, Jimin; you’re all eyes on Jungkook. I want you ready for anything.”

           You ran from Yadiel’s home, only catching a glimpse of Victoria, who was heading in the opposite direction. Most of Yadiel’s remaining forces have been eliminated now, thanks to the fire and teams two and three picking them off.

           “Phase one, completion pending.” Yoongi says, ever the professional. “Awaiting the big boom before initiating phase two.”

           “Big boom coming up in about sixty seconds,” Seokjin pants, slowing until he’s beside you. You take a sharp corner, heading straight for Queen’s Wharf. “Second boom will follow in ten minutes.”

           It was Seokjin’s idea to create two waves of explosions. To deter anyone from getting near the house until it was nothing more than a smoldering ruin. The first wave would come from the east, the second from the west.

           For now, your lungs are on fire as you push yourself a little harder. You want to put as much distance as you can between yourself and Yadiel’s home. Each step carries you a bit closer to Queen’s Wharf – a little closer to where it all began.

           Seokjin informs you when there’s ten seconds left, and you slow to a walk. Sure enough, you hear the explosion right on time. A moment later, you see it.

           Smoke rises from above the buildings, and you can even see some of the flames that must have crawled up to the top of the house with the help of the bombs. People peek out of their homes, frantic. Chatter begins, phones are whipped out, and prayers are uttered.

           “See?” Seokjin says. “Boom.”

           “Beautifully done,” Hoseok says. “We’re nearing the car now. Another ten minutes and we’ll be on our way.”

           Jimin had left the Mercedes at a midway point, not wanting to draw suspicion. They should be only a few streets down from where you and Seokjin are watching the plume of smoke grow taller and taller.

           “That gives Jungkook about ten minutes that he’ll be on his own with Yadiel,” you surmise, gut twisting. “Let’s keep moving.”                                  

--        

Queen’s Wharf lies deathly still tonight. Like a cat glaring at you from the shadows, silently seething and waiting for a chance to swipe at your bare ankles. It makes you skittish, jumping at any little sound.

           You and Seokjin have not spoken for the past fifteen minutes. Perhaps that’s why, when a familiar voice whispers in your ear, you nearly trip over the curb in surprise.  

           “Arriving now. There are two men out front, and we suspect about four more patrolling the surrounding area. Be on your guard when approaching from whichever direction.”

           It’s Jungkook. His voice is low, and you can picture him approaching the church now, clinging to the shadows like old friends. Your stomach knots and twists at the thought of him and Jimin circling the building, creating a perimeter while they wait for you to get there.

           “I’m posted up right across from him. There’s an additional six men inside. No sign of Yadiel or Taehyung.” Hoseok reports.

           “And Russo?”

           “He’s been here. Bugged the area, too. Let me look…” Hoseok pauses. “Yep. Eyes on Russo, in the alley behind the church. Looks like he brought about ten men.”

           This is actually happening.

           “Jimin?”

           “Slipping in through the back,” he whispers back. “I’ll take the east, Jungkook will take the west.”

           That should ease your racing heart, but it does little. Not when you know what Yadiel is capable of.

           Seokjin is watching you closely, but you turn away, unable to take the scrutiny. Taking a few deep breaths, you tap in once more. “Jungkook, be careful. You know as well as I do what Yadiel can do.”

           “Worried about me?”

           His playful albeit quiet tone sends a pang of nostalgia through you, reminding you of all the times before when he was the one fiercely protecting you. It was usually your job to poke fun at his overzealous attitude. Now, the roles have switched. He’s too far away to reach, to pull out of harm’s way. Your fingers twitch at the thought of it.

           “Never.”

           Yes. Always.

           You’re struck with a form of heartache that you realize you finally have a name for. The desire to tell him you love him, care for him, and wish him all the joy in the world; but the knowledge that you can’t.

           Because you can see by the way Jungkook looks at you, that he loves you in a very different way.

           The last thing he needs is to be sent into the enemy’s den with false hope. So instead, you remain silent. Literally shutting your mouth as you stare straight ahead, eyes unseeing. Seokjin is your shadow, keeping close behind but remaining out of sight. Allowing you this moment.

           It’s only when you’ve sighed for the fifth time that he speaks, startling you with his low voice so close behind you.

           “Is your mic off?”

           You double check hastily, then nod. Coming up beside you, Seokjin doesn’t hold your eyes for very long. Instead, he focuses on a lamp post about a block down. The light has just come on, warding off the encroaching night.

           “You and Jungkook…” he trails off, frowning slightly before any emotion is wiped from his face. “Do you have feelings for him?”

           Perhaps it’s because the sentiment has been hanging off your tongue for the past five minutes, but your response is immediate. “I love him.”

           Seokjin blinks, and something flits across his face that you almost recognize before it’s gone. “Oh.” Then, “Good.”

           “I mean-” you stutter an explanation out, “he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I love him, but I can’t – I don’t – ugh this is ridiculous.” Throwing your hands up in the air, you say, “I love Jungkook and I wish I could fall in love with him, but I don’t think that’ll ever happen. I care for him. Like a best friend whose been through hell and back with him only could. Nothing more. Well, he’s attractive and stuff. But it’s Jungkook. He’s my…”

           Friend isn’t the right word for it. Jungkook is more than that.        

           “Did you love him, once?”

           The question isn’t unwelcome – you would’ve asked yourself the same thing had Seokjin not beaten you to it.

           Even the motion of shaking your head feels like a betrayal, somehow. “I…wanted him. Drowned in the wanting for a long time.” It’s odd to admit it so freely, but you shake off the awkwardness and allow the next statement to fall from your lips. “But no. It was never love.”

           “For you.” Not a question.

           “Or for him,” you counter, glancing sidelong at Seokjin. His jaw is set and his calm eyes are still tuck on the streetlamp down the block. “Infatuation dappled with undying dedication-”

           “Undying devotion, more like.” Seokjin sighs out a laugh. “That’s about as real a love as you can hope to find these days.”

           “Call it love, then,” you concede. “In love with the idea of me. And I was obsessed with the idea of him, too. Nobody’s hands are clean in this.”

           Silence takes its seat between the two of you, and you make a point to ignore it. It’s far easier to flood your mind with more pressing matters, rather than diving into the mess you’ve made of your life.

           You’ve made it to the streetlamp Seokjin was studying earlier when he finally speaks. His tone is soft, bordering on a whisper.

           “And then what?”

           Smoke tickles your nose, letting you know that time is not to be wasted. Still, you don’t move. Can’t. Because you’re staring into Seokjin’s eyes and seeing nothing but your harsh reflection. Unable to escape from the reality of yourself.

           Seokjin is a mirror. He offers you no escape from yourself, no distractions.

           It’s appalling and mortifying. Infuriating.  

           “Jungkook views me as his savior. You and I both know I’m not as saintly as he would hope me to be.”

           “So you were crushed under the pressure.”

           “I’m trying to do the one saintly thing I can manage,” you shoot back, still angry for some reason. “By taking myself out of the picture so that he can see me for who I really am.”

           You’ve made it to the streetlamp. It only registers when you realize that you’ve stopped walking, matching Seokjin.

           “Who are you?”

           The question Seokjin poses as he takes a step closer gives you pause. You practically bare your teeth like a wild animal that’s being cornered. “Don’t you know by now?”

           Because it’s been Seokjin who’s seen you fall apart time and time again. Seokjin, who caught you at the gala. Seokjin, holding you as you mourned your unworthy father. Seokjin, mending your ribs. Rejecting your request for a kiss, drunk on your own tears. Confessing your twisted feelings for Jungkook.

           Seokjin Seokjin Seokjin.

           He closes his eyes for a brief moment before they open once more, carefully composed. “Not nearly enough to satisfy my curiosity.”

           He’s walking now, down the sidewalk away from the light. Pace picking up, already running from what you know is lurking just behind those hazelnut eyes. Because he’s just like you, sometimes.

           Sometimes, he’s a coward, too.

           You don’t budge from the streetlamp as you watch his retreating figure. The words are building up in your chest, until finally, they explode.

           “I found the spare key last night.”

           He freezes, so completely that you’re tempted to check your watch to see if time really has stopped.

           “Looking for another distraction,” he replies dismissively.

           You shake your head even though he’s still turned away. “Looking for you.”

           He still doesn’t move, so you do. Slow, measured steps, as if he might startle easily. You note the way his shoulders stiffen as you approach. Preparing for the worst.

           Dreading the best.

           “I wanted to go find you, but-”

“Wanted? Like how you wanted Jungkook?” He questions as he spins about. It’s difficult to hold the weight of his gaze, but you straighten under it. “I don’t deal in wants and whims.”

           “What, then?” You spit out, taking another step forward and feeling the way goosebumps rise on your skin when Seokjin doesn’t step back. “Don’t lie to me and say that you’re waiting for true love to knock on your door. We both know that’s not how you operate.

           Nostrils flaring, Seokjin opens his mouth to no doubt bite out a response but stops. You’re panting, hardly able to see straight as your gaze keeps returning to those fiery eyes, wishing that they’d just consume you whole.

           “I deal in absolute,” Seokjin grits out, taking your hand in his and placing it upon his chest. “So until you’ve figured out your wants in life, I belong only to myself, sweetheart.”

           His heartbeat is a rapid thud beneath your fingertips, a testament to the fire swirling around you. “There are no absolutes,” you breathe out, chancing one last step. “Not tonight.”

           “I don’t-”

           “Seokjin.”

           There’s a spark of light to the east, followed by the sounds of an explosion. The second wave. Neither of you so much as move an inch.

           “Seokjin.” You whisper in time with the mantra in your head.

           His brows furrow ever so slightly, some unseen war waging behind his eyes.

           “But I…” he shakes his head, clearing an unwanted thought. “Because I…”

           You’re unsure who moves first.

           One moment, you’re pinned in place by his gaze, and the next, you’re nearly crumpling from the sensation of Seokjin’s lips against yours.

           As if sensing your thoughts, his arms wrap around your waist to keep you upright even as he guides you back against a wall. Your breath comes in short spurts as you find the nape of his neck, hands diving into his hair while he kisses you with a dizzying combination of heartbreaking gentleness and frenzy-inducing desire.

           You can’t get close enough, can’t process enough. Not as his lips press against yours in a sudden surge of desperation. His hands move to cradle your face, pulling back once but returning before you even have a chance to open his eyes and question his absence.

           When he returns, his kiss is slow. His lips carry a thousand words, all of them sounding like your name. Seokjin drinks you in as if you were honey, taking his time even while your knees shake. This is the kiss you asked for the night he held you in his arms, this is the distraction to end all distractions.

           This is it.

           You squeeze your eyes tighter against the onslaught of emotions, gasping for air. Seokjin pulls back, breathing heavily while his hands leave your skin.

           When you open your eyes, the world is on fire.

           Haloed in oranges and red as a plume of smoke rises into the night sky, Seokjin regards you with eyes that have nothing left to hide. What you see is a man completely ruined by you, lips swollen and eyes soft. Your mind reels even as your heart struggles to remain in your chest. It’s as if he’s reached in and taken it out himself, and you wonder if he realizes that he holds it in his hands right now.  

           “It’s ok,” he whispers. “You scare me, too.”

           A laugh escapes your lips, making him smile. “Holy sh-”

           “Team one, what’s your ETA?”

           Both of you jump at the sound of Yoongi’s voice. You wonder if they can hear your heart pounding as you respond.

           “About…two blocks away. How’s it going?”

           “Yadiel just walked inside.”

--

           The Queen’s Wharf church is a behemoth that looms above the surrounding buildings. The very sight of it is enough to quiet the elation in your veins, replacing it with icy fear.

           Russo is apparently with Namjoon, who is chatting with him in the alleyway. If all is going according to plan, Yoongi should be skulking in the shadows, holding a very important document right now.

           One that might just change everything.

           “I’ve got eyes on team one,” Hoseok informs the group.

           “Any sign of Taehyung?” You ask, keeping your back to the wall as a couple of Yadiel’s lackey’s keep a wary eye out for any newcomers.

           “Nada.”

           “What about a blindspot?”

           “Northeast corner. Heading back toward Russo.”

           “Bingo.”

           Seokjin brings up the rear as you slink around a neighboring building. Moonlight dances along the smooth doors of the church, outlining two figures that stand as sentinels. “Anybody else outside?”

           “No. Just the two up front.”

           “There’s only one entrance,” Namjoon chimes in. “Not much for them to guard.”

           “What are my chances of being discovered if I take them out right now?”

           There’s a slight hesitation, then Hoseok speaks. “I’d leave them alone for a minute. Yadiel might be using them as bait to alert him to unwanted company.”

           You sigh. “I hate it when you’re right.”

           Skirting around them doesn’t prove very difficult; it’s scaling the northeast wall. It’s been a few years since this church has been serviced, that much is apparent in the way the rusty ladder creaks and shifts with each step. You freeze up a couple of times, certain that someone must have heard you and will surely come to investigate, but nobody ever does.

           Seokjin is waiting on the ground below, acting as your safety net should the old ladder give in. Now, he looks like an ant as you near the top.

           “Almost made it.”

           “I can see you,” Hoseok affirms. “Just try not to fall off, that’d be-”

           His words fade from coherency as you clamber to your feet atop the roof and realize that you’re not alone.

            Sitting in a patch of shadows behind a spire, Yadiel looks like a demon freshly summoned from hell as he smiles serenely at you.

           “Glad you could make it.”

           Hoseok curses in your earpiece when Yadiel’s figure comes into his line of sight.

           “I thought you might come up here. This is, after all, a very sentimental place for you.” Yadiel takes a few steps forward before crouching down to what you recognize is the cleaner’s entrance. “Isn’t this the last place you saw your mother? Nevermind the fact that she was dead.”

           “How did you-”

           “I’ve always kept an eye on the things I value most.”

           He heaves open the entrance in one smooth movement, grinning at the spot of light that peaks through. Crooking a finger, he gestures for you to come closer. You don’t budge. You’re paralyzed.

           “Suit yourself,” he hums, straightening. He brushes his hands off on his pants before turning away. “Thought you might like to see the show.”

           “Where’s he going?” Hoseok asks.

           “Who?” Seokjin’s breathing is coming up short, and you can hear the ladder creaking as he makes his way up.

           “No, Seokjin. Stay down there. Yadiel, he…” you shake your head but your throat seems to be constricting. “He’s on his way down.”

           You can hear Jungkook’s voice drifting up and out of the church, and temptation nearly overcomes you. But it’s a trap, you know it. Yadiel wants you in there, where you’re too far away to do anything that really matters.

Scrambling to the side of the roof where Yadiel just disappeared, you curse when he’s nowhere in sight.

           “Coming down,” you say. “We need to act quickly, I think. Something’s not right. Yadiel…he knew that I’d be up here.”

           “Ready when you are,” Namjoon says, voice tight.

           “The sooner the better,” Yoongi adds. “Russo’s getting restless.”

           “I see him,” Hoseok suddenly says. “I see Yadiel.”

           You pause on the ladder, nearly to the ground now. “Where is he?”

           The sound of the doors opening is answer enough.

--

           You’re standing outside the entrance when Russo approaches with Namjoon beside him. His ten muscly friends are close behind, looking ready for a fight. Good. They’re sure in for one. Seokjin is a few steps behind, offering you a grim smile. Yoongi is nowhere to be seen.

           “Madame Bianchi.” Russo greets you with an incline of his head. You don’t bother with the niceties.

           “You know what to do. Kill him, and you can have Yoongi.”

           Russo faulters, baring his teeth in what he must call a smile. “I’ve been thinking…is the Min boy really worth all of this?”

           Your heart stutters to a stop. “…what?”

           “The Father likes to…collect things. People, if you will.” Russo’s eyes sparkle. “He thinks you would all prove to be a very valuable addition to his collection.”

           You can feel Namjoon’s eyes on you, but you refuse to look. This can’t be happening. Not now. “You want all of us?”

           Russo glances back at his men, shrugging. “Yes, I believe those were his instructions.”

           No, no, no. Russo was supposed to take down Yadiel – possibly even die in the process. This was supposed to look like two groups, the Genovese family and Yadiel’s men, all going against each other.

           They were supposed to tear the world apart. Burn the forest.

           You were supposed to be the new life, sprouting from the ashes that they left behind.

           “You know,” Russo whispers. “I’m smarter than I look. Do we have a deal? I take care of your little problem and you come on home with me?”

           Seokjin’s voice breaks through before you can even form a coherent thought. “No!”

           Russo doesn’t even bother to look at him. He merely shrugs. “Your loss.” As if on cue, all ten of his men pull their guns. “The Kim’s offered more money, anyway.”

           The doors to the church are ripped open and just like that, your entire world is flipped upside down. Because Russo and Yadiel didn’t end up slaughtering each other tonight.

           They joined forces.

           The world turns blurry as your pushed inside. Seokjin and Namjoon are close behind, and Jimin and Jungkook are shoved in a few seconds later.

           You feel oddly empty as you’re roughly pushed down the aisle, like some unwanted bride. There’s a ringing in your ears that makes it hard to hear the harsh tones coming from all around you, but you don’t mind.

           “…at me.”

           Blinking, you will the ringing to come back, to block out the familiar voice. But it doesn’t return, betraying you, too. Just like Russo. Just like Taehyung.

           Just like your father.

           “Have you gone deaf?” It’s Yadiel, standing directly in front of you. “Look at him.”

           Him? Who else is there? Why does Yadiel, for once, want your focus somewhere other than himself? You’re about to ask him this when your eyes snag on something heartbreakingly familiar.

           Taehyung.

           He sits atop a dais, not a scratch on his pretty face. Just…looking at you. Smiling. As if this might turn out to be some elaborate joke. Like he’ll ask you if you really believed he could betray you like that. When he finally opens his mouth to speak, his voice is light. Carefree.

           “I want you to look at me when I hurt you.”

           Odd, you didn’t notice the way he carried himself before. He rises from his chair as if it were a throne and you, his favorite subject. The way he moves makes you feel small. Like the same child he met all those years ago in Italy, when you gave him and false name and he gave you a false friendship.

           “Taehyung?” You ask, because this can’t really be him.

           The man wearing Taehyung’s face smiles angelically. “I’ve always loved how you say my name. She’s so sweet, isn’t she?” He’s looking over your shoulder now, toward Jungkook. Then, holding Jungkook’s gaze, Taehyung flicks open a knife.

           His attention returns to you and he steps closer, but something has him pausing.

           “Jungkook!” Jimin yells, but Jungkook is already moving. He’s nothing more than a streak of light, jumping in front of you, screaming at Taehyung.

           “We trusted you!” Jungkook screams. He strides toward the traitor, spit flying as he screeches. “You were my friend! I trusted you to keep her safe!”

           Someone else is moving past you, trying to get to Jungkook. Jimin or Seokjin, maybe Namjoon – you can’t focus enough to tell. Because you’re watching in horror as Taehyung glances at Yadiel and gives him a composed nod.

           “You liar! You filthy-”

           A gunshot rings through the church, and all goes silent.

--

Jungkook’s body hits the floor with a sickening thud.

He does not get up.

And all you can do is stare. Stare and stare, that ringing back in your ears. Because that’s blood soaking the floor beneath Jungkook’s body. And he’s not getting up.

“No!” You scream the word at him, at Taehyung, at yourself. “No!” The word is a feral animal, clawing its way up your throat and careening into the, shattering everything in its wake. You lunge forward, barely managing a step before two arms entrap you in their iron-like grip. Thrashing and screaming, you try to wound whoever has trapped you with your elbows or your feet, but each blow does little to loosen the grip around you.

“Look at me, little one.” Yadiel’s voice is too soft, it grates against your skin. “Struggle all you wish, but if you attempt to harm any of us, you will have to choose which one of your comrades falls next.”

Struggling ceaselessly, you find it hard to see past the tears cascading down your cheeks. Taehyung, walking toward you with an awfully blank expression, reaches you and pauses just out of reach. He regards you as he would a wild animal, waiting for you to fall slack so he may come a little closer

“Arms,” Yadiel mumbles, and two men immediately flank you. Your arms are held out to the sides, in a position you know that could have them easily snapped. Sensing the danger as your body screams at you, your body stills.

You’ll never be able to kill Taehyung if your arms are broken.

It’s the only clear thought among many incoherent ones. You chant it to yourself over and over again, kill Taehyung, kill Taehyung.

“You,” Taehyung whispers, and it’s the tinge of adoration in his voice that makes you shy away even as he extends a hand out to you, “almost made me regret this.”

His hands are steady and warm as he wipes the tears from your eyes. He looks at you lovingly as he pushes your hair back, smiling softly even as he watches your tears begin anew. They’re for Jungkook, who remains still and lifeless on the floor; for Taehyung who you lost before you ever had him.

“So beautiful,” he says, and the way he looks at you makes you feel as if he can’t see the man at your back. The men holding your arms, prepared to shatter your bones if you make one wrong move. They might be Russo’s men or Yadiel’s, but it doesn’t matter. They’re prepared to maim you at whatever cost. “You’ve grown to be so beautiful, tesoro. And strong.” Then he gives Yadiel a wry smile over your shoulder. “I’ll miss you more than I care to admit.”

“Why?”

You can barely manage to speak above a wheeze, ribs aching as you fight to remain upright in Yadiel’s cage. Yet, Taehyung understands the question easily enough.

He does, because he’s been your – your friend, your lover, your roommate – your most loyal companion for years. Of course he’ll understand what you’re asking in your darkest moment. He’s led you down this path while you unwittingly followed, dragging six others behind you like a fool.

Moving forward with that ineffable grace you once adored, Taehyung takes you by surprise when he takes your hands from the men at your side and holds them tightly, bringing his lips up to your forehead in a slow, painstaking kiss.

When he pulls away, hands still intertwined with your own, he looks almost pained. As if he’d prefer that this was all forgotten; and he’d wake up tomorrow in your old apartment, grumpy and harmless.

In the blink of an eye, he returns to the ruthless man he’s kept hidden from you all this time. Eyes darkening and lips flattening, he speaks.

“Not that I loved Caesar less,” he whispers fervently, as if you’re the god he’s been praying to all this time, “but that I loved Rome more.”

You’re gasping for air that just won’t come. Gasping, clawing to no avail. The others are in similar situations, outnumbered and in shock.

“What a ragtag group you were,” Yadiel chuckles in your ear as Taehyung retreats to the dais. He steps over Jungkook as if he were nothing more than a discarded rag. “Look at you now.”

But you pay him no heed, tapping your belt before your arms can be withheld again. Hoping against hope, you utter two syllables that might prove to be your last hope.

“Hoseok.”

Taehyung’s eyes flash and he dives just as the stained glass shatters. Bullets fly through the air, and men drop to the ground.

All hell breaks loose.

And you’re standing in the middle of it.

“Get down!” Someone yells at you before you’re forcefully tugged to the floor. It’s Seokjin, but you hardly register his face before your attention flies elsewhere.

“Jungkook,” you croak, already reaching for his body. Jimin has beaten you there, and he drags Jungkook’s bloody body behind a pew, grimacing.

Namjoon is posted up behind the same pew, opening fire on anyone and anything. Seokjin soon joins him, shielding you with his body even as you sit gaping at the trail of blood on the floor that belongs to Jungkook.

It’s too much. Too much blood lost.

The door flies open and a bloodied Yoongi staggers in, already firing. “Yadiel! He’s getting away!”

This cuts through the gunfire like a torpedo, sending you staggering to your feet as you spy Yadiel careening through a broken window. Someone – Yoongi? Seokjin? – screams your name as you take off after him. You pay them no mind, replaying the way Yadiel shot Jungkook without a second thought so easily. Like he was nothing more than a prop.

The glass bites into the palms of your hands as you crawl out the window, cutting through your bandaged hands like butter. The pain is hardly noticeable, especially when you see Yadiel climbing the rusty service ladder up to the roof.

You fly after him, unsure if you’re screaming in your head or out loud. Yadiel has the good sense to look afraid as he glances back at you, quickening his pace.

He makes it to the roof mere seconds before you, but when you climb up, he’s waiting. Ready.

His body slams into yours at a breakneck speed, but you duck just enough to brace yourself and avoid toppling over the edge. Yadiel’s knees make a strange noise as you do, and he groans angrily before righting himself.

But you’re two steps ahead of him. Anger sharpens your senses, but fury unleashes them.

Kicking out, you watch as Yadiel’s legs go out from under him and his back hits the roof with a loud thunk. He holds his gun up, aiming it at you with decades of experience, and you laugh.

Laugh as you pull out a knife and throw it in the next heartbeat, nailing the muscles in his forearm. Yadiel howls as you repeat the movement on the other side, effectively disabling his grip and then some.

“Who is he?” You yell, the sounds of gunshots from below punctuating every word. “Tell me who he is!”

Yadiel, despite the beads of sweat forming from the pain, smiles at you. “You’ll have to be a little more specific than that, Bianchi.”

Another knife, another slash. This time, down his side. Blood immediately seeps out of him, dribbling onto the roof. Tonight, the rain gutters will flow with blood. That much you can promise yourself.

“Who.” A flick of your wrist and another blade goes flying. “Is.” Swish. “Kim.” Swish. “Taehyung.”

Yadiel’s laugh sounds more like a gasp, and you realize that he’s choking. On his own blood.

Too soon. None of your knives have pierced anything vital just yet – Yadiel should still have hours to go until death claims him. Unless, of course, he kept a cyanide pill handy.

The sight of him is almost enough to have you turning away, but you refuse. Not yet. You’ll stay here until the very end, until he’s long dead.

You’ll never make that mistake again.

Yadiel tries to speak but the words get caught. You lean down, straining to hear the words.

“My…king..”

He takes one last heaving breath before his eyes go blank. His chest stops moving.

Yadiel is dead.

You think you are, too.

--

You remain on the rooftop for a long, long time. Long enough that the sky goes from black to bruised purple – long enough that you can no longer feel your arms or legs.

Hoseok must have had eyes on you, that would explain why none of the others came looking. That, or they’re all dead, too.

You’re in the middle of entertaining this idea when a voice calls up to you, worn and thin.

“You’ll want to see this!”

           Numbly, you crawl to the edge of the roof. Past Yadiel’s unseeing eyes, to where Yoongi stands on the ground below, looking skyward.

           “Is he dead?” You ask in response. “Are they all dead?”

           Yoongi shakes his head, and even from here, you can see the way the action pains him. “Come down.”

           Descending the ladder takes eons, especially when your entire body feels numb. You brain can hardly communicate what you need to do next, but eventually, you stumble your way down to Yoongi. You look at him expectantly, sure that you look like a ghost.

           “Tell me.”

           And so, Yoongi tells you. He tells you of Russo finding him and nearly killing him before Yoongi slipped away, which explains why he looked so beat up by the time he made his appearance in the church. He tells you about Jungkook, bleeding out but maintaining a weak pulse that Jimin kept a close eye on until the wee hours of the morning, when the last of the enemy had fallen.

           He tells you about Hoseok, raining hellfire from above. Of Namjoon, who is nursing a broken nose, a couple of bullet wounds in his legs and arms. Of Seokjin, performing CPR on Jungkook when Jimin cried out frantically.

           “He’s…touch and go,” Yoongi admits. “But alive.” He glances sidelong at you, reading your dark expression. “And Yadiel?”

           Your mouth is dry when you speak. “Dead.” The church is in ruins, the door hanging off the frame like a gaping maw. “Taehyung?”

           “That’s what I wanted to show you.” Heading inside, Yoongi limps past the broken glass that litters the floor. Jimin sits on the front pew, head down as if he were sleeping. He jolts awake when he hears Yoongi approaching, eyes wild until he realizes who it is.

           “Where are the others?” You croak, still hesitating in the doorway.

           “Home. Monitoring Jungkook. Getting patched up.”

           It becomes clear to you that Jimin and Yoongi remained behind in order to clear the bodies. Yoongi gestures for you to come, and you step inside. Glass crunches underfoot, but it doesn’t bother you.

           Jimin’s haunted face matches your own as you slowly approach. He nods his head in greeting, but doesn’t open his mouth to speak. Instead, he turns his attention to Yoongi, who waits for you on the steps to the dais.

           “What is it?” You ask. He nods to the seat that Taehyung occupied last night. The one he used as his very own throne.

           Just like Yadiel said. My king.

           Because it was never Yadiel behind all of this. No, he was just another pawn. One set in place years before you came into the picture. A scapegoat.

           “Taehyung disappeared.” Yoongi winces, hating the words as much as you do. “But he left this behind.”

           Stepping up to the dais, you see a small, rectangular card. A business card, from the looks of it. Its glossy cover bearing a coat of arms is embossed in deep gold.

           It screams wealth.

           “Read it,” Jimin says, voice scratchy.

           Touching this thing sounds about as appealing at the plague, but you obey. You don’t have it in you to fight anymore. Picking up the card, you take a closer look at it.

           “It’s the Kim family crest,” Yoongi whispers when you don’t say anything for a long moment. Of course, you’d recognize this crest anywhere. It’s the symbol of the powerful Sicilian mafia – the father of all mafia. Their founding goes back hundreds of years, making prominent families such as the Genovese family look like children in all their squabbling.

           “Flip it over.” Yoongi whispers the words, but they sound like screams in the empty church.

           The crest seems to pop out at you as you flip the card onto its back, breath catching. Scribbled in handwriting almost as familiar as your own, lies two words.

           Taehyung’s parting gift.

           Got you.

previous 

support my dream of becoming a writer? | ko-fi

a/n: did you really think we were finished? I’ll be letting you guys in on a very special secret in one week! pls don’t kill me for lying to you all

also the tag lists will be reblogged in the morning thanks!

[majesticnerdynerd]

Working in retail stories:

first day in had a grumpy old lady come in complain about soap, she wanted the pure white block of soap, we had it, she complained she couldnt tear open the package to see if it was pure white despite the package stating (and me reading it) that it is *white* and she had a problem with "snowflakes" only ever wanting liquid soap now, despite the wide selection of bars of soap in front of us; she left grumpy saying tesco has it cheaper, so she had gone

a young woman came in, asked me for makeup advice, and despite not knowing a lot just basics i did my best. Well. she was looking for a foundation in her skin tone, darker than mine, and was germaphobic, so she didnt wanna try the tester on herself. So i was the test rabbit. Customer service right? Oh well, it doesnt end there. It became apparent she was drunk, and she had to put on good but simple makeup to get one over on her ex, which, okay, but when her vodka breath and despair hit my nostrils that predicted shenanigans already. To be specific, she asked if she could try the foundation on my hand. Thinking she'd put on a smol dollop i agreed, that's how you usually test a tester, right?? Right??! No!!!! She put a LOT on MY FOREARM and SPREAD it like WALL PAINT all over my arm!!!! ALL OVER IT I COULDNT EVEN REACT i just went welp i hope we got micellar water in the back. We didnt. But we had acetone! Stonks. So anyway that shade wasnt correct, so we tried a second foundation and guess what SAME THING HAPPENED DESPITE ME TELLING HER IT'S BEST DONE ON THE BACK OF YOUR HAND OH MY GOD BOTH MY ARMS ARE COVERED IN FOUNDATION THAT DOESNT MATCH ME (i am whiter than snow white) ah shit and then she asked about eyebrow pencils,,,,, thankfully she didnt need to test that nor would i allow her to clown-ize me, so she took those, thanked me (gotta give her credit she was very nice) and bought that.

I hope she's doing okay now

I had two highschoolers come in and one of them, much taller than me, sheepishly approached me and said "excuse me, do you have vaselline?" And my brain did error.exe cuz listen, I'm new, i dont know where half the shit is but i pointed him in its general direction while his friend said " you see? You ask such dumbass fuckery bullshit not even the poor girl knows which side of your ass it came from"

I laughed

Also, to be honest, never EVER fear that the cashier judges you for buying anything, i swear to you i am too focused on the bar codes being scanned and your store card and how to return money if you pay in cash than the mini condoms you apparently think matter or so

More to come

[t-o-m-hollands]

Summery: Tom is part of the Firm, a fearless London gang. You are at the wrong place at the wrong time.  

Word count: 1,7k

Themes: Mob!Tom, Peaky Blinders inspired, period piece – this is set in 1961, London. 

Warnings:  This story will contain themes such as kidnapping, murders, violence and smut. Also a lot of swearing. Also mentions of injuries. Also alcohol, smoking and mentions of drugs.  this is a +18 story

A/N: This is a relationship that I wouldn't recommend in real life. Also, the Firm was the name of the Kray twins gang. I was just too lazy to come up with a name of my own.  

THIS IS PART I

1961 – London

Tom curses the cold weather as he pulls his coat tighter around him with numb fingers. He curses the chilly London night and the long walk from Charing Cross station too. And, while he’s at it, he curses his split lip and broken rib as well. Fuck it, he curses the entire world and everybody in it tonight.        

He especially curses fucking Harrison.        

Harrison who didn’t show up for duty tonight - in failing to do so not only risking the wrath of their leader, a certain Mr. Fabien Towner, but also risking putting Tom in danger by forcing him to handle the situation all on his own. Fucking dick. Tom guesses his old friend had gotten caught up with whichever girl had taken his fancy for the day; forgetting all he should know of duty, and forcing Tom to single handedly go in to collect from the mug who owed the Firm ten grand.        

It had not gone down easily, and Tom had taken his fair share of hits to the head. He now had a swollen cheek, a split lip, a broken rib and a big envelope of cash safely hidden underneath his coat. 

He inhales the icy cold air and upon exhaling he watches as it rises to the sky like thick pearly smoke.       

Little snowflakes start to slowly drift down from the sky, lighting up the dark night; painting the pavement white.

Further up the road he sees two young women stepping out of a building. They’re giggling, clearly intoxicated, and clutching on to one another for support, making their way down the stairs and into the waiting cab. He sees them both clearly in the light from the street’s only functioning lamp; as they’re standing just under it. The girl nearest to him is wearing fine silk and furs in powdery pink and white, her hair done up professionally and roughed cheeks and painted lips. Even from this distance he recognises her.        

It’s you.    

Even through the dark, snowy London night he sees it clear as day. Even though he hasn’t seen you since you were both teenagers; when he abruptly had to leave school, he recognises you immediately, and suddenly he feels like he is a sixteen-year-old child again; wishing for a miracle, as if he’s stretching out his hand beyond its reach. Sure, your face and hair is all made up and you’re no longer wearing a school uniform. But it’s you alright. There’s still a sweetness about you, in your silk and your fur and with your sugar-pink lips. You still feel impossibly out of reach. A thin layer of snow covers the cobbled street, like powdered sugar, and you’re leaving a trace of foot prints in it.       

A vision strikes him, of his hand, slowly pulling the pink slip of a dress up your thigh as you clutch onto his shoulders. He wants to find out what’s softer to his touch; the silk or your skin. He watches as you and your friend make it into the cab, and then he watches as it drives off into the night.        

And he remembers.        

Remember how at fifteen, just days before he first met Fabien; in a time before he knew anything about how to fight with his fists or fire a gun or about the Firm.       

He’d been chased by his school yard tormentor, Jamie Easom, and his fellow bullies. Trying to get away and to safety he had rushed into the girls’ bathroom without second thought. You had stood there, in front of the mirror; fixing your hair (and maybe it’s reconstruction after the fact, but he swears you wore a halo of light upon your head). He had stared at you with big eyes, like a deer in headlines, looking at the girl he’d been mesmerized with for years. You’d immediately caught on and in a gentle voice told him to hide in one of the bathroom stalls. Then you had walked out of the bathroom. Through the door he’d heard you speaking to Jamie. Heard Jamie asking if you’d seen him and heard your lie as you told the meanest kid in school no, he’s not here. Then he’d heard Jamie asking you out for the millionth time and, to his satisfaction, he heard you turning him down - yet again.        

A few days after that Tom had met Fabien for the first time, a chance meeting that could have ended very differently. Luckily, the leader of London's most notorious gang had been impressed with him, and well, that was the beginning of the end of his school days. Fabian had given him a very different kind of education. He had trained him in an underground gym with a boxer, who taught Tom all he there was to know about fighting back.       

Fabien himself had taken Tom to the Hungry Lion, the home of the Firm, and taught Tom how to drink Irish whiskey without wincing as it burned down his throat and how to smoke cigarettes, deep drags, without coughing; how to dress like a man. And most importantly, he taught Tom how to negotiate, how to think five steps ahead of everybody else.     

Fabien had sat him down and taught him not only the rules of chess, but how to win every game. No matter the opponent.    

Not long after he had joined the Firm a particularly gruesome fight in the school yard between himself and Jamie had taken place. Jamie had ended up in the hospital and Tom, well, he had been thrown out of school.    

Since that day he was a full-time employee in the Firm.        

He’d met Haz in an underground boxing ring. He’d been one hell of an opponent in a dirty fight that ended in victory for Tom, (though Haz always claims that the victory had more to do with the fact that Tom had made him burst out in laughter at one point and then, when Haz was off guard, tackled him to the ground). Fabien had been impressed with the blonde. Now Tom and Harrison were as good as brothers.

Eventually Tom’s actual brothers had joined them as well and they were now what Fabian referred to as “the younger generation” of the Firm.      

As chance would have it just two years after Tom had been kicked out of school a certain Jamie Easom had joined the Firm as well. Cocky and arrogant as ever he’d been recruited by Fabien’s right hand, Eoghan Shelley, who’d seen Jamie in a pub brawl and been impressed by the young man’s knack for senseless violence.       

As Fabien had told Tom in confidence during one whiskey fueled meeting; Jamie was someone who you hired to fight, but whom you didn’t trust to think. Jamie was part of the muscle of the machine; not the brain behind it.        

Jamie knew the instructions – harm, threaten, kill.

He never knew the reasons behind them - (money, pride, knowledge).       

Jamie never stopped to question motive. He got an order and he followed it through. He didn’t question why Fabien would want a business to, quite literally, burn down to the ground, or why a man needed to be taken out. He never questioned, either out loud or to himself, why Fabien would want that. Nor did he consider the victims point of view; their motives or reasons.       

He got an order and he followed it through. He was a dog on a tight leash. So, the instructions were clear and simply. (bark, attack, kill).       

Tom, on the other hand Fabien trusted to think on his own. Trusted that Tom had the brain to know what was necessary to do in any given situation. He also knew that Tom had the guts to carry it out, no matter the instruction.    

There were those, certain malicious tongues, speaking in hushed voices behind closed doors; who thought that old Fabien Towner put too much trust in the youngster. Had gone a bit soft on him. That there were those, older and more experienced, that deserved Fabien’s trust.       

The fact was that Tom wore the word protégée like second skin. It clung to him like a varsity jacket does to a young star scorer. Like it belonged to him, as if he was born for it.  

The new hope.      

And the fact was that Fabien cast a mighty big shadow and no one, especially not those with wagging tongues, dared stepping out of it. For Fabien kept all his little soldiers in check and that very much included the new hope.      

Finally he arrives at his destination and he steps into the Hungry Lion. Inside the pub it’s warm and loud, barking laughter coming from the men drinking pints big as their heads, and singing can be heard coming  from a group of people huddled up in the corner booth. The scent of smoke and beer fills the air. It’s warm and dirty and home. It makes a sharp contrast to the chilly, quiet London night outside.        

He walks over to his regular booth, orders Sam to get him a whiskey and sits down opposite of Harry. Sam hurries off to the bar and Harry takes one long look at Tom’s wounded face.      

“Getting slow in your old age, huh?”      

“Fuck off” is all Tom can be bothered to answer, too exhausted and done with this day. “’s Fabien here yet?”       

Harry shakes his head and looks away from his brother's bruised face. “Not yet” he says in the end and puts out his cigarette. Then, “where’s Hazza?”   

Tom sighs and fishes up his own package of Lucky Strike cigarettes. Placing one between his lips he lights up and inhales deeply. Leaning back in his seat he exhales in a sigh before responding. “Fuck who knows” he says, just as Sam comes back with his drink. He hands it to Tom, who greedily takes a sip of the amber liquid before sitting down next beside his twin.       

“What you mean?” Harry questions, brows furrowed. “Wasn’t he with you collecting?”      

“Nope” Tom answers, trying to keep his anger under wraps. “Didn’t show up. Reckon he’s cock deep in some bird some-“ but before he can finish Haz stumbles into the pub. His left white sleeve is sticky wet with blood and he’s clutching onto his shoulder. His face is pale and sweaty, and he looks around the room, clearly searching for someone; but before he can find the right man he stumbles and falls to the ground; where he stays. Passed out.       

For a few devastatingly long moments silence fills the old pub as they all look at Harrison’s left shoulder.       

It has a bullet wound.

***

Taglist:   @londonmademedoit  @isthataladybag   @ceexreverse  @daygiowvibe @averyfosterthoughts @applenter @viwihere @youcompletemess

[its-sixxers]

Harmonics

Charon once played guitar - a scrap of information more precious than gold. The Lone Wanderer recalls it in the depths of her grief. Both realize that even in the wasteland, neither of them are alone. Charon x Female LW, pre-relationship.

Sorta sequel to Hobbies.

AO3 Link

Charon had mentioned he once played guitar.

Scraps of information about him were rare as intact books and Lizzy was intent on building herself a library with what was offered. Information about what he liked was most precious of all - it took her a couple of weeks to even persuade him to talk about anything beyond his contract, and a couple of months to get him talking about his own personal desires. While the faded slip of paper she kept in the inner pocket of her vault suit said otherwise, she and Charon were equals. She wanted to get him a gift to prove it.

The best part about gifts was the surprise, to Lizzy, and so tracking down a guitar presented a thorny problem indeed. Time spent apart from Charon was scant, and he seemed tense the few times she told him to go do as he pleased. When questioned on it, he said it was always more comfortable for him to stick around and her heart hurt to imagine just what was done to make him feel that way.

Still, she took advantage of what time she had - chatting to Rivet City merchants about possible sightings while Charon was distracted, slipping Crazy Wolfgang fifty caps to keep an eye out as Charon inspected a shotgun grip. Lizzy lingered in the magazine and instrument sections of libraries, sneaking reading material into her bag to figure out just what went into making a guitar work. She even made up an excuse to get them into the area of Agatha’s cabin so that she could check in with the violinist and see if her plan was feasible - and found to her delight that yes, it was.

Crazy Wolfgang eventually came through for her with the guitar, and she enlisted Butch’s help in delivering it unseen. To Lizzy’s despair, the strings were broken or rusted away, but Butch reassured her that at least the body was good, giving it a rap with his knuckles to prove his point. So her search narrowed from a guitar to strings, and even as her work for her father and the Brotherhood picked up she kept an eye out for her quarry. The nights she spent in Megaton (growing increasingly rare, with how much DC needed her) saw her sanding out splinters from the guitar body and varnishing it as best she could. Lizzy winced to see that polish only seemed to bring out a bloodstain on the thing more, but supposed Charon wouldn’t mind.

Blood was just another part of living in the wasteland, natural as snow or rain.

Lizzy soon learned the full breadth of what that meant, and the guitar was forgotten.

Her father’s death made her forget a lot of things - forget why she was trying to put one foot in front of the other, forget that her suffering was echoed by so many other poor souls out in the world. Weeks were spent in a hazy state, eating only at Charon’s urging and starting to dip into the few bottles of alcohol she’d collected. The growing cold outside mirrored the numbness that was spreading through her after she found she had no tears left to cry.

Charon spent more time apart from her out of necessity - it was he who went to see what the caravans had now, who went to Gob’s Saloon to find out the news, who even braved getting them raw meals from the Brass Lantern. When she slept in (slept was a generous term, for she often spent upwards of an hour lying limply in bed in the morning) he’d place a large hand on her shoulder to wake her. His contract meant he had to keep her alive - at least, that was what she told herself. Nothing more.

It was when Charon was out doing yet another thing that used to be her responsibility that she heard a knock on the door. Lizzy dragged herself from the couch where she’d been re-reading the same sentence of her book for the past thirty minutes and tugged open the front door of her Megaton home.

Butch stood with his leather jacket zipped up and knit mittens on his hands, holding a small box. Snowflakes stuck to his pompadour as he fell, and with every exhale his breath puffed out in a fog, reminding her of how they pretended it was smoke back in the vault’s freezer as children. Lizzy could remember the look of horror on her father’s face when he discovered them, her own bewilderment as to how the place could be dangerous. She flinched from the memory, and her dry eyes stung.

“Hey.” Butch said, his smile faltering at the sight of her. While not vain by any means, Lizzy had always placed importance on looking professional and put together - now she couldn’t remember the last time she brushed her hair.

“Hey.” she replied flatly, hand leaning limply against the doorway, subconsciously trying to bar him from entering. Lizzy couldn’t bear the sight of his smile, how it reminded her of the vault, of times when it felt like she’d follow in her father’s footsteps and everything was warm and bright. The fact that she felt such a way toward her best friend in the world filled her with guilt, her cup already overflowing. Guilt was the one emotion that broke through the numbness, and she was drowning in it.

“I found something in Rivet City Supply.” he began. “Had to cash in a favor with Seagrave, but I thought you’d like to see.”

In spite of herself, Lizzy’s eyes dropped to the box in his hands, curiosity sparking for the briefest of moments. Butch moved his thumb from the label, and in faded ink she could read “BKM Guitar Strings”. The cellophane window of the box was still intact, and within she could see shining metal strings.

“You came all this way…” Lizzy’s throat was dry from lack of use, most of the communication she’d done with Charon nonverbal. “... to give me these?”

“I know you were looking for them.” Butch looked over her shoulder and into the house, likely searching for Charon judging by what he said next. “For the big guy.” He held the box out to her, and she took it from him. “I’m gonna be staying up at Gob’s for the next couple’a days. I’d stay and chat now, but Moira wants to interview me about hairstyling.” He made a display of rolling his eyes, and Lizzy knew he was just making up an excuse.

It was a feeling the two of them shared, pain from family. A wish to keep their grief hidden, to keep it manageable and clean. For all the teasing he’d done to her in their childhood, he knew precisely when and how to dodge a painful subject entirely.

Sensation hummed in her fingertips, brushing the old cardboard and tingling in the cold. Lizzy nodded. “I’ll stop by.” she said, not entirely certain it was a lie. The guitar. She’d forgotten about the guitar, an idea born of the time before, when the sun wasn’t so cold and remote. Now the project was rekindled in her mind, something separate from the cloud that loomed over her.

Butch tilted his chin up in acknowledgement. “Say hi to the big guy for me.”

“You’ll probably see him on your way out.”

“He’s a hard guy to miss, I’ll give you that.” He laughed, turning back to Megaton’s many platforms. He cast her one last concerned look over his shoulder before she shut the door.

Lizzy moved faster than she had in weeks, the metal stairwell echoing from her hurried footsteps. She took the box into her room and shut the door before falling to her knees and crawling forward to her bed. Setting the box upon the mattress she set her palms flat against the cold metal floor, finding the panel she was looking for and pulling it open, revealing a floor compartment. Within were her most treasured possessions - her mother’s holotapes, the photographs from her tenth and sixteenth birthdays with Dad and Jonas, Butch’s first leather jacket. With them were items of value - an engraved magnum, an intact camera and film, a half empty bottle of scotch, and the guitar body. Lizzy pulled it out of the hidden floor compartment and retrieved a rolled up instructional booklet from inside of it.

The next two hours were spent sat on her bed with necessary tools in hand, stringing the guitar. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, the saying went - and with her hands put to work Lizzy was incapable of thinking of the guilt that threatened to drown her. At some point Charon returned, and his knock at her door startled her terribly.

Lizzy froze, vaguely recollecting that surprise was a large part of why she’d gone to such lengths. If she was discovered now, all the work had been for nothing - and she couldn’t bear something else hoped for being snuffed out. To her relief, Charon did not try to enter. She must have made a noise when he startled her, for he seemed satisfied enough that she was still alright judging by his retreating footsteps.

Soon after her work was complete, and she almost wept on the instrument from relief. So much work, so much time, and now she had something in her arms to show for it, unlike…

Unlike…

It reminded her why venturing out of her carefully constructed bubble was a mistake, for she had no cushioning, no numb protection to the raw assault of memory. A hand pressed to glass, fingerprints on the glass, the geiger counter, the geiger counter -

The bath faucet in the other room turned on, the movement of the water through pipes gently rattling the wall the bathroom shared with her room. It brought her back to the present, staring down at the guitar. Lizzy mopped at her wet cheeks, clinging to the last stage of her project. The gifting itself. Thinking up solutions to the problem crowded out her memory - Charon only took what was directly offered to him if it was ammunition or a grenade. With food or medical supplies, she’d have to make a point of having it appear as if she was doing it for her own sake and creating plausible deniability - a gift of convenience.

When she cracked open her bedroom door, she could hear water splashing from the bathroom next door, the familiar sound of Charon’s large form sinking into it. Even in her state she felt a little swell of happiness to know that he was willing to let himself have such a luxury. Assured he’d be kept busy more than long enough for her to do what she had planned, she picked up the guitar by the neck and crept downstairs into the living room. A fire crackled away happily in the wood burning stove in the corner devoted to the kitchen, and the ground floor was much warmer than her room. It was too warm - too close to reminding her what times before felt like, and so she hurried. Approaching the couch, she set the guitar down in Charon’s favorite spot, in front of the blanket Moira had crocheted her as a housewarming present.

As soon as she was certain the guitar wasn’t going to fall over, she retreated back into the familiar territory of her bedroom. The chill washed over her, icing out not just the wave of memory threatening to drown her again but the fluttering embers of joy her work had given her.

Lizzy stumbled over to her bed and fell upon the mattress. The haze began anew.

When she returned downstairs in the night to grab a bottle of water, the guitar was gone.

--

Charon didn’t mention the gift, but the next day he woke her with breakfast and an announcement.

“I believe it is best that we go somewhere today.”

Lizzy hauled herself upright and looked at him blankly, her fork scooping up small portions of instamash. “Where?”

While his stony posture and expression didn’t change, she heard him exhale in relief. “Gob’s. They think I’ve kidnapped you.”

“Mm.” she hummed, finding she didn’t feel strongly one way or another. Lizzy didn’t protest when Charon handed her a brush in exchange for her empty plate, and soon she was bundled up and shuffling through the snow to Gob’s Saloon.

Butch was eating breakfast, and Nova’s face lit up to catch sight of her. She poked her head into the back room, and soon Gob was walking out of the kitchen wiping his hands with a rag. Charon placed a hand to the small of Lizzy’s back and gave her a gentle nudge forward.

The next period of time - Lizzy had lost the ability to gauge its passage - was a mirror world of normal circumstance - now it was Lizzy giving short and clipped responses to any conversation, and Charon exchanging longer sentences. What was discussed left her memory the moment it was spoken, and soon enough Charon was tugging her hat back over her ears and guiding her back outside.

“Charon.” Lizzy murmured, when they were back outside. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Is that an order?”

“No.”

He nodded briefly, strands of patchy red hair falling across his brow. “It is my duty to protect you.”

It was all he offered in reply, and she accepted it as she always did.

Going out was a mistake, she realized that night - new color was given to her nightmares, the armored men who’d broken into the Memorial breaking into the Saloon as she visited, the scene melting into Butch, Gob, and Nova staring up at her with glassy eyes, melting into her father’s kind face, gone slack, the tick tick tick ramping into a metallic screech with exploding rads, Charon’s arms tugging her away-

Charon.

Lizzy blearily opened her eyes, greeted by the sight of her room illuminated in the deep blue of early dawn. It was a welcome sight, an escape from the nightmare, and she lay with her cheek crushed against the mattress staring at the wall until the blue light started to tinge pink and sleep threatened to claim her once again.

Movement had to be made, and with great effort Lizzy untangled herself from the blankets, coiled around her from the thrashing she’d no doubt done in her sleep. When she opened her door she was surprised to find the door across the hall that led to Charon’s room was wide open, granting her a rare glimpse of his spartan quarters. He never needed to sleep much, but the pre-dawn was early even for him. The change made a bubble of dread rise in her throat - and she walked to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face.

The pipes groaned when she turned the tap, the water cold enough to make her gasp when she splashed it on her face with cupped hands. It shocked her out of her dream state and brought reality into sharp focus.

In her new clarity, she could hear something faint coming from downstairs once the pipes had settled, and it took her a few moments to register that it was music. It sounded nothing like the radio, lacking distortion and also entirely different from anything played on it. Guitar strings, plucked one by one in a simple melody. Lizzy took a few steps out onto the landing, and peered as far over the railing as she dared to the living room.

Charon sat on the couch with the guitar in his lap, dwarfed by his large form. He was twisting the metal tabs on the guitar’s head, plucking a few notes, then twisting another - she recalled from the books she’d read that he was tuning it, something she lacked the knowledge and equipment to do. The metal floor panel beneath her right foot creaked, and he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

Caught out, she froze, horrified that she’d made a misstep and seen something she shouldn’t have - but Charon just dropped his attention back to the guitar, unperturbed. He plucked a few more notes before giving the guitar a single strum. The sound reverberated through her small shack, and caused goosebumps to rise on the back of her neck.

When the echo of the strum faded he started playing properly, and Lizzy found herself slowly descending the stairs, the torn hem of her nightgown trailing behind her. Slowly she approached the living room, feet thankful to move from cold metal to throw rug. The music was a siren song, simple and warm notes intertwining in a rhythmic and almost hypnotic pattern. Truly hypnotizing was seeing Charon’s hands at work, large fingers suddenly dextrous and precise, hands that seemed built to destroy dancing up and down the guitar neck.

Another low sound joined the melody, and it took her a moment to realize Charon was humming, a bassy rumble of thunder. It had her sinking into the armchair across from the couch, and still Charon did not seem to mind - his attention was caught in his music, the few glances he cast her way seeming more incidental than anything.

Then he began to sing.

Not in a language she could understand - at first she thought he’d made up the sounds, so musically did it flow, but soon she recognized it had the same intonations and cadence as the few unfamiliar terms he’d used around her before. He sang as lowly as he spoke, warm and rasping as a campfire. The melody was terribly melancholy, but to her surprise Lizzy found it did not make her sad.

It made her feel understood.

The two of them sat only a few feet apart, the ambient blue light fading into the pink of sunrise. Shafts of golden light spilled through the holes in the roof. In the warmth of dawn, even Charon’s features were softened. For those few minutes the small space seemed another world, their exteriors cut open and bared to the other, each observing but saying nothing. When he made eye contact with her after trailing off of a particularly low and mournful note, she realized that she did not suffer alone.

Something about it comforted her. When at last Charon placed his palm over the strings to silence them and set the guitar aside, she inhaled sharply as she had when she splashed the cool water onto her face.

“What was it about?” she asked quietly, and to her surprise he smiled tiredly at her - a rarer sight than diamonds.

“A warning.”

Lizzy stared at him for several moments, watching the muscles in his jaw work - as if trying to work up the words to say something more. Whatever battle he fought, he lost.

“Thank you.” she said, more a whisper than anything - but he heard it in the still silence of dawn.

Charon nodded, breaking eye contact and staring at his lap for a few moments before standing. “I will get us some food.”

“No, it’s okay.” Lizzy interjected, at last finding it in her to smile. “I’ll make it.”

[droewyn]

Yuri!!! on Sims (7/??)

FIRST 

PREVIOUS

Happy winter!  Yuuri has hung holiday lights on the house, but they’re too subtle and aren’t showing up.  Still, the Katsuki cottage is cute in every season.

More time passes.  Yuuri doesn’t leave the house much outside of work, which means he spends a lot of time in his pajamas.

Yuuri is the most relatable.

Yuuri’s arcane knowledge has gotten to the point where he’s starting to learn actual potion recipes.

Meanwhile, work is going well!

That was a cool $300!

I honestly can’t see Yuuri being any good at being muscle, but he’ll do his best!

Although, even with the windfall cash, plus the promotion, Vicchan is easily the primary breadwinner in this household.  Which is good, because Yuuri just doesn’t have TIME for any side hustles right now.

LOOK AT THAT GOOD BOY PROWLING FOR TREASURE

Meanwhile, Yuuri may not be able to interact with Zombie!Victor, but that doesn’t mean he’s not living his own unlife!  Victor has achieved a promotion at his restaurant (how is it legal for zombies to work in food prep), and has replaced his bicycle with a HOVER BIKE.

There are no hover scooters at the Katsuki cottage, but Yuuri’s keepin’ on keepin’ on!

(This one’s not too hard.  You just need to take a Flask of Friendly Bees and shake it.)

It’s important to learn how to cause the malady before you can learn how to cure it!

Sometimes potion making goes wrong, causing side effects.  (No, he’s not pregnant again.  He’s just sick.)

Out and about.  This is the grocery store!

And the local coffee shop.  Yuuri’s been pulling so many all-nighters lately that he NEEDS the caffeine to get through his day.  Still can’t afford the $1000 coffe maker.

Meadow Glen really is a cute town.  I wish we had more opportunity to see it!

Oshka is growing up into a little shit.  Rowan ain’t raising that boy right.

Yuuri has been writing letters and texts to Victor, which is allowed even though they can’t interact directly because zombie.

It’s not helping.

Oof.

Snowflake Day came and went unobserved.  Yuuri’s too busy, too broke, too obsessed with curing Victor.

Then it’s time for a couple birthdays!

First, Dave-Jeff.

The randomly generated hair/clothes WILL change.

I decided to give him the Lucky trait to help counteract the two bad traits (Stupid and Couch Potato) that he was born with.

Yuuri has also had a birthday!

NO CAKE, BACK TO WORK.

GUESS WHAT THIS DOES

NEXT

[flamingsemi]

Animal Crossing: New Horizons Declassified Island Survival Guide From a Seasoned AC Veteran

A friend of mine recently bought ACNH and was very confused as this was her first foray into AC, so I made this info dump guide. I thought somebody else in the world might be able to benefit from it as well. Hope you enjoy! Happy Animal Crossing-ing!

Daily Tasks:

Talk to your islanders. talking to them, completing favors, and giving them gifts will increase your friendship level. Don’t forget to check up on villagers that are inside their houses! They might be crafting a DIY and they will give you the recipe if you talk to them!

Shopping. Everyday the items in the shops will change, this include the items on the nook store, accessible through the Nook Kiosk in town hall/the tent in the plaza

Log on to the Nook Kiosk every day for free nook miles!!!

Walk your beaches. You’ll find shells, and a message in a bottle with a DIY will spawn every day.

Watering flowers. Watering your flowers will lead to hybrids growing. this is how you get colors of flowers such as purple and orange, etc. If it rains, you don’t have to water the flowers, but if you do, then you have a higher chance of hybrids growing.

Money Rock. Every day there will be a money rock. hit it with your ax or shovel (I use the shovel) for cash. Don’t forget to dig a barricade behind yourself to keep you from sliding so you can get all 8 hits in. 

Money tree. Every day there will be a glowing fissure on the ground. Dig it up and you’ll find bells. HOWEVER DO NOT FILL THE HOLE. Instead, bury bells there. This will result in a nursery money tree growing. Trees take 4 days to grow. IMPORTANT AND I DIDN’T KNOW THIS AT FIRST money trees will only grow money once, so after you’ve collected the bells, it’s just a regular tree. I personally have four money trees with one being used and then replaced every day for an endless loop. However many bells you bury is how much money will grow X3, however keep in mind that sometimes it will only grow bags of 10,000 bells, despite planting more than that. To be safe, never go above 50,000 bells, as the likelihood of not getting back what you buried seems to increase after that, but do whatever you’re comfortable with. 

Fossils. Everyday you will see star-shaped markings on the ground throughout your island. Those markings indicate that a fossil is buried in that spot. Dig it up! Then, (once he is unlocked on your island which shouldn’t be too far off) take your fossils to Blathers at the museum to get them assessed. He will tell you what the fossil is. From there they can be donated to the museum if it doesn’t have that fossil yet, or if you already have it you can place it on your island or you can sell it. ALWAYS GET YOUR FOSSILS ASSESSED BEFORE SELLING THEM. An unidentified fossil is only worth a few hundred bells, where an identified fossil is worth a varying couple thousand depending on what it is. There will be 4, sometimes 5, fossils to find on your island everyday.

Catch bugs and fish! bugs and fish spawn throughout your island everyday all day. Different bugs and fish have different conditions for spawning. Some spawn all day in any weather, some only can appear at night, others only during the day. Certain fish only are catchable in the rain. Also most bugs and fish are seasonal, with new bugs and fish being able to be caught every month. Donate your fish and bugs to Blathers to fill up your museum, and sell the rest! It’s one of the main ways to make money. 

Dive for scallops! Go swimming and dive for sea critters. If you catch a scallop and you have space in you pockets, Pascal the otter will spawn and ask you for it. In return he will give you either a pearl or a special DIY recipe. He will spawn once a day. Also the critters you catch can be donated to the museum and also sold.

Not daily tasks:

* Potential weekly visitors include Leif, Kicks, Sahara, Flick, C.J., Gulliver, Gulllivar, Label, and Redd. Characters that can be found on the Plaza are Leif, Kicks, and Label. Leif is a sloth who will sell you plants, Kicks is a skunk who will sell you bags and shoes, and Label is a hedgehog who will ask you for fashion help. Characters that can be found wandering around your island are Sahara, Flick, and C.J. Sahara is a camel who will sell floorings, wallpapers, and rugs, Flick is a chameleon who you can sell bugs to, and C.J. is a beaver you can sell fish to. Both Flick and C.J. will buy their respective creatures for a higher price than the Nooklings will so it may be a good idea to save your bugs and fish for when they visit to make bank XD. Another character that you will initially find wandering around your island is Redd. Redd is fox who you will unlock later after you have donated enough stuff to your museum. Once you have, you will see him wandering around your island. Talk to him, and then the next day his boat will appear at your secret beach which is the tiny stretch of beach off by itself. Redd will sell you art work which can be donated to your museum. BE CAREFUL Redd will sell fake artwork!!! You can only donate real artwork, so choose wisely, as one player can only purchase one piece of art per Redd visit. Other players can purchase one piece of art from him too though. Gulliver and Gullivar are seagulls you will find washed up on your beach. Talk to them or hit them with a net until they wake up (just keep at it!) Talk to them and they will explain what you need to do for them. If you complete the task, you can expect a letter and a gift from them in the mail the following day. You will get one of these visiting characters everyday save for when K.K. Slider is in town. They are random, but characters that did not make an appearance one week are more likely to show up the next.

if you’re early enough in the game that the clothing store is still a visiting event, One day you’ll walk into the Nooklings and see a Hedgehog. After that, the hedgehog will be selling clothes in the plaza on random days. After I think 3 visits she will ask you about setting up a permanent shop. After that, this is store you can buy clothes from, clothes change every day so check often!

General tips:

Don’t sprint near water if you are looking for fish. Sprinting will scare the fish away.

Just regular running and walking will scare away bugs that spawn on trees, stumps, and flowers, so proceed with caution when hunting for bugs. When holding a bug net, hold down A while you walk to creep towards bugs without scaring them away. Release A to swing your net. Bugs like butterflies, dragonflies, and bugs that spawn on the ground will not disappear when scared, they will just try to get away.

Fishing tip if you find yourself struggling: it’s easy to get trigger happy when fishing. Something I do to make it easier is closing my eyes and relying on the rumble of the joy con and the sound of the of the bite. You register sound better than you do visual cues. This is how I catch all fish cause I get to nervous and anticipate bites.

If a villager has a thought bubble above their head, TALK TO THEM! They have something important to say! They either are thinking about moving (which you can encourage or tell them to stay) or want to give you something. 

The same goes for if a villager runs towards you calling your name to get your attention. They either have a reaction to teach you, or a gift!

Don’t be upset with your island layout. Eventually you will unlock terraforming which will allow you to destroy and create rivers, cliffs, and pathways anywhere you want. The only thing you cannot change is the plaza, and the mouths of your rivers. You can also build inclines and bridges, and move the museum, shops, campsite, and houses, at any time so long as you have the bells. You can only build one bridge or incline a day though, and the same goes for moving buildings. 

Eating fruit will give you strength. With that strength, you can destroy rocks by hitting them with your shovel or ax (they will respawn in a different location the next day) and pick up entire trees with your shovel.

a stone axe will allow you to hit a tree indefinitely, but just an iron Axe will cut down the tree in 3 hits, so don’t farm for wood with the iron Axe! also you can remove stumps with your shovel

when filling a hole, press Y to use your foot to cover the hole instead of using your shovel. This will increase the longevity of your shovel.

BE CAREFUL WHEN SHAKING TREES!!! There is a chance of a wasp nest falling! If that happens, wasps will chase you and try to sting you. You can catch the wasps with a bug net, or you can run into a building to get them to stop chasing you. If they sting you, use some medicine to heal yourself. If you get stung a second time before using medicine, you will pass out and wake up in front of your house.

IF YOU ARE GOING TREE SHAKING have the net equipped and shake the tree from the front. If a wasp nest falls, it will fall to either side of you (or right on top of you but it doesn’t matter.) Your character will turn to face the wasps. Immediately after your shocked animation, swing your net to catch the wasps. 

2 items will spawn in 2 random, non-fruit-baring trees on your island everyday. Shake trees (with a net equipped in case of wasps!) and there’s a chance an item leaf will drift down. 

On mystery islands there will be 1 item in a non-fruit-baring tree. Same tactics suggested as seen above

Don’t be afraid of spiders and scorpions.  They will only try to bite/sting you if you are holding a bug net, otherwise they will ignore you. You should try to catch them if you are comfortable doing so though, as you can donate them to the museum and you can sell them (they are expensive! more so if you sell them to Flick!) Just creep up to them slowly and you’ll catch them just fine.

Depending on the season, there will be some special materials floating around your island that you can catch with your bug net. This include snowflakes in the winter and cherry tree petals in the spring. I assume there might be some falling leaves in autumn, but I haven’t experienced autumn in the game yet so I can’t say for sure. 

To raise your island’s star level, there are two major things to do. One, put flowers freaking everywhere. Two, put furniture FREAKING EVERYWHERE. your beaches, your plains, your mountains, DECORATE EVERYWHERE!!!!

Every sunday before noon, there will be a little piglet girl walking around your island. She is selling turnips. This is the way to MAKE BANK in Animal Crossing. the turnips are meant to be sold in The Stalk Market (get it?). Everyday (save for sunday) you will be able to sell your turnips to the Nooklings. The price of the turnips changes twice a day every day, the change occurs at noon. the idea is to buy turnips low and sell turnips high. the buying price of turnips will range from around 90 to 110 bells every week. The selling price will range from like 30 bells to like 700 something. Obviously, the higher the better. IMPORTANT! Turnips go bad after one week, upon which they are worthless. Make sure to sell your turnips before the next sunday!! However I would allow one stack of turnips to go bad once as this is how you catch ants. Drop the rotten turnips outside and ants will spawn on it. The same goes for catching flies, just drop some trash outside. BUT DON’T LEAVE THE TRASH FOREVER it will lower the star rating of your island.

Never sell things to the Nooklings via the drop box unless you have to. Selling via drop box comes with a like 15% reduction on the sell price, so you won’t get as many bells as you would if you sell to the Nooks by talking to them.

Day resets at 5 AM, not midnight, so don’t panic if you need to complete something by the end of the day and it’s almost 12.

Your villagers will teach you reactions. Aside from the 4 defaults you start with, The reactions you can learn are divided up amongst the villager types. For example, from a Normal type villager, you can learn Pleased, Fearful, Sadness, and Glee. Additionally, a villager will teach you one extra reaction if you max out your friendship level with them. If you’re best friends with a Normal type villager, they will teach you Daydreaming. So if you wanna unlock all 44 reactions, it’s important to get villagers of all different types and befriend them!

Dropping items of any kind will lower the star rating of your island if there are too many things on the ground. This includes turnips unfortunately -_-

Giving villagers gifts increase your relationship with them. But, if you wrap the gift before giving it to them, your relationship will increase by an additional point. Color of the paper doesn’t matter as far as I can tell. 

Villagers have preferred styles and colors of clothing. You can give them whatever you want, but they will particularly enjoy items that match their preferred style and colors. Villagers also really appreciate gifts on their birthday! You will be notified via the notification board in the plaza about a week in advance of a villagers birthday

See a yellow bird (daytime) or an owl (nighttime) sitting on top of your notification board in the plaza? That means there’s a new post on the board! Go read it!

Holidays occur in animal crossing too! Holidays like Halloween, Christmas, Easter, New Years, and many others have Animal Crossing equivalents. Special events and items can be experienced and obtained on these days, so make sure to check in! You should also check in on YOUR birthday ;)

All in all, Animal Crossing is what you want it to be. This is just one way of playing. You can focus on whatever you wanna focus on, and do whatever you want to do. I just went crazy covering all the bases. I’m here if you have more questions. I hope you have loads of fun!

If you’re interested in keeping track of all the stuff you have, there is a free app called ACNH Guide. It can help you keep track of what bugs and fish and fossils you have and also what bugs and fish are currently available and where to find them. You can also log items and DIYs and music and what villagers you have and mark off the rocks you’ve hit, the money tree you have planted, and the bottled message. It can also help you keep track of what days the visiting characters come. It also has a built in turnip predictor which can help you make the most money that you can! And they are adding to the app all the time. I really recommend it if you want to keep track of all the craziness. 

[empresa-journal]

Can Snowflake (SNOW) make money from the Data Cloud?

Can Snowflake (SNOW) make money from the Data Cloud?

The Data Cloud is a popular investment these days. Both Berkshire Hathaway (BRK.B) and America’s largest public pension fund own shares in the data cloud company Snowflake (SNOW). The California Public Employees’ Retirement System (CALPERS) bought 389,341 shares of Snowflake (NYSE: SNOW) in the fourth quarter of 2021, Barron’s reports. CALPERS is one of America’s largest pension funds with…

[thisbluespirit]

James Maxwell TV/Film List

More of a guide than a recs list, because old tv/film depends so much on availability.  It’s also hard as there’s nothing surviving that’s really like SotT for him (his voice is always slightly different, too & rarely the grand one from SotT) - I found it hard to find where to start back in the day, so I hope this makes it easier.  However, I have starred my favourites (rated for JM content only). 

I’ve divided things into categories and @jurijurijurious​ (or anyone) can make up their own mind as to what to go for.  (Also @jurijurijurious I have NO idea what old telly you’ve already seen, so forgive me if I’m telling you things you already know.)

Where to find it:  Luckily in the UK, it’s not too bad!  Network Distributing are the DVD supplier to keep an eye on (they do great online sales), you can find secondhand things cheap on Amazon Marketplace & eBay, and several Freeview channels show old TV & film, especially Talking Pictures.  I’ll note if things are on YT or Daily Motion, but they come and go all the time, so it’s always worth searching.

***

Film serials (ITC mainly)

British TV made on film in the US mode with transatlantic cash, so generally pretty light,  episodic (continuity is almost unheard of) etc.  Some turn up on ITV3 & 4 on a regular basis (colour eps). 

*** Dangerman “A Date With Doris” (ITC 1964)  James Maxwell is a British spy friend of Drake’s (Patrick MacGoohan) called Peter who gets framed for murder.  Drake goes to Fake Cuba to rescue him by which time JM is dying from an infected wound and faints off every available surface, including the roof.  It’s great.  On YT.  (The boxset is v pricey if you just want 2 eps.)

“Fair Exchange” (ITC 1964) JM is a German spy friend of Drake’s called Pieter who helps him out on a case.  Not as gloriously hurt/comfort-y as the other, but it does have some excellent undercover dusting. (Why  Patrick MacGoohan has JM clones all called variations on Peter dotted around the globeis a mystery.)  On YT.

The Saint “The Inescapable Word” (ITC 1965) This is pretty terrible, but  entertaining and James Maxwell plays the world’s most hopeless former-cop-turned-security guard. With bonus collapsing.  On YT.

“The Art Collectors” (1967).  JM is the villain of the week.  It does include a v funny bit, though, where the Saint (Roger Moore) goes for JM’s fake hair (and who can blame him?  How often I have felt the same!)  This one’s in colour so should pop up on ITV3 or 4. 

The Champions “The Silent Enemy” (ITC 1968).  Surprisingly good JM content as the villain of the week who drugs sailors and steals their clothes before realising that maybe he should have worked out if he could operate a sub before he stole it.

The Protectors “The Bridge” (ITC 1974, 30 mins.)  Not worth seeking out on its own, but ITV4 seems fond of it and James Maxwell gets to do some angsting and wears purple, so it’s worth snagging if you can, but too slight otherwise.

*** Thriller “Good Salary, Prospects, Free Coffin” (ITC 1975; 1hr 10mins, I think).  James Maxwell moves in with Julian Glover and runs an overcomplicated murdery spy ring where they bicker a lot in between killing girls by advertisement and burying them in the back garden.  What could possibly go wrong??  Anyway, it’s solid gold cheese, has bonus Julian Glover and a lot of natty knitwear.  What more does an old telly fan want?  (tw: Keith Barron being inexplicably the very meanest Thriller boyfriend.)  On YT but tends to get taken down fast.

***

Films

Design for Loving (1962; comedy).  Can be rented from the BFI online for £3.50.  Isn’t that great or that bad (or that funny either), but does have JM as a dim layabout beatnik, which is atypical.

***The Traitors (1962).  This is a low-key little 1hr long spy B-movie, but it’s also thoughtful and ambiguous with a nice 60s soundtrack and location work (it’s a bit New Wave-ish) and the central duo of JM and Patrick Allen are sweet and it all winds up with James Maxwell going in the swimming pool. One of the things where JM is actually American. (Talking Pictures show this occasionally & it is out on DVD as an extra on The Wind of Change.)  The quality of the surviving film is not great, though.

***Girl on Approval (1962).  A Rachel Roberts kitchen sink drama about a couple fostering a difficult teenager.  It’s dated, but it’s also really interesting for a 1950s/60s slice of life (and very female-centric) & probably the only time on this list JM played an ordinary person.

***Otley (1969).  Comedy that’s generally dated surprisingly well & is good fun, starring Tom Courtenay +cameos from what seems like the whole of British TV.  JM is an incompetent red herring & there are more cardies and glasses as well as a random barometer. 

Old Vic/Royal Exchange group productions

(Surviving works made by the group that JM was involved in from drama school to his death, made by Michael Elliott or Casper Wrede.  I like them a lot mostly, but they are all slow and weird and earnest & not everybody’s cup of tea.)

Brand (BBC 1959).  The BBC recording of the 59 Company’s (the name they were then using) landmark production, starring Patrick MacGoohan.  This was a big deal in British theatre & launched the careers of everybody involved.  It’s very relentless and weird but interesting & I’m glad they decided it was important enough to save.  First fake beard alert of this post.  It won’t be the last.  On YT & there is a DVD, which is sometimes affordable and sometimes £500, depending on the time of day.

***Private Potter (1962).  The original TV play is lost and this film has an extraneous storyline, but otherwise has most of the TV cast & gives a pretty good idea of why as a claustrophobic talky TV piece it made such an impact.  Tom Courtenay is Private Potter, a soldier who claims to have had a vision of God during a mission & James Maxwell his CO who needs to decide what to do about this strange excuse for disobeying orders.  Tw: fake eyebrows (!) and moustaches.  Only available on YT.

[???]One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch (1970).  Again, no DVD release (no idea why), but it is on YT.  I haven’t seen this yet, but it’s another Casper Wrede effort starring Tom Courtenay and apparently JM is especially good in it.  (I’m just not good at watching long things on YT and keep hoping for a DVD or TV showing.)

Ransom (1974).  A more commercial effort starring Sean Connery & Ian McShane; it gets slated as not being a good action movie, but is clearly meant to be more thinky and political with the edge of a thriller. JM’s part isn’t large but Casper Wrede shoots his friend beautifully, & it’s a pretty decent film with nice cinematography, shot in Norway, as was One Day.  I liked it.

[I think this post might be the longest in the world, whoops.  Sorry!]

Cardboard TV (the best bit, obv)

One-off plays etc./mini-series

Out of the Unknown “The Dead Planet” Adaptation of an Asimov short story; this is very good for JM, but hard to get hold of unless you want the boxset.  I think someone has some of the eps on Daily Motion.  (His other OotU ep is sadly burninated.)

The Portrait of a Lady (BBC 1968).  Adaptation of the novel; JM is Gilbert Osmond, so it is great for JM in quantity and his performance, but depends how you feel about him being skeevy in truly appalling facial hair.  Do the bow ties and hand-holding make up for it?  but he’s in 5 whole episodes, and Suzanne Neve, faced with Richard Chamberlain, Edward Fox, and Ed Bishop as suitors, chooses instead to marry the worst possible James Maxwell.  Relatable. XD

***Dracula (ITV 1968, part of Mystery & Imagination).  JM is Dr Seward, fainty snowflake of vampire hunters, who falls over, sobs and can’t cope for most of the 1 hr 20 mins.  More facial hair, but not as offensive as last time.  Suzanne Neve is back again, although now JM is nice, she’s married Corin Redgrave, who’s more into Denholm Elliott. Anyway, I love this so much because it turned out that I love Dracula as well as shaky old TV with people I like in getting to fight vampires and all be shippy.  Good news - TP keep showing M&I, the DVD is out, and there are two versions of it up on YT.

The Prison (Armchair Cinema 1974).  This is the one with Lincoln in it, but it’s not that great & JM isn’t in it that much, so depends how curious you are for the modern AU!  (But my Euston films allergy is worse than my ITC allergy, and I watched this when very unwell, so I may have been unfair.)

Crown Court “Fitton vs. Pusey” (1973) - part of the Crown Court series, set in a town full of clones who all keep returning to court.  JM is on trial for his behaviour in (the Korean war?  I forget?) although he ought to be on trial for his terrible moustache.  It’s not that great, but it is nice JM content.  He probably did it, but for reasons, and he wibbles & panics whenever his wife leaves the courtroom.  Also on YT.

*** Raffles “The Amateur Cracksman” (ITV 1975) - He is Inspector Mckenzie in the Raffles pilot & is a lot of fun.  At one point when there was a Raffles fandom someone in it claimed he was too gay for Raffles, which I’m still laughing about, because Raffles.  Anyway, watch out if you try to get the DVD because it is NOT included in S1, whatever lies Amazon tells. It is up somewhere online, though, I think.

Bognor “Unbecoming Habits” (1981).  Some down marks for possibly the worst 80s theme & incidiental music ever, but fun & has been shown on Talking Pictures lately.  JM is an Abbot running a honey-making friary that is actually a hotbed of spies, murder, gay sex and squash playing.  This is the point at which he chooses to strip off on screen for the first time, because strong squash-playing abbots do that kind of thing apparently.

Guest of the week in ongoing series/serials

Since even series with a lot of continuity tended to write episodes as self-contained plays (like SotT), these are usually accessible on their own.

Manhunt “Death Wish” (1970).  This is one of the most serialised shows here, but this episode is still fairly contained.  WWII drama about three Resistance agents on the run across France.  JM is... a Nazi agent & former academic trying to break an old friend (one of the series’ three leads, Peter Barkworth) with kindness, possibly??  (Manhunt is very angry and psychological & dark and obv. comes with major WWII warnings (& more if you want to try the whole thing), but it’s also v good.)  Up on YT, I think.

Doomwatch “The Iron Doctor” (BBC S2 1971).  “Doomwatch” is the nickname of a gov’t dept led by Dr Spencer Quist that investigates new scientific projects for abuse/corruption/things that might cause fish to make men infertile etc. etc.  JM is a surgeon who comes to their attention because he’s a bit too in love with his computer for the comfort of one of his more junior colleagues.  (I think it’s perfectly comprehensible & a nice guest turn, but it is hard to get hold of outside of the series DVD.  Which, being a cult TV person, I loved a lot anyway, but YMMV!)

***Hadleigh “The Caper” (S3 1973).  Hadleigh is a very middle of the road show, but watchable enough (lead is Gerald Harper, who’s always entertaining) and this is pretty self-contained as it centres around an old con-man friend (JM) of Hadleigh’s manservant causing trouble by pretending to be Gerald Harper, for reasons.  JM seems to be having a ball.

Justice 2 episodes, S3 1974.  He guests twice as an opposing barrister & gets to be part of some nice showdown court scenes.  Again, a middle of the road drama, but stars Margaret Lockwood, who was still just as awesome in the 1970s as she was in the 1930s & 40s.  On YT.

Father Brown “The Curse of the Golden Cross” (1974).  JM is an American archaeologist getting death threats; stars Kenneth More as Father Brown.  Just a note, though, that 1970s TV adaptations tended to be really really faithful and this is one of the stories where Chesterton comes out with an anti-semitic moment...  (JM was unconscious for that bit and, frankly, I envied him.)  But otherwise lots of angsting in yet another fake moustache about someone trying to kill him.

The Hanged Man “The Bridge Maker” (1975).  Confession time, I have v little idea what this one was about apart from Ray Smith being an unlikely Eastern European dictator, as this whole series went over my head and was not really my thing.  (Ask @mariocki they’re cleverer than me and liked it & can probably explain the plot!)  I don’t know if it’s available anywhere off the DVD but on a JM scale it was v good/different as he was a coldly villainous head of security & it wouldn’t be too bad to watch alone, but there was an overarching plot going on somewhere.

Doctor Who “Underworld” (1978).  This is famously one of the worst serials in the whole of classic Who, but largely because of behind-the-scenes circumstances, not the guest cast.  There is some nice stuff, though, esp in Ep1 (JM is a near-immortal alien who’d like to lay down and die but still the Quest is the Quest as they say... a lot) & it’s bound to pop up on YT or Daily Motion.  The DVD has extras that include v v brief bits of JM speaking in his actual real accent (which he otherwise does in NONE of these) & making jokes in character.  Honestly, though, this is the only DW where the behind-the-scenes doc is genuinely the most exciting bit as they desperately invented whole new technologies & methods of working to bring us this serial, and then everybody wished they hadn’t.

*** Enemy at the Door “Treason” (LWT 1978).  This is a weird episode but I love it lots - from a (v v good) series about the occupation of the Channel Islands.  (So obv warnings for WWII & Nazis.)  JM is a visiting German Generalmajor, but he’s come for a very unusual reason - to ask for help from his brother-in-law, a blackballed British army officer (Joss Ackland).  It’s all weird and low key and JM is doomed and nevertheless probably my favourite thing of his that isn’t SotT.

* The Racing Game 2 eps (1979).  Adaptation of Dick Francis’s first Sid Halley novel Odds Against (ep1) + 5 original stories for the series.  This is an interesting one - JM plays Sid’s father-in-law & they have a lovely relationship that’s central to the book BUT Dick Francis loved this adaptation and Mike Gwilym who played Sid and was inspired to write a sequel Whip Hand, which he tied in with TV canon - and adopted at least three of the cast, including JM.  Which means that all the Sid & Charles fanfic is also JM fic by default and it’s quite impressive. (There’s not much but it’s GOOD.)  On YT.

Bergerac “Treasure Hunt” (1981).  Not a major role, but pretty nice & it’s one a Christmas ep of the detective show (also set on the Channel Islands) that involved Liza Goddard’s cat burglar, which was always the best bit of Bergerac.

His guest spots in Rumpole of the Bailey (1991) “Rumpole a la Carte” and Dr Finlay (1994) are both really just cameos, but both series come round on Freeview; the Rumpole one is funny and the Dr Finlay one his last screen appearance before his death the following year.

Not worth getting just for JM: Subway in the Sky; Bill Brand and Oppenheimer.

These films only have cameos but some quite fun ones and they come around on terrestrial TV: The Damned (1962), The Evil of Frankenstein (1964) & (more briefly) Far From the Madding Crowd (1967).  (I think his cameo in Connecting Doors must be at least recognisable as someone spotted him in it just based off my gifs, but it’s not come my way yet.)  I’ve never been able to get hold of any of his radio performances, not even the 1990s one.

ETA: I forgot The Power Game! This is the one surviving series where he occurs as a semi-regular (at least until halfway through S1 when he went off to the BBC to be in the now-burninated Hunchback of Notre Dame).  This isn’t standalone, but it’s a good series and it is on YT.  See how you go with crackly old TV before you brave it but it’s the snarkiest thing ever made about people making concrete and stabbing each other in the back.  JM is a civil servant who tries to run the National Export Board and is plagued by Patrick Wymark and Clifford Evans as warring businessmen.

***

[... Well, now I just feel scary.  0_o  In my defence, I have been stuck home bored & ill for years, and often unable to watch modern TV while trying to cheer myself up with James Maxwell, so I didn’t watch all of this at once.  It just... happened eventually after SotT. /waves hand 

But if anyone feels the need to unfriend my quietly at this point, I understand. /o\]

[blarrghe]

Merry Christmas to Me they are going on a Date

The air was crisp, and perfectly still. The thunk of Dorian’s car door slamming shut sounded out soft, almost muffled by the quietness of the snow-covered street. There were no other cars parked in the tiny lot in the centre of it, which divided two rows of quaint little shops on either side. The street rejoined itself around the empty parking lot and wound away in either direction. The side streets that branched in awkward zigzagging patterns off of it, sparsely lined with picturesque little cottages with wide yards of snow between them, weren’t even plowed. The main road ran up and down; up, winding slowly through a forest of trees and disappearing into the mountainside, and down, towards a glowing town square lit up at its centre by a tall, festively decorated pine tree. 

Dorian watched his breath form a cloud of mist in front of him, and pressed the little button on his keychain. His car’s lights flashed, and the horn beeped once, obnoxiously loud against the silent scene. For a moment, he glanced up the road, and then lifted his head higher, arching his head way back to take in the peaks of the mountains overshadowing the quiet town. The sky was fading into sunset, and pink light glowed through the trees and sparkled off the snow in the distant mountaintops. The mountains loomed quietly, shining in orange and peach with dark evergreen trees blanketing around their roots, and among them little golden lights from mountainside cabins were glowing softly through the snow. It was beautiful and serene, like a scene directly out of a holiday card, and Dorian hated every single thing about it.

He sighed, breath forming a long whispering mist from his mouth and disappearing into the air, and rubbed his hands together. He scanned the shops on the street before him, windows all dark, signs all turned round to ‘closed’, and then with another, more irritated little sigh, looked at his watch. 

Half past four, said the large gold analogue contraption on his wrist. He sighed again, and strode forward across the street, his shoes slipping awkwardly against the packed down snow. He stepped up onto the sidewalk and frowned at the crunch of coarse salt under his foot. Then he glanced up and down the line of shops one more time, his eye landing on the only lit window on the whole street, and with one last heavy sigh, walked carefully towards it. 

The buildings looked old; stone foundations with thick wood or brick walls, mostly two stories tall with little apartments slotted in above, and topped with high-pointed dutch roofs complete with smoking chimneys. He passed a dark-windowed chocolatier with displays of intricate candy ornaments and gold foil wrapped chocolates in the window, and a bakery with windows decorated with paper snowflakes and quintessentially charming gingerbread houses. All closed as of four in the afternoon. 

"Ridiculous." He muttered aloud to the empty street. 

The open shop, when he came to it, had a large sculpture of a wooden bear in the window, and a tower of suede moccasins on display. Lavellan's Crafts, said a sign on the door. Looking in through the window he could see more display stands; postcards and keychains and little animal figurines. 

Fantastic, thought Dorian bitterly, a chintzy souvenir shop. Just what he needed. 

He pushed the heavy wooden door open, and it grunted on its hinges as his feet stomped over the welcome mat. And it was a Welcome! mat, woven out of coarse fabric and dotted with thematic pine cones and holly leaves, the happy greeting stencilled on in uncomplicated calligraphy. 

The warmth and the smell of the place washed over him immediately. The walls were left unpainted, beautiful old wood varnished and shining in the warm incandescent light from an intricate wooden chandelier that hung overhead. A nearby shelf littered with artisanal scented candles and boxes of "genuine" incense sticks wafted out a mix of bold scents; patchouli, sage, maple, pine. He moved away from it, scanning the other shelves and displays. 

Beaded decorations and wind chimes hung in one window, and further into the shop, past the little rotating displays of animal figurine keychains and greeting cards, larger items stood out with hefty price tags. He paused in front of a collection of large canvases displaying boldly painted landscapes of the local scenery in all seasons, and portraits of rustic looking elves engaging in various traditional activities. His eyes lingered on the paintings a little too long, caught up in the crisp lines and bright colours. The people all had joy on their faces; rosy cheeks and bright eyes, colourful dresses that very nearly looked to be moving. As he stood struck by their expressiveness, he almost forgot to remain unimpressed. 

He picked up a bar of handmade soap scattered with gritty bits of lavender, sniffed it, and put it back down. Then he wandered over to a display of wooden tree ornaments, and spun it absently, watching the little wolves and caribou and bears sway about. 

"Looking for something specific?" Said a soft voice out of a dark nook behind the counter at the back of the shop. 

Dorian turned to look with a start, and before he could think better of it, he complained.

"Got anything that says 'happy holidays, thank you so much for dragging me out to the frozen middle of nowhere to spend the holidays in some stuffy little cabin that doesn't even get cell service. Not that it matters, since the entire dull little village shuts down at four in the afternoon, and in all probability there won't be anywhere for miles to find decent company or even a decent brandy?’ " He asked. Then with a twinge of self-aware guilt for his attitude, he amended the rant with a vaguely apologetic "no offense". 

Behind the counter, the soft voice was laughing. Then an elf came into view, leaning his elbows over the counter and looking at Dorian with sparkling green eyes. He kept laughing, chuckling mildly under his breath and shaking his head so that golden light danced off the messy curls of his dark red hair. His face was tattooed, like the elves in the paintings, and they glowed against his warm toned skin. Dorian had never seen work like it in real life, and once again found his eye lingering a little too long.

"Sorry, I don't think so." The elf said finally, a sideways smirk resting on his full lips, "but the shop down the street sells chocolate truffles filled with brandy that are quite nice. They don't open again until ten tomorrow, of course. Can I interest you in a postcard of our dull little village, instead?" 

Dorian's cheeks burned, and not half because of the chiding tone of the shopkeeper's rebuttal. Mainly, he was busy getting hot at just how striking those eyes were; how they glittered across the room at him with perfectly patient bemusement. 

He sighed. "Apologies. Long drive." He muttered, quickly grabbing an ornament carved like two fish swimming after each other's tails, and a wintery postcard decorated with a photograph of the tree in the town square. He walked himself up to the counter and set the items down, hastily digging into his pocket for his wallet and avoiding the elf's still-penetrating gaze. 

"If it's for someone you don't like, you should go with the wolf." Remarked the elf, still leaning his elbows on the counter and making no moves to ring him up, or stop smirking. "Around these parts, we tell stories about a Dread Wolf who tricks tourists into getting lost in the mountains." His smirk broadened. 

"Then why put it on an ornament?" 

The elf shrugged. "They're good stories." His soft voice lilted with an accent Dorian couldn't place, musical and sweet, but there was still a good deal of cheek to his tone. "Actually, the wolf represents strength and loyalty. The Dread Wolf is just a local legend." Then he winked at him, and slid the postcard across the counter to the register. 

"Strength and loyalty." Dorian shook his head, "and fish?" 

"Balance." 

Balance. As in work-life? Ironic, given the intended recipient. "I'll stick with the fish." 

"That everything?" 

Dorian nodded. 

"Hold on, I think I have something in the back that might interest you." The elf disappeared into his dark little nook and through a storeroom door, the teasing smirk never once leaving his face. When he came out again he was holding a single gold foil wrapped chocolate, and he nudged it across the counter with a friendly nod. "Happy holidays." He said, and the smile on his face shifted into one that was somewhat less amused, and more sincere. 

Dorian took the chocolate tentatively, and finished paying for the ornament and card. It totalled more than he would have expected for some faux-Dalish tourist fare, and he took a second to properly look over the ornament before tucking it into his pocket. No factory logo, just the initials TL burned into the wood. So maybe it wasn't quite a chintzy souvenir shop. 

"This all local?" He asked, suddenly feeling a new wave of guilt over his earlier disparaging comments. 

The very obviously Dalish elf in front of him raised an eyebrow and nodded. "There's a collective." 

He plucked two business cards and a pamphlet out of the brochure stand in front of his cash register, and slid them across the counter. The business cards had gallery names on them, and the pamphlet advertised the services of a local community centre, including an ongoing holiday craft fair. Dorian glanced over the rest of the brochures in the stand. There were a few other business cards for local shops, and pamphlets for companies offering various adventure packages; mountain climbing, horseshoe tours, trail rides. 

The elf's gaze followed him with a faint degree of amused judgment, and the expression fell on his striking features in a way that made Dorian's throat dry. He cleared his throat, picked out a general ‘Village Businesses’ brochure from the stand and smoothed out his expression. It was entirely unfair, this striking elf looking at him like that. He could fix this. 

"Well, now I've made a fool of myself, might I more humbly ask for a recommendation?" He passed the brochure over the counter with a gracefully apologetic smile. 

The elf unfolded the page on the counter top. Then he grabbed a pencil from somewhere out of that mess of hair, and flashed him a quick, toothy grin before bending over it and beginning to circle and scribble away. 

"This might help keep you from getting bored, even without cell service. When do you leave?"  

Dorian's heart jumped at the retort, and the elf glanced up at him with another quick flash of taunting teeth.

“Two weeks.” He answered roughly, throat dry again. 

The elf passed back the brochure, and tucked the pencil back onto a braid behind his ear with a slight frown. “Not really enough time, but hopefully you can manage to enjoy some of it.” He said, leaning back and smirking again. Dorian went back to feeling flushed. “But we close in five minutes.” Of course you do. "If you want, I could show you where to get a good beer, if not good brandy.” Oh.

[kpopmusiclyricsalbums]

WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT....

Kenzie 

The hidden goddess of songs in SM Entertainment. 

The brilliant lyricist that is behind some of the most iconic songs in SM’s history. 

A graduate from the Berklee College of music, yes, that Berklee she has written 10 songs to hit number 1 on the gaon chart, and her B-sides are dreams.  

The thing that I love about Kenzie is that she knows how to twist a song into making it mean something while saying something else.  It’s kind of hidden meanings within a song that I don’t see all that much from writers.  It’s one of the reason I love Taylor Swift’s music is because I love learning something new every time I hear the same song over and over again.  The hidden depths and meaning more.  

3 Examples:

Obsession - EXO 

At first glance, the song could meaning the obsession with one’s fans/Idols, or being obsessed over someone and seeing the toxicity in it.  When I heard it, I thought it was a dig at sasaengs and fans that go to far.  Then the line at the end came in and it completely startled me.  

거울 속의 나를 보고 있는 나 / It’s me looking at myself in the mirror

It’s can simply change the entire meaning behind the song without even thinking about it.  It’s a double meaning that also is about ego, and self reflection.  Sometimes you get so caught up in everything, In yourself, you never realize the toxic part could also be from one’s own self-reflection.  The lines that follow are all of plea’s to get away, to disappear.  It’s the last line of substance in the song that flips it on it’s head.  A cry for help because sometimes your worst enemy, the thing that goes bump in your nightmares isn’t someone else, but you.  It turns the song into a dialogue with one person fighting with their own demons.  

Power Up - Red Velvet 

Power up is one of those Red song’s that people either hate or love.  (I personally loved it)  It’s one of those songs that is great for summer and is about having fun.  But it also is about recharging yourself and going for your dreams that seem so out there.  It’s also points out that maybe the reason we haven’t gotten our dreams yet is because we just need to have fun.  

It starts off with someone who hasn’t moved since they got up, and ends with them being recharged and ready to take on the world.  It’s about changing your mindset on things.  Yeah school is boring and sucks, but you could also think of it is school is learning and you are evolving as a human being.  It’s about changing the mindset. 

선생님은 내게 말씀하셨죠 / Teacher told me 

놀 때도 일할 때도 즐겁게 해 / To have fun whether I’m playing or working

그래 난 유달리 반짝거렸죠 /Yes, I shined even more

뜨거움도 새로움도 It’s mine / This hotness, this newness, it’s mine

It’s  a song to help those who need it be pumped and to get out of bed.  To go forth into the world and achieve their goals.  

Go go airplane 태양 위로 날아라/ Go, go, airplane, fly above the sun

Diving to the sky 완전 소름 돋았어 / Diving to the sky, I’m getting goosebumps

Let’s power up!

까맣게 다 타버릴 거예요/ We're gonna burn up

Doesn’t it make you enjoy Power up just a little bit more?

Into the New World - Girls Generation

Into the New World is certified Kpop Gold.  It’s the golden standard and a must for every new girl group to learn, and to be compared to.  The song is upbeat and high energy with just as much air needed to belt out the lyrics.  It’s a timeless song that has been turned into a rallying cry for protesters and Women empowerment.  Into the New World is what Girls’ Generation ended up doing for the Kpop industry as a whole for female groups, by going the tough route always working hard, facing the darkness that comes.  

사랑해 널 이 느낌 이대로 / I love you, just like this

그려 왔던 헤매임의 끝 / The longed end of wandering

이 세상 속에서 반복되는/ I leave behind This world’s

슬픔 이젠 안녕 / Unending sadness

수많은 알 수 없는 길 속에 / In the many unknowable paths

희미한 빛을 난 쫓아가 / I follow a dim light

언제까지라도 함께하는 거야 / It’s something we’ll do together to the end

다시 만난 나의 세계 / Into my new world

특별한 기적을 기다리지 마 / Don’t wait for a special miracle

눈앞에선 우리의 거친 길은 / There’s a rough road in front of us

알 수 없는 미래와 벽 바꾸지 않아 / With unknowable future and obstacles, I won’t change

포기할 수 없어 / I can’t give up

The lyrics in the chorus are talking about struggle and paths not yet traveled.  To a better place where even though the light is dim, we have to work towards it together, because that’s how things change.  It’s a rallying cry for hope, for endurance in tough times, and to make sure that people keep fighting for what they believe in.  That they know, they are not alone.  

To sum it all up, Kenzie is the secret hidden goddess of Kpop song writing.  If Kenzie releases a song, I know its going to be good.  So here a list of songs she has written the lyrics for and the links so you can listen and enjoy! 

BoA

DOTCH 

Garden in the Air 

I Kiss 

Lollipop 

M.E.P. (My Electronic Piano) 

Milky Way

Moto 

My Name 

On December 27th 

People Say…

Spring Rain 

Time to Begin 

EXO 

24/7 

Baby

For Life

Forever  

Monster 

Obsession 

Sing for You 

Transformer 

The First Snow  

What U Do?

Wolf 

Ya Ya Ya 

EXO-K 

Overdose 

EXO - CBX 

Playdate 

Rhythm After Summer 

EXO - Baekhyun 

Betcha 

EXO - Chen 

Love Words

Shall We?

F(x) 

Cash Me Out 

Danger 

Jet 

Lachata (Intro) & La Cha Ta 

MILK 

Mr. Boogie

Papi 

Red Light 

Signal  

Vacance 

Gain

Kiss or Kill 

Girls’ Generation 

All Night 

Diamond 

Europa 

Express 999 

FAN 

Fire Alarm 

Girlfriend 

HaHaHa

Haptic Motion 

Into the New World

Light Up the Sky 

Merry-Go-round 

Oh!

Oscar 

Way to Go!

Girls’ Generation-TTS 

OMG (Oh My God) 

Girls’ Generation - Seohyun 

Don’t Say No 

Girls’ Generation - Taeyeon 

All Night Long (& NCT Lucas) 

Close 

Four seasons 

I Got Love 

Lonely Night

Love You Like Crazy 

Spark  

Sweet Love 

Isak N Jiyeon 

The Sign 

NCT 127 

Limitless 

NCT Dream 

We Go Up 

Red Velvet 

Attaboy 

First Time 

Lady’s Room 

Lucky GIrl

Mr. E

Peek-a-Boo 

Power Up 

Psycho 

Really Bad Boy (RBB) 

Red Flavor 

Sassy Me 

Some Love 

SHINee 

All Day All Night 

Evil 

Graze

Green Rain  

Jo Jo 

Life

LOVE 

Love Sick 

Queen of New York 

Our Page 

Real

Rescue 

Savior

SHIFT  

Stranger  

Trigger 

Why So Serious?

SHINee - Key 

One of Those Nights 

SHINee - Onew 

Blue 

SHINee - Taemin 

Sexuality 

Want 

SMTOWN

Hotmail 

Red Sun 

Snowflake 

Super Junior 

첫눈이 와

A Day 

Angela 

Bittersweet 

Devil 

Good Love 

Hate U, Love U 

Lo Siento (& Leslie Grace) 

Storm 

The Girl is Mine 

Your Eyes 

Super Junior - Happy 

Sunny 

Super Junior - K.R.Y. 

Just You 

Super Junior - M 

Me 

Only U 

Super Junior - Kyuhyun 

At Gwanghwamun 

A Million Pieces 

SuperM

I Can’t Stand the Rain 

Let’s Go Everywhere 

The Grace 

한번 더, Ok?

One More Chance 

Sweet Emotion 

TVXQ 

하구달 

Humanoids

Like Now 

Oasis 

One 

Phantom 

Rainbow 

Remember

When We’ll Be Together  

Your Man 

TVXQ & Super Junior 

Show Me Your Love

Masterlist

[jasperwhitcock]

05. FAMILY FEUD

surprise, bitches. bet you thought you’d seen the last of me. why do i update my fic always a month apart. sorry!! i’m always working on it, i just write really long chapters... anyways, here is chapter five of my bella as a vampire and edward as a human fanfic inspired by an au that @bellasredchevy​ posted. you can read the new chapter on AO3 or here. i post updates on AO3 or on tumblr using the #equinoxjw tag.

i've incorporated some quotes from midnight sun because obviously this is still something of a parallel to midnight sun & i wanted to stay true to some of the reactions. also, you may recognize a little blurb imbedded here that i've written before about the bookshelf hehe. hope yall enjoy ♡♡♡

The weight of the battle I was fighting within myself was beginning to surpass the previous toll it’d taken on me. Every moment since I met Edward, it seemed I was falling further down into an abyss that I couldn’t climb out of, and every time I felt like maybe I’d found my grip, I only fell further. Again, I was frustrated as I sat outside Edward’s house in Carlisle’s Mercedes, watching the hazy, obscure sun slip further away behind the blackened clouds, leaving me shrouded in the darkness of a midday storm and the cover of pouring rain. I felt partially guilty for not returning Carlisle’s car. He wouldn’t mind running home, but Esme might not be too pleased about the puddles his drenched clothing would leave on her newly installed flooring. Although after today, it might not matter anymore.

I wondered what I’d return home to. Would they have already finished packing up our belongings? Would they be waiting to confront me about the consequences of my actions? Carlisle was forgiving, but would the rest of my family be?

For those reasons, I wasn’t ready to return home yet. But mostly, I was hesitant to drive away because I knew the moment my tires left Edward’s street would be the moment I’d be leaving him behind in Forks. I felt unprepared for the finality of such a moment.

When I heard the soft purr of an engine turning onto the street around one in the afternoon, I sighed, shifting the car into drive and moving forward to the end of the road in case it was Edward’s father returning home. I watched in my rearview mirror as the silver vehicle confirmed my suspicions by pulling into Edward’s driveway. Although the darkness of the thunderstorm’s gloom brewing in the clouds did little to obscure my eyesight, the torrent of rain pounding down relentlessly onto the green earth was too thick for even my eyes to catch a good glimpse of his face.

I could stay and listen – hear the voice of his father and compare it to the quality of Edward’s low, soft timbre, see if Edward’s sincerity in sticking to my version of events was genuine, check if he was truly as alright as he insisted – but maybe I was only looking for reasons to avoid heading home. Or maybe I was just being unforgivably invasive.

I glanced at the digital clock. 1:05. If they had stayed in their classes after the accident, there was still another hour and forty minutes before my siblings would be released from school. If they went home early, then Carlisle still wouldn’t be home for another two hours and twenty five minutes. I decided I’d rather not be there without Carlisle, so I lifted my foot off the break, slammed on the gas, and headed for Port Angeles before I realized where I was going.

As I left Forks behind me, the rain softened to a more consoling pitter patter on the roof of the car, and the clouds, although still grey, were lighter, hinting at the hidden sun. I made it to Port Angeles in under half an hour, luckily finding the roads to be mostly empty.

I drove at an appropriate speed once I reached the city. It was surprisingly beautiful scenery for such a disastrous day. It had snowed the night before here as well, but the melted snow hadn’t refrozen into ice. Instead, the tops of the buildings were covered in a thin layer of fluffy white snowflakes. The clouds above were thick enough to conceal me from the sun but held no implications of oncoming rain.

I located a parking spot near my favorite old brick building and paid the meter for the next few hours. The air was even more wintry here than in Forks as the harbor air brought in fresh, freezing ocean spray. There was a bookstore I liked to go to here in Port Angeles. Even as a child, Forks didn’t have an adequate library or bookstore to satiate my needs. My previous grievances with the rainforest of a city aside, there was always the silver lining of the bookstore.

If there was one thing that I looked forward to when arriving in the otherwise detestable small town of Forks in the rainy state of Washington, it was returning to the familiar mahogany of the sturdy bookshelf in the tiny living room of Charlie’s small, two-story house. It had been a gift – a homecoming gesture – in hopes to put me in better spirits when I was forced to spend my summers with my father. He knew how I had disliked his gloomy town just as my mother had. A friend from the reservation, Billy Black’s, young, cheerful son built the bookshelf himself. Billy had dismissed Charlie’s offers to pay his son for the service, insisting he accept it as a present in return for all the nights Billy stole away to the Swan Residence (Swan, the last name I held as a human) to watch the game on Charlie’s much larger – though not by much – television screen. When he hadn’t been looking, Charlie slipped a small wad of cash to Billy’s kid who excitedly accepted it, eager to save for some other projects.

Over time, the book shelf became a home for some of my favorite classic novels. On his days off, when his friend Harry Clearwater was unavailable for a fishing trip, he’d picked up books of all kinds, hoping I would find at least one I liked in the overflowing collection. The bookshelf was stuffed with paperbacks and hardbacks, lining each ledge edge to edge with books piling horizontally on top of the other books as space began to run out. It was a gesture that moved me in ways I was unused to and ways I couldn’t find the words to express.

When I was in town, Charlie drove me to some of the larger cities surrounding his small town and waited patiently as I perused the shelves of second-hand book stores. Smart as he was, he wasn’t a very articulate man, struggling to convey the depth of his emotions through words. But something in his eyes betrayed the way his heart overflowed with pride and adoration watching his small, gangly daughter enter into a world of her own as she searched for her next favorite story to add to their beloved bookshelf. It was a look I caught that sometimes made me feel embarrassed and shy by the profundity of the love in it, but now a look that I’d always remember. A look that would always make my unbeating heart feel somehow full and empty at the same time. Intense feelings of love and sadness for what I’d once had and since lost. This bookstore was our favorite, and therefore, it would always be my favorite. It still held the aged charm of the past, but they made some modern improvements in desperation for relevance today. I’d made sure to keep the store open with anonymous donations. Too many independent bookstores suffered in such a competitive, unfair market full of large online distributors.

I listened to the familiar hum of the glowing red neon sign in the window as I reached for the door. A bell above let out a peal of rings as I entered, and the clerk behind the wooden counter looked up beneath her large glasses. Her skin was deeply tan with olive undertones and her dark hair was cropped in a perfect line above her shoulders. Her eyes registered shock upon seeing my face, her heart rate picked up, and she stuttered over her words. “W-welcome!”

“Thank you,” I smiled softly, though finding the politeness to be difficult today. I didn’t want to come across rude or threatening, but feigning anything resembling joy was especially exhausting. I kept my voice gentle and even so as not to alarm the woman.

“Let me know if you need any help!” She called after me as I passed the counter, heading deeper into the store.

The shop was unpopulated at this time of day. Only a few people loitered here and there examining the shelves or curled up on loveseats with hot coffee cups to recover from the chill of the outdoors.

I crossed over the entirety of the first floor, finding the concealed narrow staircase that led to the upstairs. Tasting the air, I could tell there was nobody immediately near me, so I flew up the staircase at a more reasonable speed though I was in no hurry. The second floor was a brown labyrinth, the bookshelves placed in a way to create an intimate maze with countless little crevices to slip into and hide away from the rest of the world. Hardbacks and paperbacks piled the shelves and walls from the floor to the ceiling. The air was filled with the scents of crispy paper, aged ink, and the sweet, musky smell of older books. The lighting was warm reddish-orange, dull, and not ideal for reading despite the setting, but a miscellaneous mélange of lamps in all shapes and sizes embellished the spaces tucked between the bookcases, generating enough brightness to read in tiny, personal pools of light.

I weaved a path through the maze until I reached a dead-end corner with a single, wine-colored armchair in a faded leather. An ornate wooden plaque spray painted gold with eroded edges was drilled into the shelf behind the chair, the words “For Charlie” engraved into the pallet. Well, my donations were mostly anonymous.

No matter how many times I rounded this corner, every time my eyes fell on the empty chair hit me like a wrecking ball with nearly unmanageable grief. Any attempt to decipher the thoughts that came with this always led me to simplistic statements because that was all that I could ever handle. It was too much emptiness, too much numbness, too much complexity. It was always simply too much. And that was about all the conclusions I could come to no matter how much gentleness and coaxing Esme, Rosalie, Alice, Jasper, Emmett, and Carlisle comforted me with. It was always easier to push away the thought, to avoid thinking too much than to acknowledge the hole in my chest. Some days I almost forget, and some days it becomes seemingly ever present. It was always easier to ignore the gravity of the grief.

But in this life with the absoluteness of what we are, all we can do is to go on. One next step at a time. As much as I felt so much stronger and accustomed to this life, there was no denying the simple truth – there is so much loss in immortality.

I sighed. Even with all of our physical resilience, the extremities of our emotions in this form was enough to be tiring. I took steps forward and turned to sink into the chair, feeling very small. Looking out at the warmth of the bookcases and the endless array of novels, I thought of what it would be like to be Charlie sitting here, watching his awkward daughter run her finger along all the spines or disappear into the maze only to be found on the floor somewhere surrounded by piles of books.

Sometimes being here I could feel the ghost of Charlie’s love. The intensity that he couldn’t quite always communicate and that I didn’t always understand the extent of. But here, I could feel it. And I felt the same love for him in return. I missed him. His thick mustache, the sudden youthfulness in his warm, brown eyes when he smiled, the endearing crinkles that reminded me of his age. The coffee rings on the table, and the snow chains on my tires. The flush of red under his translucent skin when he was angry or embarrassed. Just like how my skin had been. Like father, like daughter.

I wondered what he’d think of my life now, and what he’d think of what I’d done today. Knowing the circumstances of the secrets I was meant to keep, would he have thought I’d done the right thing as Carlisle had? Or would he have thought I interfered and placed my siblings at risk like the rest of my family might think? I think that despite the consequences, he would have said something like, “you did the right thing, kid.” And maybe he’d even uncomfortably ask me about whether or not this boy was someone he should be keeping his eye on and would be immensely relieved when I reassured him that the answer was no. The thought almost made me smile. So then, I couldn’t bring myself to regret my decisions, and I wouldn’t allow myself to.

I sat there in the weathered leather of the chair for some time, listening to the subtle dragging of pages sliding off of shelves, the whoosh of air and the crispy rustle of paper as someone turned a page, the heaviness of footsteps on dead pieces of floorboard, the twinkle of the bell above the front door, and the whisper of the frozen wind rushing inside. After an hour, I stirred, rising from Charlie’s chair to trace my finger along the edges of the shelves, the action stirring up some dust particles to leap into the air like dandelion seeds, the warm light catching them in astonishing ways as they floated along. I left my little nook briefly to find the right section that would hold the book I was suddenly searching for.

When I located it, I plucked the gently used novel off the shelf, vowing to officially mend my own copy at home since it was the same story that Emmett had destroyed the morning of the first day I saw Edward.

I returned to the armchair, once again sinking down into the burgundy, and flipped through the aged pages until I found the place I left off at.

I’d have read until closing time, but eventually something in the unreliability of initial appearances in Pride and Prejudice began to bother me in a way that it never had before. I gave up on the book and instead sat unthinking – or attempting to, at least– quietly for a few hours.

Again, I longed to sleep. I’d never needed an escape as much as I did now as my mind was becoming too tiring a place to consciously be.

After some time, I heard creaky footsteps on the ancient wood up the stairs and the jingling sound of keys hitting each other. I waited patiently as they approached, imagining where exactly they may be in the labyrinth as they turned corners and hesitated to quietly shove stray books back onto shelves. They drew closer, closing in the distance between them and my little nook, finally rounding the corner.

“Oh!” The clerk from downstairs gasped in surprise, dropping the book in her hand. I stopped myself from saving it to not startle her any further with sudden movements, allowing it to clatter noisily to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, only then rising from the chair to lean down and collect the novel after an appropriate amount of reaction time. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The clerk’s heart boomed loudly in her chest. “No, no, it’s alright!” She laughed breathlessly, a hand fluttering to her heart. “I just didn’t think anyone else was here... We’re, uh, sorry, we’re closed!”

“Oh, I’m sorry again,” I laughed softly as well to relax her, extending my hand to offer her the book she’d dropped. “I must have lost track of time.”

“That’s okay! It happens more often than you think...” she laughed again, her heart rate slowing down to a more regular place, though now that she recovered from the shock, her face was mesmerized by the oddness of my jarringly perfect appearance.

“I’ll leave now,” I smiled politely, pushing the book forward to her hand, careful not to touch her skin. Without processing, she took hold of the book. As I began to pass her, she clumsily turned.

“Oh, uh, wait! I’ll unlock the door to let you out!”

I allowed her to pass me up and leisurely followed her through the maze down the stairs. Her blood had a sweet smell, but it was still unappealing in comparison to Edward’s.

Once we’d reached the door, I could see how much time had passed whilst I hadn’t been paying attention. Through the large windows, night had fallen in a blackened cloak over the port city.

“Here we are,” she shyly chirped in a very intentionally favorable tone – something she probably reserved for customer service – and fiddled with the keys. Her hands shook slightly, and I felt guilty for how it must feel to have her back turned to a predator. Of course, she couldn’t know the difference, but her body recognized the threat. Finally, once she’d found the right key, she jimmied the rusty metal into the lock – missing the narrow fissure twice at first – and opened the door.

“Sorry about that. Thank you so much for coming,” she turned, gesturing with a shaky hand towards the outside world. The bitter wind blew in through the opening, making her shiver.

“Thank you,” I smiled again for her sake. Her eyes were peculiarly light compared to the rest of her features, making them extremely prominent. They were lighter and more hazel, yet the shade of green made me think of Edward again. I sighed. “Have a good night.”

I stepped out into the darkened street, looking down at the strange way the red light from the neon sign in the window washed over and illuminated my skin. Tiny bugs flew around the street lamps up above, casting irregularly moving shadows on the frozen sidewalk.

The heavy door shut loudly behind me, and she clicked the lock. It was unusually quiet, though that could be due to it being a weeknight. The bulbs in the streetlamps hummed and the bugs buzzed in response.

I strolled along the sidewalk, taking my time before returning to Carlisle’s car. I should have paid the meter more generously. It expired two hours ago. I’d received a parking ticket. Oops.

I removed the frozen slip of paper and unlocked the car, sliding into the driver’s seat. I had no desire to drive fast at first, deciding to return home at the speed limit. After about forty minutes, suddenly the anticipation to get the confrontation out of the way overcame me, and I drove 200 miles per hour the rest of the way home. Within minutes, I was turning onto the miles-long driveway.

As I raced for the garage, I listened for any movement from the bright house. There was none. I wondered how long they’d been sitting still, waiting for me. I groaned aloud in greeting.

The garage door was open so I pulled into the blue fluorescence and parked beside Rosalie’s day car. I sighed once before determinedly exiting the vehicle.

I slammed the door a little too hard before catching the handle before it hit the body. Perhaps I’d reached my quota this morning when it came to destroying car doors.

I ran through the small section of woods separating the garage from the house and braced myself for the impact of the meeting.

“Hello,” I said sheepishly. I wanted to sound stronger and more confident, but my nerve wavered as I entered the dining room to see everyone waiting for me at the long oval table. At the eastern head of the table, Carlisle and Esme sat side by side, their hands resting together atop the mahogany. I felt some of the resilience I’d mustered in the last few seconds return upon seeing the intensity of Esme’s golden eyes. They were full of concern and overwhelmingly forgiving. It was reassuring.

Rosalie sat directly opposite from Carlisle, very intentionally avoiding eye contact with me, her arms crossed firmly across her chest. I could feel the tension and coldness emanating from her. I was unused to feeling spurned by Rosalie. She always tenderly cared for me, always taking my side… My actions must have truly offended her today. A twinge of guilt twisted my abdomen.

It was unfair to feel any sense of betrayal considering the danger I’d placed my family in, but still with Emmett wrly seated beside Rosalie, and Jasper standing behind them, leaning against the wall mirroring Rose’s crossed arms, I felt some irrational anger at the lines being drawn. Of course, I should have known better than to think Emmett would have my back as if he wouldn’t undoubtedly support Rosalie.

Alice sat beside Esme, her eyes focused on something other than the room. I wondered if her visions made her support waver, if in all the hours I’d been gone, she’d been moving back and forth on either side of the room. She always chose the winning side.

“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “First, for this,” I crossed to the other side of the table to sit beside Carlisle, placing the parking ticket on the wood and sliding it over towards him. His lips curved into an amused smirk, and I felt encouraged by the expression.

“And more importantly,” I turned to face Rosalie, Emmett, and Jasper. “I’m very, very sorry for this morning. It was incredibly selfish, irresponsible, and stupid of me to put any of you at risk. It’s all my fault… I take full responsibility for my actions.”

Rosalie’s exquisite face finally looked up at me, her expression full of hurt. “And what does that mean, Bella? Are you planning on fixing this?”

The implication behind her words filled me with sudden indignation, and before I could calm myself down, I snapped, “not in the way that you mean.”

Of course, something had to be done about the accident, but what was the point of going to such idiotic lengths to save his life only to end it later? Didn’t she realize I’ve been fighting to keep him alive since the very moment I’d met him?

Rosalie took offense to the harsh accusation of my words. “You say that as if I’d advocate for this under normal circumstances.”

“I had planned on leaving before, and I will leave now if it makes things easier.” Rather than keeping my voice calm and even, the words again came out in ways I didn’t intend. Unnecessarily punitive. I knew it was ridiculous to be so angry with Rosalie’s anger towards me when she was entirely right, but I couldn’t tame my passion in defense of Edward’s silly little life.

“Oh, no, Bella,” Esme murmured. “Please, you can’t leave.”

I reached to squeeze my mother’s hand.

“It’d have been helpful prior to this morning,” Jasper spoke up. “Now, it’s irrelevant.”

“Jazz is right,” Emmett agreed. “There’s no point in leaving now. If anything, that’d look more suspicious.”

“I agree with Emmett, Bella,” Carlisle nodded. “For you to disappear, perhaps it’d make the boy more inclined to talk. Either all of us leave or none.”

“Edward won’t say anything,” I insisted.

“You can’t know that,” Rosalie argued.

“I trust him,” I disagreed, surprising myself at how true the statement was. I thought back to the biology lab when he’d jokingly asked if I trusted him. It was in response to his identification of the stages of mitosis, and I had said no. Now, I suddenly entrusted him with the secrecy of my vampire abilities. I was really unintelligent. She scoffed at my words. “Alice, back me up.”

“I can’t see what will happen if we just ignore this,” Alice rubbed her temples before shooting an accusatory glance in Jasper and Rosalie’s direction.

“We can’t ignore this. Bella, I have always supported you, and of course I love you dearly. But clearly, this isn’t some minor mistake. You were right – it was incredibly selfish and irresponsible and stupid! And it’d be even more irresponsible and stupid for us to allow the human the chance to say anything about it. Carlisle, you must see that,” Rosalie turned her attention to our adopted father.

“It’s not like we haven’t left rumors behind before,” I reminded her. “And I don’t recall anyone else’s first offense putting them on trial like this.”

She ignored the second part of my statement. “Rumors, Bella. Today, you’ve provided eyewitnesses and evidence! It’s not enough that you were perfect prior to today. You’re no more a saint than the rest of us! We have to be perfect always! This was a massive mistake!” Rosalie stood up from her chair. “And I know that!” I stood up as well.

“Then you should agree with what’s the right course of action! It doesn’t have to be a big production. So he seemed alright after the accident. Every mortal goes to sleep with the chance of never waking up. Say Carlisle missed something far more serious than it looked. I don’t delight in this, Bella, but the rest of our kind would expect us to take care of this. Technically, you should be the one to clean up after yourself.”

“Rosalie, the Masen boy is completely innocent,” Carlisle gently disapproved.

Rosalie frowned. “It’s an unfortunate consequence to Bella’s mistake in favor of protecting us all, but a consequence nonetheless”

“Rose, I am sorry-”

“Sorry doesn’t matter anymore, Bella!” She interrupted.

“I never wanted this. I never wanted to place you or Emmett or any of us in this position. I know my actions have affected you. But I couldn’t just let him die that way!” My chest sunk at the thought.

“But it wasn’t your place to meddle with fate. You’ve already interrupted his life with your existence alone. Why let him survive? So that you could slaughter him later?”

I winced at her words, but a low hiss escaped my throat as well.

“Rose...” Emmett reached up for her hand to placate her, but she pulled away.

“No, it’s the truth. Our existence and your fixation on his scent posed a threat to the boy. His time came, but you interfered. Now he poses a greater threat to us. So what was the point of that then? You couldn’t help yourself from cutting into his life? It seems the universe provided you with an easy way out, and you went out of your way to make things not only more difficult for yourself but for us as well. I don’t always love this life, but excuse me for taking it personally when you’ve threatened the tiniest piece of happiness I have here! You should have just let him die! It seems you’ll end up killing him anyways!”

The room shifted completely. Suddenly, everyone was on their feet, Rosalie leaned towards me in defense, Emmett uncomfortably but faithfully crouched by her side, Jasper’s stance was more confident and relaxed but poised to strike as well. Carlisle and Esme were both by my sides, holding me in place by my arms. Only Alice remained in her seat, not at all concerned by the change in atmosphere. It took me half a second to realize what had triggered everyone’s response – to process the vicious growl that erupted from my throat and the tenseness of my body as it coiled to spring at my own sister. I was too stubborn and furious to feel any shame yet. I scowled but eased my stance, allowing Carlisle and Esme to gently coax me back to my chair. Everyone else loosened their defensive posture. Emmett made Rosalie sit down, her golden eyes narrowed in a harsh glare of which I was the recipient. Jasper stood straight again but remained stiff. Once we’d all relaxed, Carlisle began speaking again.

“Rosalie, I know you mean well, but every life is precious. To murder a blameless child poses an even greater risk to us. The occasional accident or lapse in control is a regrettable part of who we are, but to bring harm to the boy would make ourselves unworthy of the protection you so lovingly wish to give us. If we make exceptions to protect ourselves, we risk something much more important. We risk losing the essence of who we are.”

I couldn’t help the tiny smile that pulled at the corner of my lips.

“Carlisle, it’s about being responsible when Bella was so horribly irresponsible.”

Being on the receiving end of Rosalie’s inflexibility and anger was not at all pleasant.

"It's being callous," Carlisle corrected softly before repeating himself. “Every human life is precious.”

Rosalie sighed heavily and turned her head to again avoid looking at me, making it very apparent where the two of us stood.

“The question is whether or not we should move on,” he continued.

“The last thing I want is to unroot any of you. I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Carlisle. I feel confident about Edward’s silence,” I insisted again.

Rosalie huffed loudly, and I turned just in time to catch her rolling her eyes.

“Well, we certainly don't have to decide now. Perhaps we wait then,” Carlisle nodded.

I turned to face Alice, searching for some reassurance about the future but instead following her accusatory gaze to where Jasper stood leaning against the wall again. They were having another one of those silent conversations they shared that the rest of us were lost to. It was almost as if they could read each other’s minds.

“What?” I asked.

“Jazz seems to feel he’s above this conversation,” Alice gritted her teeth. “He seems to think he should set things right.”

My eyes flashed between her and Jasper, whose face was expressionless and unmoved. It took me a moment to piece it together.

“Jazz,” I warned as I began to feel irrationally overprotective again. “I won’t let you punish him for my mistake.”

“So he benefits from it then?” He raised his eyebrows.

“I won’t allow it,” I repeated.

“And I won’t allow Alice to live in danger. You can’t understand, Bella. You don’t feel about anyone the way I feel towards her.”

“That’s irrelevant. I’m not just going to stand aside as you murder him,” I hissed. “I will not let you hurt Edward Masen.”

We stared at each other. I knew he was measuring the opposition and sampling the depth of my determination.

“Jazz,” Alice interrupted us, cutting through the tension in the air.

“Don’t bother telling me you can protect yourself, Alice. I already know that, but-”

“That’s not what I was going to say, but thank you for the assumption,” she rolled her eyes. “And it’s true, I can. I don’t need the backup, you overprotective fool.”

She said the last words playfully, her voice full of affection, as she stuck her tongue out. The action was out of sync with the mood of the room. “What I was going to ask for was a favor.”

Jasper’s eyebrows raised at what was seemingly an inappropriate time to make any requests. My eyebrows knitted in confusion at where the conversation was heading.

“I know you love me, but I would really appreciate it if you didn’t try to kill Edward. First, we all know how headstrong Bella is, so you shouldn’t doubt how serious she’s being right now. I don’t want the two of you to fight. Seriously. Secondly, Edward is my friend. Yours too. At least, he’s going to be.”

“What?” Jasper gasped. Even though we were all very much accustomed to Alice’s ambiguity and the bizarre certainty she spoke with about things only she had seen, this was not a statement that could so easily be digested. I couldn’t tear my attention from Alice, staring intently at her face as if the meaning behind her words would suddenly be written on her forehead. What had she seen in that little odd head of hers?

“I’m going to love him–” as she said this, I nearly choked on the air whistling down my throat “–someday, Jazz. I’d be very put out with you if you don’t leave him be.”

I was locked into place, my eyes still boring deeply into my sister’s face. I could feel the pucker on my forehead etched into my expression as I tried to make sense of what she was saying. I kept expecting Alice to explain, but every time she opened her mouth she only confounded me more.

“Ahh!” Alice sighed, smiling brightly. “See, there’s nothing to worry about! Edward won’t say anything at all.”

I could not see.

“Alice,” I whined impatiently. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know, Bella. I told you something was changing in your future.”

“In my future? What did you see?”

“Hmm… I don’t think I should share quite yet,” Alice locked her jaw, and I growled, exasperated.

“Oh, clearly, Bella can’t be trusted lately to not act on her impulses! You should give her whatever warning you’re hiding,” Rosalie sighed, annoyed.

I was still feeling illogically irritated with Rose’s resentment, but I couldn’t disagree with her. “She’s right, Alice.”

“I really don’t think-”

“Who votes that Alice shares what she knows?” I asked restlessly. “Raise your hand.”

It was juvenile, and this was not how we came to decisions ever. Of course we’d discuss differing opinions, but never so bluntly did we vote in this manner. The way I approached the subject was rude, but still unanimously, six hands shot into the air including mine.

“Fine,” Alice huffed, scowling. “But I’m not obligated to share anything just because the rest of you voted. That’s silly. I’m only sharing because I can see that Bella won’t let this go.”

She paused and we waited, staring. It was as if we were awaiting the results of a reading from some fortune teller at a carnival, anxious to see which tarot cards she had pulled. Anxious to see what this would mean for my life.

“My vision keeps becoming clearer. At first, it was just hazy, and I couldn’t make sense of it or of who I was seeing. Every minute it’s like Bella’s more decided,” Alice began. Six pairs of eyes flickered to me, but I had no idea what she was referring to, nor did I know how this related to the boy. Alice frowned a little as if she knew what she was about to say wouldn’t be received well. “It seems there’s only two ways left for Edward now. Either Bella will… end his life or… he’ll join us.”

Esme gasped as my mouth dropped open.

“Join us?!” I choked out once I recovered. “I…. I have not made a decision anywhere in that realm at all. That has never ever crossed my mind. Why in the world would I turn him?”

“Maybe you don’t. Maybe I do it because I love him too or at least, I will. I don’t know.”

“Love him, too?” I gaped, convinced Alice’s abilities were broken somehow. “What does that even mean? Who else are you talking about?”

“Who do you think, Bella?” Alice rolled her eyes again, impatient at my lack of clairvoyance. “Clearly not Rosalie.”

“Love him!?” Rosalie questioned incredulously, eyeing me as if I’d completely lost my mind. Maybe I had.

I then realized what Alice meant as I watched Rosalie’s face and processed the other baffled pairs of eyes.

“You mean me!?” I gasped.

“Woah! What the hell...” Emmett almost laughed in surprise, then decided it was indeed actually funny and broke out into real, booming laughter. “Damn! That’s rough. Of course, Bella would fall for a human!”

“Fall for a human?” Esme asked, completely astonished. “Fall in love? With the boy she saved today?”

“Nobody is in love with anybody,” I stood up. “That’s completely absurd!”

“Ooh, touchy subject,” Emmett snickered. I glared daggers at him.

“What exactly do you see, Alice?” Jasper asked.

“I already told you. It depends on Bella’s strength. Either she’ll kill him herself which would really destroy you, Bella, not to mention how very irritated I’d be with you–” she gave me a stern look through narrowed eyes as if I’d already committed the murder then returned her attention to the rest of our family “–or he’ll be one of us someday. There’s not much else to say; the visions are finite but not detailed. It will require a great deal of self control…”

As she continued to muse, I was still frozen in place on my feet, completely numb and completely bewildered.

“...Greater than even Carlisle’s capability maybe. I wouldn’t have put it past her prior to this, but now… It’ll be extremely close as to whether or not she kills him. The only thing she’s not strong enough to do is stay away from him. That’s a completely lost cause.”

The room was entirely quiet.

“Well, this complicates things greatly,” Carlisle murmured.

After another moment of silence, Rosalie piped up. “I can’t believe it. In love with a human-”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, Rosalie!” I snarled, returning to some clarity.

“Girls, please-” Esme began to plead.

“Ooh, she got you there, babe,” Emmett interrupted, chuckling as Rose growled at him.

“Emmett,” Esme warned sternly. He held up his hands in surrender but winked at me, grinning widely.

I couldn’t even appreciate the realliance. I was still too lost in the sudden upheaval of my entire life.

“I suppose the plans remain the same, though," Carlisle said thoughtfully. "We'll stay and watch. Obviously, no one will...hurt the boy.”

“Of course not,” Jasper agreed, nodding his head once. “If Alice only sees two ways, then it’s unnecessary to take matters into-”

“Shut up, Jazz,” I said numbly.

Everyone’s eyes flickered over to me.

I was just loving being the center of attention these days.

If Alice only sees two ways...

“You’re wrong,” I whispered. For the first time in my life, I was betting against Alice.

My psychic sister opened her mouth to protest but stopped after seeing either in her head or on my face that I wasn’t finished.

“I hardly know Edward. I don’t see how it could be possible for me to… develop any kind of… feelings for him. That’s entirely ridiculous. I mean, he’s… human! The only scenario that could potentially ever happen – which again, it’s absolutely implausible – would be if I were to accidentally change him. And even then, I mean, why would I-... He’s so… Ugh, just nevermind! That would be a complete mistake. A mistake greater than the one I made today. And I’m very sorry to you all for how I’ve mutilated the future with my actions, but I’m going to fix it. I’ll leave-”

“You can’t,” Alice and Esme interrupted at the same time. My sister’s tone was one of annoyance while my mother’s was one of concern.

“You’re right,” I nodded, but my agreement wasn’t for the reasons Alice meant. I wasn’t considering my capability to leave based on my own will power against leaving the boy behind. That was something too complicated to unpack here in front of my family. Something that’d be better dealt with on the floor with my arms wrapped around my knees. I wouldn’t leave because it’d be more crucial for me to stay now. The responsible thing to do. “But I’ll try to...I will stay away from Edward–” suddenly, I felt a desire to begin to distance myself from him and referring to him by his name felt too deeply personal, so I corrected myself, “–from the boy, I mean. It’s not right to condemn him to either fate. I won’t allow that to happen.”

As I spoke, Rosalie’s face softened and she materialized by my side, taking my hand.

“I’m sorry for how I’ve behaved today, Bella. I only spoke out of love for our family. But you’re right. It’s not right. And I’m glad you’re choosing to do the right thing by staying away. I still don’t feel as though trusting him is responsible, but if what Alice has said is true-”

“I’m sorry, too,” I cut her off quietly, not wanting to hear the rest. I was feeling sorry for so much more than just how I spoke to Rose.

Esme appeared behind me as well, placing her hand encouragingly on my shoulder. “We are here to support you, Bella.”

“Thanks,” I murmured unenthusiastically.

Nobody moved again as they waited to see what I’d do next. I felt like a zoo animal.

I sighed, releasing Rose’s hand and shaking off Esme.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to be by myself.”

“Of course,” Carlisle responded.

I crossed behind the west side of the table. Emmett let out a low, cartoony whistle of relief to break the tension, and I punched him on the arm as I passed. As I exited the room, Alice called, “wait!”

She was by my side in an instant.

“This is from the accident. It’s Edward’s. I thought maybe you’d want to return it to him.”

I looked down as she pulled my unresponsive hand away from my body to place the thick, chestnut journal I’d seen Edward reach for in his backseat right before the accident. I stared at her, impassive, so she sighed and wrapped my fingers around the worn leather to force it into my grip.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, turning and disappearing out of the house into the forest.

As I ran, I felt the weight of their eyes on me.

[quakerjoe]

You know how “I told you so” isn’t polite? Sanders supporters, warning you about how this is going to be a repeat of 2016, won’t be so civil about it.

Choosing Biden because you find him “electable” is a coward’s out. You’re no better than a conservative. You’re feckless and ball-less. Clearly, you fear change or have that good ol’ #Murican attitude of “I got mine, so fuck the rest of y’all!”

Going back to “normal” is Biden’s only real promise. Normal? You mean, like the era that led up to trump being elected because he was the outsider? You dumb fucks. Seriously. You’re all that fuckin’ STOOPID. Trump won because the nation wanted a radical; an outsider promising change to the nation- someone who was going to clean house. All the polling data back then reflected that Sanders would have kicked trump’s ass, but no... Y’all chose HRC; the woman funding and running the DNC back then. So, we got what we deserved. Now we’re paying for that ignorance, and even I swallowed a bit of pride and voted for her and, not unlike some of you today, I scorned and tried to shame 3rd party voters and those who chose to abstain. Well, I recant all that. I now see the light, and it’s shit-brown.

To defeat a radical like trumpnuts, it’ll take an actual, HONEST radical to counter him. Sanders’ record over decades has been the same. He’s been consistent. He’s been unbought and honest. If that’s not “electable” then I don’t know what the fuck is. Yosemite? You think Sanders didn’t achieve much? Clearly you didn’t bother to do ANY research. You probably heard the word “socialism” in there somewhere and peed yourself. “He’s not a REAL Democrat!” NO SHIT! That’s not the bug, sunshine, that the fuckin’ FEATURE! What has the Democratic Party done for YOU lately?

Has the DNC done ANYTHING to make Election Days holidays so we all get it off from work?

FUCK NO.

Has the DNC been open and vigilant about gerrymandering, exposing those who do it, and made serious attempts at stopping it?

FUCK NO.

Has the DNC been fighting to ensure safe elections?

FUCK NO.

Has the DNC been on top of making sure that there are enough polling stations for everyone in their districts and that they’re not being closed down?

FUCK NO.

Have they been vigilant about making laws to ensure that the minimum wage keeps up with inflation and the cost of living?

FUCK NO.

Where the unholy fuck were all of you sanctimonious motherfuckers during Obama’s tenure? You handed BOTH the House AND Senate to the GOP and fuck-all NOTHING got done. I was at the voting booth. Where the fuck were YOU?

This last election with this “Blue Wave” everyone was ranting about that won the House... AND... What about the Senate??? Nope. Still run by the GOP and they’ve been cock-blocking practically ALL legislation. The Democrats are SO feckless that they’re trying to offer a bill for table scraps during this epidemic while the GOP is offering 4X MORE. Well done, Pelosi- make the GOP look like heroes just so you can keep your own cashflow issues at bay. You jerkoffs couldn’t even do an impeachment right and you only made trump MORE popular because you allowed yourselves to be pushed around and defeated even though you had Rule of Law on your side. What a bunch of useless twats.

NOW you expect us all to just fall in line and back you up and vote for Biden? Screw that and screw you.

Not all of Sanders’ supporters will help you. More of US backed Clinton last time than did HER supporters did Obama- they backed McCain and that twat Palin. We didn’t forget that. Clinton supporters BACKED McCain!!! Did you forget that?

We are also well aware of how you look down your chicken beaks at us and what is going to happen either way here; let’s be real. If, or likely WHEN Biden loses to trump, you’ll blame us. If, by some miracle, Joe DOES win, you won’t mention us at all or give any sort of “thank you, Sanders supporters, for coming on board” and share that victory with us.

Many of us will hold our nose and vote for the turd of a babbling idiot candidate, but admit it; you’re not sure who I’m talking about really, do you- trump or Biden?

Many of us will go and vote downballot and just NOT vote for potus because we’re sick of being force-fed a hot plate of shit by the Democrats who are even right NOW, pushing for we voters to get sick and catch COVID-19 INSTEAD of postponing the primaries a month or so to keep us all safe. They KNOW some of us will get sick and die, but it’s a sacrifice the Democrats are willing to make to keep Joe’s head of steam going and keep a social democrat from recovering and maybe even winning the nomination.

Some of us won’t come out to vote at all for many reasons, but that you and your spineless party lost the faith of the people, and that’s on you and your establishment, bought-and-sold attitudes towards us. The growing numbers of Independents and the shrinking numbers of Democrats is telling, but party politics and cash flow and power are more important than actually fighting to help those you claim to represent. That’s on you, Democratic Party. You’re weak, you’re toothless and you’re spineless. The GOP knows this and so do many of your voters. Like the GOP, you offer nothing but platitudes and condescension, only the GOP will fight like a schoolyard bully to get what they want you and just sit around in your civil circle-jerks, sipping tea while you tell each other how great you are. 

We Sanders supporters are also well aware that if things come down to it being a brokered convention that the ‘superdelegates’ have ALREADY vowed to NOT vote for Sanders and they’ll just screw him anyway. So, clearly you neither need nor want our support, so remember that before even thinking about running your cowardly mouth. Clearly, you don’t want any real change in the US. You’ll push for yesterday’s news while risking 4 more of trump. That’s on YOU fuckwits; not us. Take some goddamn responsibility for once; your GOP is showing out of your fly. You may want to zip up.

When the General Election comes, I’ll be voting for actual CHANGE. If it’s not on the ballot, then there’s fuck-all for me to vote for, is there..? 

Lastly, for all the shit-talk people like to throw around about ‘unity’ and ‘vote blue no matter who’ and how anyone disagreeing with anti-Sanders snowflakes because “Boo-hoo! Someone was mean to me on the internet!”, y’all can pucker up and suck my ass. You’re uneducated, toothless bullshit has revealed that you “Biden Bros” are every bit as mean; the difference being that MY team wants change and to save us ALL. Your team is in it only to save your own asses, and you don’t realize that the people you’re trying to save it from is yourselves. 

So, to conclude, if you’re pushing for Biden and not Sanders, you can go get fucked. I’ll be standing by watching it all Bern to the ground while YOU are the ones actually stoking the fires higher. God, you people are weak, stupid, and chicken-shit.

[eponymous-rose]

(I’d rather this not be reblogged, just in case!)

I’ve had a funny conversation a couple of times this week, once with my cousin and once with my physical therapist, so I thought it might be fun to go over this: when I mentioned I wasn’t teaching this quarter, they both stared at me in shock and said, “And you’re still getting paid?” To be fair, I absolutely would’ve asked the same question before I started. This job is so weird I never would’ve guessed what all falls under it! 

So here’s a little glimpse into what goes on in this particular professorship:

So, hey, there are different ranks of professor. I’m an “assistant professor”, which is about as junior as it’s possible to get, but I won the dang lottery and somehow finagled my way into getting the words “tenure-track” tacked on before that. This means that over the next six years, everything I do will be scrutinized (culminating in a "summary” of several thousand pages reporting on every single aspect of my job performance), and at the end of it, after about nine months of progressively higher-ranked people in the university voting and deliberating, I have a chance to be granted tenure, which comes with a promotion to associate professor rank and Extreme Job Security. The criteria here are basically being able to prove that I’m one of the foremost experts in my field in the country and hitting research/service/teaching goals, and I’ll talk a bit about that in a second here. Promotion (often many years later) to full professor requires proof of being one of the foremost experts in the field on the planet.

Also, if you don’t get tenure, you get fired after that six-year period. Some universities are dicks and hire three or four assistant professors for every tenured position they want to fill and just fire the spares after getting six years of work out of them. My university has an extremely high tenure rate (mainly because anyone who seems unlikely to make tenure will either have some sort of intervention on their behalf, be granted an extra year to make up the difference, or will be asked to quietly resign before deliberations start), and my department hasn’t denied anyone tenure in decades.

So! What the hell do I do? Well, universities in the U.S. that are particularly research-heavy are referred to as “R1 universities”, which is the situation I’m in here. This means that the majority (often the vast majority) of my time is not spent teaching: it’s all about doing research, to the point where I will not be teaching more than one class simultaneously. In my field, that research can look like a lot of different things:

There are indeed people who work with beakers and range hoods and snazzy lab coats: these researchers in my field might be doing stuff like growing snowflakes in the lab and using that information to figure out the conditions under which different kinds of snow can form. Also there’s chemistry? I don’t know this side of it too well. Professors’ roles here, apart from the science, include ordering the right equipment (which includes getting quotes from various suppliers) and hiring lab technicians and folks to keep the equipment up and running.

Some folks do intense numerical modeling: if you’re studying the atmosphere, you can’t just try your experiment on one Earth and compare how it’s different on another Earth, since we only have the one, so what we do instead is use the most powerful supercomputers on the planet to create simulations. These can be as detailed as looking at the flow of dust in the millimeters above the ground, or as broad as simulating the whole atmosphere of the entire planet (or other planets!). On top of the science, these professors often have to negotiate for supercomputer time (a precious commodity), purchase massive computational resources (e.g., a server room hosted locally), and sometimes hire dedicated I.T. support just for their research.

I work a lot with large datasets: if we have information about the conditions under which tornadoes happened over the past 15 years, what patterns can we pick up that forecasters might be able to use? What is physically, fundamentally different about tornadoes that happen in different places? This kind of stuff really just needs a decently specced desktop machine and some know-how, and a lot of research in our field involves sitting and thinking. Also in this category is the pure math and physics work in the field, where people bury themselves in impossible-to-solve equations to try to figure the best way to wrench them into things we can solve. This is probably the closest to what most people think of when they hear “research”.

Fieldwork. Think Twister. Coordinating large numbers of people, who may be on the ground, driving, in the air, in the ocean. Also, coordinating instruments that might be stationary or might be buoys or drones or something else. We’re a public university; we don’t have the cash to buy our own airplanes, so profs in this scenario have to rent time on research aircraft owned by organizations like NASA or NOAA, or rent time on boats, or hire folks to develop and build new instruments. Massive amounts of organization goes into this, and all stages from inception to execution are generally overseen and organized by the professor.

When any or all of these approaches come up with groundbreaking results (you’re expected to have that kind of result happen a couple times a year), it’s time to write a paper and get it published in a prestigious academic journal. That process can take between four months and a year, depending on a bunch of different factors, so often a professor is juggling a few different projects in different states of done-ness.

What you’ll notice in all this is that professors generally have to come up with the money to do this stuff. New profs generally get a starting budget to get them off the ground, but most of that winds up wrapped up in personnel and start-up costs (e.g., buying computing resources or space for a lab). For the rest of it? Grants.

Grants in my field right now are a bit of a mess: it takes months to put a proposal together, it’s chaotic and complicated as hell, and there’s only about a 10-15% success rate, so you can do the math on that one. In my field, grants range from “small” ones supporting a few years of the pure-science stuff (typically a few hundred thousand dollars that mainly goes toward paying several people’s salaries over several years, but also covers things like journal publication fees - it costs several thousand dollars to publish one paper in an academic journal) to much larger ones supporting field campaigns or long-term projects (rarely, several tens of millions of dollars if you’re talking projects with multiple aircraft and such). I get paid for nine months of the year, and have to come up with the remaining three months’ salary on my own. 

The other thing, though, that grants pay for is graduate student salaries! My department pays students quite well (more than enough to afford the rent on an apartment here, which is saying a lot), and also provides full benefits and a complete tuition waiver. Grad students in my field are essentially in an apprenticeship situation: they pick an advisor and work with that person for typically about seven years. During that time, they have to hit certain milestones (nine months of classes, plus a few courses sprinkled throughout the remaining six years, giving presentations, passing exams, doing a defense, writing a dissertation---essentially a book of their research results), and if you’re thinking this is putting a horrifying amount of power in the advisor’s hands, you’re absolutely correct. The imperfect but step-in-the-right-direction solution my department’s adopted has been to give each student a committee of professors, where one leads the research but the others are always available for new ideas or to resolve problems or speak up on behalf of the student. Students are also strongly encouraged to take a year or two off from their main research project to work with another professor, either here or elsewhere, and explore new research ideas.

Professors are responsible for teaching their students what they need to succeed, and our department has famously exceptional graduate students and graduate student mentorship: profs teach students how to do research (often guiding them through a Master’s project, then letting them take the reins and backing off to an advisory role for the remaining years of the PhD), which includes having them publish their results as the lead authors of their own scientific journal articles. Profs also pay to send students to conferences to showcase their research and introduce them to the people who’ll help them in their future career (one of the reasons I traveled a bunch this quarter was to meet some folks who might be good contacts for students who don’t want to just shoot for a job in the US). Some students will get to go on field campaigns, flying on research aircraft or, I dunno, driving tanks into tornadoes. Some will be more interested in non-academia pursuits and might spend some time shadowing insurance analysts or taking extra entrepreneurial classes in the business school or working hands-on with forecasters during the height of severe weather season. It’s our jobs as professors to know the job market, to know the right people, and to know our students well enough to help them get where they’re going. This department takes this Very Seriously, to the point where it eclipses research as our Top Priority, and the general understanding is that getting a grad student position here sets you up for life.

So! Part of my job this time of year is recruiting graduate students based on my budget. For some folks, that means actively advertising wherever possible and getting super involved in the visiting student weekends (we fly prospective grad students out here to visit before they make their decision, and there’s always a fair number of students who haven’t settled on an advisor yet). Some folks are absurdly lucky and study fields that are considered particularly cool and interesting, and the top students actively seek them out and will cold-call or send e-mails or introduce themselves at conferences (look, turns out it’s hilariously easy to sell someone on “come study tornadoes!” and even a newbie like me has to choose between several particularly strong candidates). Either way, the graduate student hiring process involves a lot of internal debate---we’re not a huge department, so we typically can only send offers to a little under 10% of the folks who apply each year---that mainly centers around making sure each student has a supportive research “home” waiting for them here, based on funding and how much time each faculty member might have. Professors need to coordinate grant budgets (or startup funds, or stopgap funds in the increasingly common situation where no grant money could be secured for a given year) to make sure students have any equipment they might need (cool stuff like supercomputer time, servers, equipment to take to the field, accessibility aids, but also mundane stuff like office space and desks). We also have to coordinate with the university to make sure international students can get here and stay here under the correct visa status.

Right now, I only have one graduate student, and he’s currently undergoing the barrage of first-year coursework, but we meet weekly and he’s started playing around with some data analysis and reading some of the big papers in the field (he’s coming in from mechanical engineering, so the math is familiar but the vocabulary is funky). I’ve developed short- and long-term learning goals for him, culminating in putting together a proposal for his master’s research in June, then converting his early results to a scientific journal article to help him hit the ground running, because he’s brilliant and he’d be able to pull it off without breaking a sweat. 

I’m also on the committees of two second-year Master’s students, so my responsibilities there include reviewing their proposals and, in one case, helping her put together an application for a major fellowship that would put $100,000 toward her education, which means she wouldn’t be beholden to any given research grant and could study any topic she liked. I’m also co-advising a postdoctoral researcher---his primary advisor is a specialist on snow, which is his area of interest, but I’m a specialist on some of the methods he uses to study snow, so I’m consulting with him on that side of things. I’m also working with a couple of particularly motivated final-year PhD students who want to run a multi-day Python and machine learning workshop for the department. Heck yeah.

Apart from research and advising, another facet of being a professor is the nebulous category often just referred to as “service”. Volunteer work, essentially. Right now, I’m reviewing scientific journal articles, typically 2-4 at a time (down to one right now, although I anticipate a flood right before the holidays). This is all done as volunteer work, but it’s honestly the easiest way for me to keep up with the latest literature, because yeah, you can’t just sit in a room and think if you don’t know what everyone else is thinking about. And when even a small field has a dozen or so major academic journals putting out a couple dozen articles each a month that you have to stay on top of... reviewing can be a great way to get the highlights. Sometimes I also get to review other people’s grant proposals, which is really helpful! Still, I wish journals would pay us for this work---someone did a poll on Twitter and found that folks in our field spend on average about 6 hours per review. That adds up!

I also tend to help out with conferences, either doing logistical stuff like deciding what the major topics are, and who gets to speak when (and who probably shouldn’t be given a microphone...) or coordinating the judging of awards for student presentations. That sometimes involves weird event planning stuff like trying to find a venue and speakers and transportation for a formal dinner, or hiring caterers and dealing with competing hotel quotes for room blocks, or cold-calling reasonably famous people and asking them to volunteer their time (or offering them an honorarium) to Skype in to a room full of people.

I’m also on a few national committees that are working to define the priorities of some of the big professional organizations: mainly I work in my particular subdiscipline, but also with diversity/equity/inclusion and early-career support. Some of that is as simple as running social media accounts or helping to design surveys. I’ve recently been assigned to help audit a major organization’s commitment to diversity, which could be pretty interesting. It all sounds like a lot, and a lot of it’s coming to a head lately just because of conference timing, but it usually slows down to one or two hours a week of work in the off-season. I like this kind of stuff because it’s a relatively low-effort way to meet scientists all over the world that I wouldn’t have encountered otherwise.

We’re also hiring a new faculty member right now, which is... hilariously complex. Every aspect is basically done by committee and the entire department has to agree on who to interview and, eventually, who to hire, because hiring someone for this position is potentially choosing your coworker for the next 30+ years. Interviews are two-day endurance training for the poor candidates, who get face-to-face meetings with every member of the faculty, on top of more specialized interviews. We’ve had about 120 competitive applications thus far. It’s... a lot.

And just because I’m not teaching actively right now doesn’t mean teaching isn’t eating a lot of time: there’s some fun logistical set-up to do! For instance, the class I’m co-teaching starting in January features a lab where we take all the students over to the engineering buildings to set up some instruments in a wind tunnel. Gotta make sure we’ve timed it right so they can actually give us the wind tunnel! We’re also coordinating the timing and the schedule so that both instructors are actually around for the parts of the class they’re teaching. For three of the five weeks I’ll be teaching, I have the previous instructor’s materials to work with, but the other two weeks are all new material (and a lot of ad-lib based on how students do with the first chunk of the class). I also haven’t done anything related to this class since I took a comparable class over a decade ago, so, uh. Better study up.

In the spring, I’ll be teaching an entirely new class that’s never been offered by the department before. That involves building a syllabus, figuring out what each lecture will be about, coming up with contingencies in case some lectures get cancelled, writing exams and assignments and lectures and (since it’s a programming class) making sure everyone has access to the necessary hardware and software and data for the big final project. And, because I’m me, I’ll also be coordinating the whole thing with a special office in the university that does long-term testing of teaching effectiveness---they’ll send someone over to spend a few minutes chatting with the students midway through the quarter, then work with me on recommendations and improvement. I figure it’s a new class being offered for the first time, so we might as well get in on the ground floor of longitudinal pedagogical study. Also, I don’t actually know this programming language yet. Little more studying to do, there.

So... yeah. This job is absurd. It’s a million different jobs, the vast majority of which I’ve had no training for. And I adore it. Nobody cares where I am or what I’m doing at any given time, as long as I get results and as long as my students are succeeding. As someone who loves nothing more than bland, repetitive tasks repeated over and over again, it’s not exactly in my wheelhouse... but I love how hard it makes me think, and I adore being pushed this far out of my comfort zone and knowing I actually have the resources and the know-how to succeed. Every single day is something completely new and exciting and bizarre. Hell, every hour. It’s pretty fantastic, and utterly terrifying.

[mysterious-prophetess]

4 AM thoughts on the Star Wars Sequel Trilogy-A Rant

So, firstly I’ll say this: If you like them-More power to you. You do you. 

My thoughts are mine and I will not claim that they are the only opinion to have because that’s a wrong way to be.

Secondly: It is literally 4 AM as I write this. So, I will probably go off on tangents and there won’t be a lot of structure to this.

So, approx eight and a half months since I was dragged to The Rise of Skywalker and I go back to a trilogy and a franchise for that matter that I was kind of DONE with. 

Yeah. Disney Star Wars ruined my love of Star Wars in general and I even liked the Prequel trilogy!

I liked The Force Awakens when I first saw it, but I think it was my nostalgia goggles blinding me to its issues.

One of which it was almost a beat-for-beat remake of Episode 4. Being that 4 is my favorite of all the Star Wars films, this also worked in its favor as it was just fresh enough for the nostalgia and partiality to its predecessor to work in its favor.

Also, the new trio--Finn, Rey, and Poe-- had a lot of great potential. Especially Finn. Former Stormtrooper & taken from his home to be raised as a soldier to find he no longer could stay with the First Order, but terrified of them. Yet, despite that fear deciding to go save Rey--who was one of his first real friends. That was a character’s journey with so much potential and the marketing made it seem like he’d be a jedi. 

Yet, I wasn’t too upset when it was Rey. 

In retrospective, Rey winning against Kylo Ren was dumb. She should have been decent at the weapon since she was able to protect herself and Kylo was injured but, the planet falling apart could have happened sooner to prevent her from going on a ass-kicking spree of Kylo Ren.

Then we get to 8 which had an opening crawl it didn’t need since it was literally just after 7. 

I hated that btw

Then we get Poe who was shown as a smart ass in 7 but talked up as this great pilot but shown to be an IDIOT in 8. Rose’s whole storyline was badly handled.

People were shitty to Kelly Marie Tran over shit out of her control. Rose Tico was a terribly written character and the actress did what she could with what they gave her. 

What they did to Finn was undid ALL of his character development from 7 and turn him into a joke for the rest of 8 and nothing in 9. I’ve recently learned that this was done to appeal to a certain market that has never liked Star Wars anyway. Way to go, Disney. You fucked up your new character with the most compelling backstory to appease a market that hates this product in the first place. Bra-fucking-vo. 

The Light Speed tracking thing was bullshit. Canto Bite was a pointless side quest. Cut that stupid shit out of the movie and you lose nothing of value. You could cut from them landing on that pointless planet to them ending up in jail for parking illegally and saved the audience around 20 minutes of wasted time.

It didn’t advance the plot. It didn’t make Rose any more sympathetic. It just felt preachy. Also, Rose x Finn was so fucking forced. Kelly Marie Tran tried to sell it but again, she was given shit to work with.

I recently found out that who Rey was kept changing and It’s SOOO fucking stupid to not have a solid plan for a fucking trilogy. (and to find out my favorite idea of Rey as a Kenobi was the first one before Johnson came in and she was No One also is irksome)

Idk what Abrams planned but by not having it implemented over all and letting Johnson piss all over it with his ideas for a subversive mould-breaking story ruined any flow the films had.

Yeah, I am aware 4 was all but stand alone, but it was set up so it could connect to 5 & 6 just in case it was successful enough for 5 & 6 to be made. It was very stand alone because there was a chance nothing would come after 4.

7, 8, & 9 however, could be planned for there to be three because it was fucking STAR WARS. Which meant, they should have had people fucking plan out what they were doing. Instead, they didn’t, it shows, and it also seems to take an almost savage glee at pissing on the past.

Ruining Luke I-see-the-good-in-my-Father-who-committed-genocide Skywalker by having him give up on Ben/Kylo was one of the biggest betrayals of character I’ve ever fucking seen. 

Trying their best to get all the other OT characters out of the way so their new shiny replacements can take center stage without any nuance was also irritating. And this is at the parks too. It’s apparently all Sequel shit now with no legacy characters. 

Killing off Luke in 8 in a stupid way in how the force does not work. Continuing the force bullshit in 9. Wasting our time on a redemption arc for Kylo Ren/Ben only to KILL HIM AT THE END. 

No. Make him face what he’s done and atone as a living person. No more redemption=death. Death is too easy.

And I hate that they brought Palpatine back in a corporal form. Nice way to piss on the BEST moments of the OT where Anakin, finally throwing off the ties of bondage to Palpatine and the dark side and destroying the man to save his son, sacrificing himself in the process, dying at peace. Nope. That now means NOTHING. Palpatine survived.

Force Ghosts fucking exist. Sith Ghosts FUCKING EXIST TOO. Just make him a force ghost possessing some fucker and I might not have been as pissed off.

That force diad shit? Either play it up more or cut it out.

Snoke being a Palpatine puppet was fucking dumb. If he’d been Darth Plageius’s creation then that might have been better than “it was palpatine all along.”

It’s just such a waste. Star Wars was a film series about hope. The first film was retitled to have its subtitle be “A New Hope.” These films? Are not about hope at all. They’re about cynical cash grabs and trying to signal the right virtues to try to exploit the movie going public of their money and attempt a moral high ground. 

One more thing that bugs me: the fact they shunted a lot of shit per film to the novelizations. Fuck that shit. If your medium is FILM, you tell all your shit in that damn film. I shouldn’t have to read your tie in materials to understand your fucking film.  e.g. Palpatine’s son is really his clone is in the last film’s novelization. That stupid casino world allegedly has a full explanation too. 

No. It’s a sign of really poor planning and command of storytelling that you shunted this information into your peripheral materials. Then agian, we know the planning was shit because they couldn’t even fucking settle on who Rey was WHILE FILMING THE DAMNED TRILOGY AND EVEN DURING 9 THEY WERE CHANGING THEIR MINDS. 

And there are lots of other things but better minds than mine have talked about them-like everything wrong with Poe’s backstory. That can of worms I won’t touch because I don’t have the expertise beyond wondering if Disney has a single person with any sort of common sense or any awareness of optics on staff.

Final mini-rant: 

I fucking hate the way they’re trying to push their oh-so-special OC’s as better than the original cast at times. Luke and Leia were presumed to have been born the same day the empire was founded because THAT’S THE FILM’S APPARENT TIMELINE. But now. Now, somehow that took 2 days and now their new special snowflake character from Rebels Ezra Bridger has that Empire Day birthday and is force sensitive too and has a jedi teacher. 

Like, I’m sure that the character isn’t as Gary Stu-ish as I just bitched about there, but from the outside looking in, it pisses me the fuck off because of all the other shit Disney’s been pulling with Star Wars to distance themselves from legacy characters and push the new characters at all costs.

It’s just I hate what they’ve done in their corporate greed.